Don't Let Me Remember

Chapter 4: Woe Is Me, Or Something Like That

You are currently reading a story that is repeating the same sentences in the same fashion every single day. The proposed "protagonist" freaks out, gets high, goes to work, goes to bar, goes home, freaks out, gets high, and then passes out just to start this same cycle over again. This should've been a one and done. I condemn the writer of this grotesque story. The first chapter was actually pretty decent. Someone please tell him he's digging too deep of a grave to climb out of. Please?

I climb out of what I had hoped to be my plastic casket, and put some clothes back on. After a night of wishing I had never been born, I always like to follow it up with a nice bowl of cereal. It's what the athletes do, or so I've heard.

I eat my cereal with milk that expires today because why would this story have anything going positive? All while watching the clock on the oven continue to tick past the time I should be leaving for work. Oh well.

I go to work to deal with the same thing as last time. Just embalming and what not. What every adult wants to be doing.

After that, I drive home actually. I decide to walk to the bar this night. Driving all the time gets boring.

I arrive back at the beautiful home of alcoholic beverages and drug deals in the corner of the most lively block in the city (not) and order my usual Jack and Coke before the screwdrivers.

I sit back and look across the bar, back at the same lady from a couple of days ago, same wannabe rich man with a suit that doesn't fit, while I'm still rocking the "classic" gray and yellow Nirvana shirt with dark halfway baggy blue jeans and converse, because why own more than band shirts and jeans?

I set the empty glass down and slide it toward the bartender. He knows by now that all my life is consumed by is alcohol and depression. He refills the Jack and Coke and slides it back. My head does the routine motion like a weight is connected to my chin and then it's lifted to create a nodding gesture.

"You're back again."

The familiar voice of Amber. I look her way and see she's now wearing a white top with pink splattered through out. Maybe a floral design?

"Yep. Always."

"Are you gonna tell me a name?" She halfway smiles, trying to break a broken man.

"Didn't I tell you? A bad time." Am I a dick?

"Yeah you did say that, but I didn't think it was on your birth certificate."

"Would you believe me if I told you my mom was drunk when she had me so she named me that?" I halfway smile. Weird. That's an odd feeling.

"Do I really have a choice?"

We share a small chuckle, before I go back to my drink.

"Screwdriver, easy on the rocks." She says as though she's been ordering it all her life.

"I thought you wouldn't drink hard liquor?"

"We all gotta evolve sometimes."

What a quote. Man, if I had thought of that, this chapter would've been named after it. Maybe next chapter.

"They say that, but I'm not quite sure I believe it. Like the man upstairs."

"What, you don't believe in God?"

I chose my words carefully (that and also it's gonna help me with the people who read this)

"No, I do not. I think that there is too much left up to the imagination with a flying man in the sky. But that's my personal opinion. We all gotta evolve sometimes. Maybe one day I'll get a connection again. For now though, him and I aren't speaking and I'm not really looking for a father figure."

She nods. "I can understand that. Any particular reason why?"

I think a moment. "Sure. I lost my family. All but myself and my brother in another town are left. We don't talk much after our father passed away. Just don't have much in common. He's on the road, I'm embalming people, the usual adulting stuff."

She cracks a smile. "Well I do. I believe in the man upstairs I mean."

"Why so?"

"I've been pretty blessed. Haven't lost anyone in my life. I don't pray everyday and I don't go to church, but I am lucky. That counts for something in my book."

I notice more of her as she sips her drink. She's not the type to drink heavily, you can tell.

"Then why are you here?" I'm genuinely curious at this point. Paint me as a monkey in a children's book. Actually, please don't. I obviously am not someone to be on a children's book.

"Thought I would see a guy named 'Bad Time' around here."

Here we go. I'm not looking for anyone. What do I say? Do I just blow her off? My face says otherwise as I smile and look up at the wall of many drinks.

"Well you would be right. I'm like a nightmare on stilts. I always come back and I'm pretty damn tall."

I got her laughing for a moment, and we exchange some conversation about how this whole World War III that could be on the horizon before my wall crumbles without my realization.

"Dammit I just gotta know, what's your name?" The voice ask through guttural laughter.

"Chris." Is all I can get out through my laughter, which quickly turned into a stone straight face. I look toward the bartender down the bar. "Jack and Coke, stat."

It's too late. Her eyes light up like a firecracker I held in my hand for too long and exploded two feet infront of my face.

"Chris! You told me your name! You're warming up to me. See, I just knew there was something about you."

I grab the mixed drink made by the bartender and swallow it in one gigantic gulp.

"I gotta go."

And that was it. I never told her bye, never looked at her face, never even acknowledged her presence as I was leaving.

I walk out of that dingy bar and down to the local Quick&Split and get a pack of Waloboro Reds and already feel the heat radiating off the end of one as I'm walking out.

I can't believe myself. Why did I let my guard down like that? Why is there that side of me that can just let that happen? Why do I still want to go back?

I continue walking the 2 miles home, listening to the thunder start rolling in the distance. Great. I love rain. I really do. Only exception is when I'm trying to smoke a cigarette. That's when it's a bit irritating.

I go home and sit down at my desk, haven't been here in a week and already notice the pills waiting for me from last time. I down a little more than the recommended dose of Xanax and try to finish writing. When I'm not working at the morgue or too fucked to think straight, I try my hand at freelancing for a few bucks to help the addiction.

I start writing at a furious pace, and before I realize it I'm writing today's occurrences on the screen. How angry I am at myself for being so confident in my ability to block out everyone in the quest to not fall into love that I let my guard down and told someone for the first time in a little more than half a year my name. I explain in significant detail about how upset I am and start cursing the screen for the 101st time. I head butt the already damaged keyboard and get a pretty good knick on my forehead from a little metal prong that held my "J" key. I'm not bleeding profusely or anything like that, but enough where a thin line of blood runs down to my brow and stops in the creases of my wrinkles.

To recap, something happened I didn't like and I punished myself for it. How lovely. With that being said, I believe it's bed time for me. I'll write this article later.
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I'm sorry for taking so long in updating. I posted in the authors note why, so go check it out real quick. Thanks so much for reading!