He sat on his bed in his small apartment, that looked a lot like him- Empty and sad. It is made up of one bedroom, one mini-kitchen and a bathroom. Nothing much really for a good-for-nothing writer, who dodged every opportunity that came at him-if any had come in the first place.
He rubbed his eyes and slowly dragged himself out of his lonely bed-one he used to share with a “special someone” who gave up on him two years into the relationship. He walked towards his window as he sighed out her memory. It was a pleasant one, but a painful one nonetheless. He knew it was his fault she had walked out of the door. He was careless and selfish, and he regrets that he’s seeing it now, a year too late. The strings were left loose, conversations lefts unsaid, words lingered on either of their lips, while her footsteps left their mark in his room. They loved each other, but he knew if she hadn’t left him the moment she did, she would still be stuck with him in this slum which, even he, could barely call home.
He looked out of his window, into the distance, beyond the walls of dull buildings and indifferent people. He couldn’t see anything. It saddened him. It made him desperate. It drove him to madness. He waited for some inspiration, but none came. He felt helpless without having his own thoughts be everything he needs to get back to his beloved typewriter.
It was in the late afternoon. He lit a cigarette as he made his way to the kitchen for some coffee. It was his daily diet this time in the afternoon, and every convenient time, which in his case these days, anytime he wasn’t asleep. The smell of the bitter coffee filled the room, but as he breathed in her fresh fragrance, that smelled like nothing but the sweet breeze of summer, pierced through his lungs. Some days it made him feel better, it brought grounded him and set his mind straight, but other times, it only dragged him into his darkest thoughts that clouded his mind more times than none.
He put his cup of coffee on the table that stood right under the window pane as he lit another cigarette. He then sat down on a chair that was slowly decaying along with any other furniture in the house, and much like his soul that was withering with time. He was defeated. Nothing could save him from his dilemma. He missed her, but he also missed the words. It was a two-way street, without even a safe exit rather than a hideout till he decays. He hoped that even time would forget him. All he wants is to fade away and become one with the winds that somehow seemed less turbulent than his life. Maybe then, he would be free of his miserable self. Free…the word lingered in the air. He looked down, but seemed to be seeing through the floors this time…his eyes looked thoughtful, quite lost in the moment. The word reminded him of her arms, that made him feel just as relaxed as the thoughts of being one with the winds made him feel. He shook his head and kicked the dusty floor in frustration, stood up, and began pacing back and forth.
It’s coming back. He can feel it crawl beneath his skin. He spoke to himself “No”. “Don’t”. He put his hands on his ears, as if blocking out noises from the outside. He kept shaking his head frantically and breathing fast. His pace quickened as he began to feel the frustration rise and the anger boil within him. Her image was fading from his memory, and darker ones began to form. He could clearly see them, as if they were right in front of his eyes. They were every nightmare he was living now.
He dropped down onto the floor, just sitting there as if the weight of a thousand hands were placed on his shoulders. He felt beaten. Still shaking his head, he felt the words form in his mind. He felt them coming like a flood. His arms were shaking, waiting for the moment these words would pour out through them and onto paper.
In reality, the voices were from the inside. They were screaming at him to bring his typewriter back to life with ink, words… with himself. They want him to write.
Going back meant tapping to the self he had tried so hard to lock up. The words kept coming, but they were broken and rusty, they needed his mad mind to piece them together, to make them whole and allow them to sew back his own reality back into place. The pressure was piercing him like daggers to the heart. It was erasing his memories of her, of his beloved woman, of his own beating heart. He stood back up in much anger and screamed at the top of his longs for this to stop, for the voices to go away. He wasn’t ready. He doesn’t want to be ready to fall back into the mercy of his frail mind. He was vulnerable to his passion, but he needed her back.
She was missing, and if she’s missing, then he couldn’t piece those words together. He couldn’t save himself back from darkness. She walked out and dragged with her his motivation to live in the real world. She took with her his breath for another day in this miserable life, and he knew well that she had tucked that last breath deep within her heart.
He’s been trying to get back on his feet, to not forget her as he wrote another page of a new book, but it was too difficult. She grew weary and tired. He had to let her go. And so, he had to choose throughout the year…her, or writing. Little did she know she was the symphony to his orchestra, and therefore, the ink to his paper, the words that pieced his thoughts into place, and the anchor that brought him back when he was lost in his mind.
Therefore, his longing for writing itched every now and then, but he hurried to bury it. He didn’t want to write, because writing meant feeling, and feeling again meant unwanted memories surfacing on the shores of his once wild and intriguing mind. Indeed. Every day was a battle. He was desperate to feel the cold keys of the typewriter, but he also longed for her presence.
She grounded him in ways that made him feel normal. But with the itch he kept feeling for writing again, and his longing for the realm of writing and writers came his insanity. With it came his instability that ironically enough grounded him on this earth. It is what drove her away, but it is also what seduced her into his life and heart. It was the greatest contradiction he lived in.
He was truly an unstable man who dove deep into his own world for days acknowledging her presence, or even remembered her face when his mind forged into the stranger that keeps surfacing when the passion takes over. It was his sickness, his bittersweet truth. She couldn’t handle his double life, and he couldn’t see her struggle anymore. Truth is, he began to feel tired of being sober from this addiction at times and went days without raising his head from writing.
Now, this longing is coming. It was his moment to choose. He looked down at his watch and knew she was about to knock the door. She still passed by a few times during the week to make sure he was okay, and he always opened the door with a smile that called out to her to never leave him again. She owned him, she owned his life no matter where she went, but the typewriter next to him screamed for his attention. it was the world that owned his soul, and he knew it.
He began to pace again. The pressure of the world still weighing down on his shoulders. He punched the wall, hoping it would let out the frustration, and the pain on his hand would distract him from this madness and he would regain touch on reality. It was of no use. He then ran towards the table and just threw the coffee cup and the papers laid on the table towards the floor. His hands began shaking as a paper remained in his hand. He stared at the blank white paper. Through his eyes it was beginning to fill with words. “NO!” he screamed into the void. “I can’t fall, I need to prove to her that She’s the one, I need to prove to her that this won’t drag me down again!”
Again this was of no use. Talking to himself, and trying to convince himself he was able to walk away was not going to word. Living a lie…that’s what it would be.
His frustration took over now, and he grabbed the typewriter, heavy as it might be and threw it on the ground, screaming out every ounce of antagonism with it.
As realization set in on what he has done, panic flooded his features as his face went pale. “What have I done?” he scrambled to pick it up, and searched the floor for every broken piece. Luckily, the hit was as hard as he had thought. The keys were in place, so was everything else. It suffered a bit of scratches on the sides, but that was all. He set it back on the table gently and blew the dust off of it. He breathed in heavily, and slowly breathed out.
He looked down at his watch again. Five minutes and she’ll be here. He closed his eyes for a moment, and every voice was suddenly silent…except one, and it wasn’t hers. He heard the keys of the typewriter one at a times, beating down each letter slowly, synchronizing with the pace of his heartbeat. For a moment, he forgot it all, and that one moment was all he needed.
The doorbell rang and it echoed into the room.
There was no answer, and she knew. It will never be her.
As she turned to leave, she heard the distant sound of a typewriter, and his voice speaking to himself. She smiled and walked away for the last time, for she knew…he was home.
…He never heard the doorbell ring. Within moments he had forgotten. His world overwhelmed him. He fell back into the embrace of his madness, and all it took was a little push into insanity.