Sunday, March 13, 2005

Very Short Stories

I wrote a suicide note

And left my doors and windows open so the snow floated in and settled on my bedspread and arm chair and Oriental rug. It made for a much more dramatic abandoned room.

It was three a.m., and I had just come back, drunk, from a so-so party. The party was alright, the drinks were abundant, but the people were tiresome. People always are.

I first placed my little note on the bed, but the snow might have covered it up after I left, so I pinned it onto my dart board. Right in the bull’s eye, with a red feathered dart.

I fished out the car keys from my overcoat that I had just thrown on the floor. I didn’t take the coat; it wouldn’t suit such a mission.

I started my car after three tries, and headed to meet my maker. I had noticed several high bridges when I was driving to this place from France, three months ago. I had thought then that they were perfect jump off points. No I was driving to the nearest one.

The bloody car sputtered and died when I was still three kilometres away. Absolutely no vehicles in this time of the night. So I had to get off and continue on foot. I am still two and half kilometres away, it’s still snowing, and I really wish I had brought my overcoat.

That’s why I have to kill him

I could live with a snoring man. I have lived with a snoring man. I have lived with a man who used to snore every single night he slept. And I’m not talking about gentle fetching snores or that whispery snore of women. It’s a loud, shuddering monster of a snore I’m talking about. The kind that vibrates through wood. And walls.

Laughing is another matter. You might wonder how I didn’t notice James’s extraordinary laugh in all the three years that we were engaged, or why it didn’t bother me this much in the five years that I’ve been married to him. I don’t know.

All I know is that my love for him has gradually shrunk in these five years, and all that is left is a vicious putrid hate that focuses on just one aspect of his character.

His laugh. Early morning to late evening, at least twenty times a day. It starts from deep inside his belly as a slow rumble, gathers volume and girth as it moves up through rolls of skin, muscle and fat. When it reaches the throat, his shoulders are shaking in collusion, and it takes on a soprano timbre. He throws his head back at this moment, and as he reaches a crescendo, my head starts splitting.

I would be able to still tolerate it, if he didn’t laugh so often in early mornings, and catch my shoulder conspiratorially when he does.