Tales of Fake

It was midnight. The clock was striking twelve. He sat on the couch and watched the rain pour down as his mind wandered off. He felt numb: his hands were weak and his legs seemed incapable of holding his weight up if he chose to get up. The room smelled funny; a certain smell of wet paint or humidity sickened his stomach. He was trembling. His body begged for a drink, and all he could think of was a cold glass of whiskey on his right hand to make the pain go away. His breath was racing and his heart was nearly pounding out of his chest. The lights outside of his department were all that lit the house. Inside, not a single lamp was on as he sat in the darkness to contemplate his mess. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist, counted to ten and tried to make the nightmare go away. Nothing worked. By now, he longed for that mighty drink that could put him out. He wanted to be out, he needed it. He was too much of a coward to end his own life, but every fiber of his being begged him to do it. All his life, he had tried to do his best, and now he felt defeated. Suddenly, the phone rang: it was her. He gathered the courage and strength to pull himself up, and dragged his feet across the room. His legs quivered and his shoes awkwardly caressed the rug as he walked. He was there, in front of the phone. He let it ring once, twice, until it stopped. He wanted to hear her voice, but he knew that she would talk him out. Instead, he stared at the reflection in the mirror above the phone with disgust. He noticed the bags under his eyes and the spots all over his skin; he saw his cricked nose and his broken lips from the cold, and all he could think of was “what the hell happened to me?” A few minutes went by, and the empty shell that he had become felt useless to him. He staggered through the room to the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge. All the voices inside his head quickly started arguing about his next step. ‘Don’t do it’ one of them said, but he knew that he couldn’t prevent himself. His hand touched the iron handle and it felt like a cold breeze had come into his body. He felt fresh and alive. He opened the door and in there, he gazed at the bottle with a certain look of joy. He took it out, grabbed a drink and poured himself a cup. His lips were gently stroking the glass and, all of the sudden he felt he could breathe again. Still, the demons were there. Inside his mind, it was a battle and, to him, it was unknown who would win. The memories of the bad times and the bad dreams quickly flooded his mind. He was unease. His hands began shaking and his mind began to doubt. Quickly, he threw the glass away and, as it broke into little pieces, he felt a little bit of him broke along with it. His eyes were dewy and his cheeks were red. He felt his throat closing, keeping him from breathing well. The clock on the wall, above the door, was ticking. He felt that every time one of the hands moved, his end was closer. Once again, he closed his eyes, pressing his lids tightly together. Not a minute had gone by. He opened his eyes again and, this time, determinate about what he wanted to do, he strutted out the kitchen and into his room. He was there: in front of his closet, doors open. He reached out his hand and in the top shelf he could feel the suede cover of the box where he kept his father’s old gun, which was given to him the day that he died. He walked backwards to his bed and sat there, with the powdered gun on his left hand and his heart full of fear. He took the safety off and placed the gun to his temple, with one finger on the trigger. Silence filled the room. Suddenly, silence was interrupted by one violent thud as his soulless body fell to the floor. A gentle, cold breeze came rushing inside the room through the bullet’s hole in the window frame, and through there, his pain escaped.