F.D. Withersmith

The One-armed man

'Hello my name is F. D. Withersmith and I have been consumed with the bittersweet contention of comparison and jealousy. For too long my life had been a petrifying roller coaster of being content and utter depression. I am dissatisfied to report, though I do fully vow to tell the truth, that I have grown disturbed by the cycle that engulfs my life. In one moment, pride of who I am encourages me. I am satisfied with my actions and feel no obligation to regret my past. However in the next instant my mind twists my dark covets. Rage and jealousy warps into terrible, awesome demons. Why is it that the tiniest of deeds can have such an effect on a humble man such as I?

My name is F.D. Withersmith and now I die.'

Kari crumbles the note in her hand cold salty tears sliding down her cheek. Her face looks distorted and upset with her eyebrows furrowed. She lifts her arm to wipe away the wetness and gives a few sniffs. Outside the window a train whirls by causing the frames on the wall to shutter. The floor trembles as she stands. She staggers forward a few steps, her red-brown hair shielding her eyes. There was a knock on the door.

She glances up at the door as if it could tell her who is there. Slowly, she saunters to it, placing her palm on the wooden base. She tenderly touches the handle, gripping it and pulling it open, holding in her sobs.

A man stands at the door way. "Hello my dear." He says gently. He's old and wrinkled. He hunches over a black, silver tipped cane, his shiny deep eyes peering up at her. He wears a simple, but elegant black suit and tie, no wrinkle to be found on it. Kari stares at his right arm where the suit arm hangs low and limp. He only has one arm.

"H-hello..." She sniffs, embarrassed and trying to wipe the tears from her face. She couldn't tear her eyes from his limp sleeve. "Can I help you?"

"Oh no." He chuckles, his voice curling in excitement. "But I just very well may be able to help you."