The Short Story of Anthony Beninson
A short story by Rene R. Salmon III (me)
The evening was the most calm of many days in this light winter that hasn't ceased to end, even though it was mid-March, but then again, living in the north-east of the United States has always been an exciting chill in these parts, in this fair city. The clouds were high about over the city's skyscrapers with a midish shade of orange that was casted by the light posts on every corner of the city for our absolute protection. Of course, the humid air that came from the harbor, and swept up the sides of the buildings, only to cause even more winter damage on the windows, which bring a marvelous view of the ocean to any of the office workers above, who will go insane from being in the cubical solitary confinement, and many years to come. Then again, who can stay sane after going through the same routine every single day for the rest of their consecutive lives; such an interesting fascination that people are actually will to do this, in the most, need I say it bluntly, boring jobs in the history of mankind.
As you may be wondering, I am Anthony Beninson. Yes, I am an accountant at the Beninson Company. My family has owned this company ever since the late 1970's, but yet I wasn't the one in charge, having been the son of Jackson Beninson, CEO of the fine establishment, but when my father past away, I was about the age of thirteen, and for some miraculous reason, I was to work for the company for ten years before I was to inherit my father's corporation. It has been sixteen years I have worked here, in this dump, turned to by non other that my father's old assistant, Mr. Berkley, a menacing man of undeserved position, and a horrible disrespectful tyrant, but yet, they've refused to hand me the power to this empire, this fortress, as Mr. Berkley called it.
I was at my peak of my sanity, and everything, that was on my mind was only how many times I have counted the thirty-two steps from my bathroom, and out the door, following those eighty-six steps from my apartment, to the very edges of the parks bus-stop, which was always crowded, with the system's enslaved covenant members. And after all these sixteen years, two months, five days, and eight hours, and forty-four minutes, I have been denied the privilege to own to this...thing. So many times, for six years, and about two hundred, and sixty-eight, they've said no, but this wasn't a matter of a court case, because knowing my father, he'd wanted to make sure I was ready for anything, and everything that, as he had once told me when I was a young boy, but I can assure you, that a thirty-eight years old man, was mature enough to take control.
I sat at my desk that morning, with the accounting stacked papers on the devilishly dashing blue squared "In" box, and red "Out" box. Just sitting there, pounding about my day, tapping on the top of my desk, in a continuous rhythm, that would annoyed, even the most obsessive fly hovering over a pile of animal droppings. How was I to figure out how to take control? How? How? How? This is a question I have repeatedly asked myself, about one hundred, and twenty-nine times, a number way too high to even memorize for something that is originally mine.
"Beninson, I need those stock reports by tonight," none other that mister Berkley, in his really upsetting, highly aggravating tone of voice that most people say is a dreamingly delight to a woman's ear, but indeed no, not at all.
"Already finished," keeping my eyes set to the brownish-grey wall of the cubicle, I pointed to the stack of papers, which counted two hundred and twenty-two.
"Good,it's about time you live up to your expectation, keep this up and you'll own this company in no time," Mr. Berkley's laugh was over the top, absolutely aggravation. I just wanted to show him how I really felt; the sulking, deeply scarring pain that lies within the abyss of my bowel's movement, as it eats at me, cutting from the inside out. Oh, how so desperately I wished to strike him across the face with the stapler that was already at my hand's grasp.
"Good luck with the company's paperwork," he stacked more papers unto the top of my desk, which looked like a compelling piece of work with a desperate taste of rage. This was the last straw, and I will make him pay for making everything a living hell that confined my very soul. Vengeance is on the verge of an evolutionary break out.
Seem completely revealing, and stress relieving towards everything laying there in a batch of the deep colored liquid that escapes Mr. Berkley's cadaver. Oh, joy, how the warmth of the moist liquid which people called blood. It dripped off the tips of my fingertips, making that drip-drip sound found in the tunnels of the snaking sewers, as i watched the emotionless of Mr. Berkley's eyes. His mouth agape in a twisted manner of dislocated posture with the tongue ripped out, and drooling of saliva and foam. Oh, how beautiful the sight of seeing Mr. Berkley's cadaver stare me in the eyes and ask why did I do this in the most horrified small voice that leaked out of his mouth.
"Simply because you deserve it. Mr. Berkley," I replied, so happily and relaxed was the tone of my voice. "You've tormented me throughout what seemed to be all of my life, and it was about time you've paid for what you've done. Isn't it obvious?"
There was no response from the corpse...
"I said isn't it obvious!?" I screamed at the top of my lungs, and struck him on the already busted cheekbone with the stapler that I had used to strike him first before he could've realized to defend himself. "Of, course...that's what I've thought. Nothing, nothing at all with you, as usual, there is no reason for my upsetting is there, my. Berkely?" I stroked his firm chin as the dripping of the red beverage continued. "Such a beautiful sight that you are, Mr. Berkley. Too bad that I won't be here for too long. Dear, sweet, angel, how have you fallen from the great dynasty of the sapphire kingdom?"
Such a joyous sight standing on top of this tall building of excellent magnitude, established by the corrupt United States of America, this country has yet to become, but yet the system has fallen on this year of two thousand and eight. The cigar in my mouth was most relaxing of minted tobacco, and most delicious sense of smoke. This company, under great white clouds of the earth's water storage, will fall under the pressure, crumble over the thought of the lost cause of a dead heir, but frankly, as I puff on this rather expensive "cancer-stick" as the kids have taken the liberty to call it, I bluntly don't care anymore about what happens to this god-forsaken company. Need I beseech you that simply, my story was a brief explanation of what is to happen if I don't get what I deserve, but then again, thinking of the consequences of butchering every innocent soul in every floor of this company, I say that there is no reason that I am here, and soon going to be expecting prison for brutally assassinated and devilishlydiminished my boss's mess.
So I stepped off the company logo, and fell down. The fall was excellent in the most extravagant of relaxation' my closed eyes filled with the blissful curse of a thrill only found nowhere in life. So I conclude you this is the way to go for everything. This will forever be...
This will forever be...