Optimistically Cynical: A Short Story Compilation- 1

ONE MAN'S HELL

"I'm writing this in order to make it as clear in my mind as possible," I begin the first of line of my note. "I don't know how many of these days I have been through, but there have been many."

"Every morning it is the same," I continue writing as I replay the event in my head. "I awake refreshed without a care in the world. Then I trudge to the bathroom where I am greeted by the blood soaked body of my wife laying lifeless in the bath tub."

"That's when I remember," I scrawl on the page. "All the times that I have been through this ordeal and yet, it never dulls. The pain remains as sharp now as it did the first time.

"After my tears run dry I return again to this desk and write these words as they are unwritten come the next morning," I further scratch upon the paper, hoping against hope that some hidden meaning will reveal itself. "I do not understand the extent of this anomaly and my options are quite limited."

"All I can do is ride out the storm and wait for the dawn of the next day," my pen marks the page. "Whereupon the cycle repeats itself.

I stop, not because of a lack of ink, but because of a cold feeling that has crawled up my spine. I turn sharply, but see nothing. Perhaps this last time had a much stronger effect upon me than I had at first anticipated. I hold still and listen intently.

Then I hear it, the downstairs refrigerator, rattling as it's being closed. A distinct sound that can only mean that there's someone else present in the house. But this drawn out play has always started and ended with myself, alone. This sudden incursion leaves me feeling cold and I bolt from the room and look down over the banister.

A light pours from the kitchen and down the hallway. Slowly, I creep down the stairs, using all the skills I had acquired from a lifestyle, that promoted no such discretion. Still, all in all, I believe I conducted myself well enough, at least until I was nearly down the staircase.

"You know I can hear you, right?" a voice breaks the stillness.

I freeze in place halfway between a sneaking motion and a less conservative step. I right myself and stride down the hallway as quickly as is prudent. I'm soon in the kitchen and staring at a total stranger munching on a sandwich, completely at ease.

Who he is I do not know, as his appearance is unfamiliar to me. As far as I can tell, he's a squat man who's fairly pudgy, with his eyes fixed upon me.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"You wouldn't know even if I told you," the stranger in my kitchen speaks before taking another bite.

"Could you at least humor me?" I'm surprised how snippety I'm being after the terrible shock I had endured, for the umpteenth time.

"My name is long since forgotten by your generation," he informs me. "And I am not one to dredge up the past."

"So what am I to call you?" I find myself asking, even though it's the furthest thing from my mind.

"You needn't bother as I will not be around long enough for it to matter," his words hold still within the air.

I haven't the means to contend with him nor the will, and in turn he's silent as he finished the last of his sandwich. A wipe of his mouth and a snapping of his hands finishes the rest of his ritual.

"Well then, now that I'm done..." my visitor speaks no further, as he simply stares at me.

"Is there anything more?" I finally ask, as I can bear the silence no more.

"Just waiting to see when it will dawn on you," he returns.

"What?" I enquire, feeling as though an animal that walked into the midst of a trap.