A phone rang somewhere close, but Mike turned away and placed a pillow over his head. The muffled sound didn’t make him feel any better, but he was in no mood to get up. He had a pretty good idea who could be calling, anyway. If it wasn’t his mother, it couldn’t be anyone else but Mary.
That girl was persistent, he had to give her that. And, any other day, he would pick up the phone in an instant, just not today.
The phone stopped ringing and he took off the pillow. A stray tear made its way off the corner of his eye and was soon soaked up by the bedspread. Why was he crying? He had no idea. It was just easier to let it out. He had been strong for so long it was beginning to eat him up inside.
The phone began to ring again. This time, he was more angry than sad. He got up, picked the phone up from the table and dismantled it with the wall. Pieces flew about. A large chunk hit him square in the mouth before he could duck.
“Ouch,” he cussed, his hand flying to his mouth. He tasted blood. “My rotten luck.” he muttered as his eyes began to mist.
He was happy no one could see him now, and the thought of that appealed to his tear ducts as fresh tears poured freely.
Mike had felt sad before, but this was different. This was from his core, deep where he had never accessed before.
That was where his failures and rejections, his heart breaks and disappointments, have gone to pitch a tent. He had been foolish enough to think smiling and trying again another day had helped him dispel those horrible feelings.
Unknown to him, they had formed a resistance deep within him. And now, it was too late for him. He could no longer bear the burden of being “a man”, of smiling and covering it all up with humour.
He was plain tired. Tired of fighting for a semblance of sanity in his life when chaos was all he’d known.
And now, it was time. Only if those stupid pills could kick in quicker, he wouldn’t have to recall those horrible memories. His only wish was for his mother and Mary to forgive him. He knew how much they loved him.
The rest who had made his life hell could meet him in hell for all he cared.
Maybe he should write his mother and Mary a note, so they could know how he felt about them, and that this had nothing to do with them.
Mike sat at his desk and quickly found a pen. There was a cover letter he had recently drafted neatly lying on his desk. He turned the sheet over.
“Dear Mom,” he wrote, “I love you.”
Yes, that was a great way to start.
But his eyes were closing. He’d take this quick nap and write something beautiful.
Mike rested his head on the desk, oblivious of the pen falling from his hand, or that he was closing his eyes for the last time. He rested his head and sank into oblivion.
