Stand By Me

A man is walking down a sidewalk in the dead of night with his hands in his pockets. He had a brown wool suit on and a bag around his shoulder from his lawyer job. The lamp posts put an awful glare on his glasses, but his face remained unflinched. He was unflinched by most things, there are very few things that make him wince or agitate him. He approached a crosswalk, keeping his eyes forward and walked without stopping across the road.

He arrived at his home; Beautiful chandeliers hung from the ceiling, hardwood floors spanned across one side of the house to the other. He had a giant fireplace in his living area and many medieval art, decorations and multiple English antique sofas. He dropped his bag by his computer desk and went to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea for himself. The kitchen floor was marble and modern-like lights hung from the tall ceiling over the counters. He poured the hot water and the perfect amount of sugar down to the grain and got a bag of earl grey tea and dipped it in and bobbed it up and down. After the dark clouds of hydrated leaves shrouded the clear water, he started to stir. He lifted the tea bag up and wrapped it around the spoon with the string, squeezing any more tea left into his mug before throwing it away.

He took his mug to his desk and pulled out a file from his bag and studied it and opened up a spreadsheet and started working. His jacket came off and he hung it on the edge of his chair. He let his glasses sit on the tip of his nose and he made notes in his files and on the computer for 30 minutes before realizing he had drank all of his tea.

He ambled back into the kitchen and washed it. An open book on his counter caught his eye; a recipe for chicken Caesar salad; serving size 2. He gave a slight eye roll and pulled out a pan and some chicken breast from his copious fridge. The book told him he had to cook it with garlic and Italian spice. He cut them into strips and sautéed them while he prepared a bowl of Cesar salad. He constantly moved back and forth between the two. When he was done, there was a large amount of food. The man set the table and poured himself a glass of red wine; Château Haut-Brion in fact. His table could seat 8 but he sat at the head to eat for just one. After finishing his food, he cleaned his plate and put it to dry. Now it was time to give his fish something to eat. The man sprinkled some flakes in the water and watched the fish make a b-line to the surface. Just then, the phone rang.

It was an unrecognized number. With a rather dubious face, he picked up his cellphone.

"Hello?"

His face rested after hearing the guy on the other end.

"Mack from university? ... Yeah it has been a while you're right...in town tonight?... No, I'm caught working late at the office... yeah, some other time,"

When he hung up, his face went still and lifeless again. He adjusted his glasses and went to his living room with a refilled glass of wine. As he set it down, he picked up an old record with dust caked all over it. It was the album 'Don't Play That Song!' By Ben E King. He brushed off the dust and put the vinyl on the player. He rolled up his sleeves, undid his top button and let his tie sit lazily. Glass of wine in hand, he sat on the sofa and picked up a book on the order and chaos of the world, '12 Rules for Life'.

He sipped his wine with the music playing in the background for 10 minutes before setting the glass down and becoming entirely engaged in the book. The music started to get louder to him. He was distracted but not bothered, as he flipped through the pages, reading and absorbing information efficiently. 'Stand By Me' finally came on. The man started sweating. A vein could be seen, throbbing in his temple. He slammed the book shut and tossed it on the table. He put his hands under his glasses to rub his eyes and leaned forward. His hands moved from his eyes to the sides of his heads as his head hung down. He threw his glasses off with a yell of frustration and they crashed on the floor, leaving a crack in its corner. He burst into tears and covered his face with his hands to try to stop himself. He screamed in pain and his hands found his hair to pull on. He tried anything to make himself stop. To no avail, he swiped a vase off the table and the crystal shattered into a million pieces. The music got louder as did his cries but red wine remained untouched. He couldn't even hear his own screams anymore, they were drowned out by Ben E King's voice. The chorus played.

He made his way to the record and took the vinyl off quickly and dropped it on the table as if it were a hot potato. He leaned against the wall with his hand over his forehead and breathing heavily. He cannot believe what he had just done. When he calmed down, his face went still again and he wiped clean and swept the mess up, took the book and placed a bookmark, put the record away properly and picked up his glasses. He was disappointed in the crack he had given them but he put them on again anyway. He decided it was a good time to go to bed.

He got upstairs and changed into an undershirt and plaid pants. His suit was set for tomorrow and it was identical to his other one but instead of brown, it was black. He set them at the foot of his king-sized bed and crawled under the covers. He took his pills with a glass of water and left half of it empty for when he woke up in the night. He grabbed his remote and shut off the lights. He laid flat on his back with his arms over the covers by his sides. He had learned a breathing trick to knock himself out when he couldn't sleep. He tried it. He tried it again but nay, his eyes broke open. He rolled over, face-in-pillow and screamed. Tears flowed through his eyes and wet the pillow. He sat up and held the pillow over his face as he sobbed. He was embarrassing himself. His crying got louder as he writhed in agony. He whispered, grovelling like a child to himself to make it stop. He couldn't. He kept going and he bit his hand to stop himself. He rubbed his face and eyes. He peeled his hands off of his face. The sweat of his palms and the tears of his eyes made his face a salty damp mess. He got up and went to the bathroom. There were two sinks. He went to the closest one and turned on the tap. His hands got wet under the running water and he rubbed his face and looked in the mirror. He splashed water on his face and rubbed again. He repeated this with more and more vigor. He yelled and tried to wash it off, but it wouldn't leave. He accepted this and dried his face off. He straightened his shoulders and walked back to bed.

He closed his eyes again but opened them shortly after. No more tears. No more yelling. No more pretending. He pulled the covers off and got up. He made his bed and grabbed the vinyl and the player from downstairs. He set it up and played 'Stand By Me' again. He grabbed the suit on the foot of his bed and took the belt. He straightened it out and went to his closet. He stacked 3 shoeboxes and tied the end of the belt on the clothing rack. He made a loop in the belt and put his head through after standing on the boxes. His face was still ice cold and calm. The chorus played and he kicked the boxes. His ankles dangled as the record finished and the stylus lifted up.