We Broke

t h i r t y - s i x

My parents were good people.  No denial about that.

Just something makes me think that there was something hidden from the surface.  And it died with them.  Just now, it's coming back up from 6 feet under.  I'm sure Charlotte just gathered stuff from here and there, I mean, she didn't have access to the internet or the newspaper every single day.

This newspaper looks rotten.  It's stained, but in a way, it looks new.  It looks a little terrifying.  

I just have one question- actually, a lot, but right now:  Why is there picture showing up as chefs after they died?  People would look for them, whether to try out their "new food," or to interview them or something.  What's even the point?

My head is spinning crazy, round and round I can't even stand up.  

Charlotte's dead.  I now I've found a series of letters that I think she's been collecting.  And there's some secrets that I need to uncover.  Maybe an affair, maybe a scandal, I don't freaking know.

I pull on my baseball cap, trying to hide my too messy to go out hair.  Even though it's almost midnight, I'm about to go to the park to find the information Charlotte told me about in the letter.  Gosh.  I'm going crazy.  Stumbling out the house into the car, I'm shaking my head.  I don't know why, it's just fits for the situation, I guess.

The car starts up, after I sit in the car for a few minutes, trying to make sense of the situation, I start driving to the park where Charlotte and I have met multiple times.  I haven't gone there since.  Not even thought about it.  Central Park is like "our" meeting place. 

The car ride is awful.  I feel drunk, even if I haven't drank anything.  It's like that woozy feeling, where your eyes black on and off, and you can't focus on the road or anything.  I can barely drive.  I'm just praying I don't get into an accident.  

And I don't.  By whatever miracle, I'm strolling through the park, walking over to the bench Charlotte and I talked at the last time we were here.  

The day I found her after 11 months.

And now I'm coming back to find something she left here.  I'm almost certain it's going to be at this bench, but at the same time, it feels too easy.

It's true that Charlotte wasn't very smart in an academic state, but she was clever.  Her mind is an intricate thing, it's so elaborate.  No one can read what she's expressing or thinking.  

I search long and hard for the evidence she's talking about, but after looking through bushes, benches and tables, for a whole hour, I'm exhausted.  I can't.  I'm at the brink of psychotic behavior.   I'm already out in the park at midnight.  

I know it's here.  I just can't find it right now.  I'm not in the physical and mental state too.  I probably can't even talk. 

Deciding to go back home to get some rest, I sway back into my car.  The ride feels long, though.  It feels like I'm non existent.  I've never felt like this before.

The feeling of numbness.  I feel like I can't feel a single emotion.  And it's simply breaking me right now.  I feel inhumane.  So inhumane.  Like I'm floating and there's no destination. 

My parents dead.  Charlotte's dead.  A situation where I don't know who and what to believe.  And I know the evidence might lead to nothing or there might be nothing at all. For all I know, Charlotte could even be playing a prank on me or something when she wrote it.  

-

At home, I can't sleep.  I just can't.

-

The next morning, I'm already up at 6:00, despite the fact that I slept maybe an hour.  

I want to get to the park to search again.  I want to know what evidence she's collected.  Charlotte's probably hidden it somewhere that takes brainpower.  Somewhere she knows that I will look, even if it takes a year.  

The park is crowded for the most part.  People walking their dogs, people watching the sunset and the view, and people just looking like they're lost.  And then, there's me.  A guy looking for a package.  I'm digging through bushes here for about 5 minutes, and there are already a crowd of people who's stared at me like I'm purple cheese.

But then a man comes up to me.

"Are you a Peter, by chance?"

I look at him in surprise.  He's a middle aged guy.  He's dressed in ratty clothes, as if he was sleeping on the streets for years.  His eyes sparkle though.  He looks... satisfied.  I really don't know how to explain this, but he looks satisfied with life.  

"Why, in a matter fact, I am."   I say, speaking to him hesitantly.

"Do you know a Miss. Charlotte?"  he smiles.

My eyebrows raise.  "Yes to that, as well."

He hands me a large yellow envelope, which looks like it's filled to the brim.  "Here you go."

My lip starts to quiver.  "Who are you, exactly?"  

"A friend.  A friend of Charlotte's.  And the fact that you're here right now, does it mean that she's... passed?"  he whispers.

I nod.

His eyes turn a little glossy, but that might just be because my glasses are fogging up from my heavy breathing.

"Have a good day," the man says, turning away quickly.  I think he's a little sad.

I mean, who wouldn't be?

Also, Charlotte met this guy who was willing to stay out here everyday till I came?  I wonder what she described me as.  And not to mention, this guy probably asked every brown haired, blue eyed, glass wearing man. 

Diligence indeed.

The envelope is heavy in my hands as I lug it to my car.  I drive home quickly, jittering from excitement about what I might find.  

-

I dump the contents of the envelope on the ground, papers flying everywhere.  Might be a little mistake, but it's a little satisfying. 

To see the ground I cleaned yesterday messed up again.

But the envelope carries newspapers, letters, pieces of junk even.

And I feel drop down sick seeing them.  I don't know why.

Maybe it's because I know it's the last of Charlotte I have left.