Life for the World

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
When your alone long enough, nothing more than a notebook and pen can become your closest friends. As this man sits alone through day and night, with his written words he spins everything, and slowly creates life for the world.

Submitted: June 12, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 12, 2009



His Phase One

-Miserable Saturday Night

John sat there with a loaded pack of Marlboros in his hand. He never smoked anything in his entire life, and tonight he figured boredom would get the best of him. The lighter was half empty, the electric company had shut off his power, and darkness was all that was alive. Lit candles and the small fire place in the living room was his light of the world, and he sat there miserable on a Saturday night. He woke up, never changed his clothes, and figured his future would hold about the same thing. Of course when he was able to call his parents on the phone at the gas-station, his mother always reassured him that there was a girl out there for him. Soon, she'd say in her age-riddened voice, soon she'll be knocking at your door. Hope, he thought, wasn't something he looked forward to, or even looked into at all. He was empty, alone, and nothing as the present day was showing, would help him out. He lit the smoke in his mouth, the cigarette hung loosely from the corners of his lips, he inhaled, closed his eyes, and hummed in the ciggarettes small buzz. His head felt clear once, the first time in days where nothing pitter-pattered it's way up there. His legs felt numb to the touch, and like the darkness, the smoke, the gray static, was all that breathed. For a moment, a short relapse, he was one with the small city surrounding him. His mind was the sound of the cars, his eyes beaming, his body in a slow motion, stuck to the wooden chair underneath him. For a moment, he felt he was indeed a person. Depression or lonelyness has a way to bite you, and eat you up from the inside out. When your voice becomes a stranger, and your shadow, your best friend, the world and life as its played out to be, isn't much. He was present, but not in the room. He seemed to find comfort in the darkness, sitting looking at the yellow and red-tail lights pass his windows, sitting looking at the shadows of his apartment-the mirrors, the television, the small radio on top of his dresser. John was creative, or so he thought he was. A paper-pad, an ink-pen, and his dark imagination started up many storms in his one bedroom home. He drew a lot and wrote in it, his deepest thoughts, secrets, wants if you will. Chapter after chapter, word by word, he described points of his life, the high ones, and the many dreary lows. The opening of his newest thought was that of the ciggarette he had just finished, the quick feeling of actually...feeling, and that twenty smokes would turn to nineteen, and by the dawn, nineteen would fade to ten, and so on and on, until his lungs were full of the cloudy venom that he helplessly and willingly sucked into his body. It was a miserable life, he knew, but he was John and the world was the world, and what he exactly what he felt.

His Phase Two

-Lonesome Tuesday Night

His mother told him that he should go places, visit bars or clubs in the city. Talk to people, women especially. Get a number, get a wink, get a sence of confidence for once in his wrecked mess of a body. Get hope. As usual he cowarded himself in his apartment, jumping ideas in his head and writing small poems and stories about a man with full-blown anxiety, as himself. On lonesome Tuesday nights, he always created people on pages who did a lot in thier successful lives. Built things to help people, made money by being nice, just simple things that he wished he could do, or have done. He never worked much, fast-foods, and small assembly lines never really made him think he was actually working, just wasting time as he put it. Meet a character, he thought as he began to write another biography on a fake person. His name is Steve Jonas and he lives in Chicago, he scribbled on the paper. He works at a computer place, selling expensive computers for half price to willing and waiting customers. Steve's greatest trait is his caring blue eyes, and full-hearted smile. He shakes peoples hands when they come in and out of the store. He greets them with a hello and a gleaming just how are you doing? Steve was what John hoped he would be, wanted to be, hungered to be. John wrote about how the man was clean cut, decent, and a good church goer, unlike himself who couldn't see enough light to shave the hair on his face. Steve Jonas wasn't the only man he had gave life to by using words and adjectives, there were many more. Women, children, even a recreation of his mother. If his mind and his mouth wouldn't produce words to speak to others, his hands would sure do the right trick. Saturday, to him, had been a month ago. The pack of smokes were gone, and he had struggled himself up, mangaged to find rolled-up quarters, and drug himself to the station to buy another set. Of course he gave his mother another telephone visit. She was tired, worried sick, stayed up all night, thinking that John had done something wrong, or that he was in trouble. It was a kind of mother instinct, except John and her other children kind of knew that their mothers internal, almost psychic thoughts about her kids were dried up, and usually always wrong. He told her he was fine, writing a lot, and that he thought he might be picking up a habit. He never told her what it was, just gave her a peace by telling her it wasn't really bad. She again told him, to start leaving his apartment, and find that other person. He agreed, but never did. The night was damp and busy. The apartments heater was blowing out cool air, and John sat in the corner of two walls, huddled up in an afghan, and staring deeply at the blue lines running across the notebook paper. He began to write, about a girl, a pretty girl to say the least. She was smart, young, knew how to handle herself; and to add to the cherry on top, she liked John for who he was, and what he did, and how he felt. He continued, scratching away at the paper with his pen, stuffing smokes in and out of his lungs, and thinking back about his childhood, and the idea that he never experienced happiness.

His Phase Three

-Meeting the Girl of His Dreams

The sun hadn't fully made it passed the tall buildings and rolling hills in the far distance. The sky was a deep purple still, outlined in soft pink, and hazy white clouds. It was peaceful, silent, and even the birds refused to chirp. John lied back on a thin cover on his wooden floor, staring at the outside. He was in a painting, he felt, a small detail in a magnificent masterpiece. He was the line that no one ever noticed when looking at it, the little face in the window that was overlooked, he was a flaw in perfection. His eyes jerked to the ceiling, as a sound of footsteps made their way heavily up the stairway outside of his door. He paid attention, counted the number of steps, his ears piercing with wonder. The apartment building was empty, most of the time. Only he and and a bed-riddened old woman lived upstairs, leaving the apartment building usually desolate and with the sounds of nothing. There was a short scuffle outside, and John could see a shadow underneath the small crack under the door. Someone was there, waiting, wondering if it was too early to knock. Wondering if they did wake someone up, what the consequences would fulfill to. His knees popped when he stood, his hair had been thrown askew, and sleep still rested in his eyes. A knock. A quick beat on the wooden door. A rapping that sent a chill down his spine. Lonesomeness never had company, he thought; his mother must had finally found him, his mind read. He never locked the door, perhaps because he never had nothing for anyone to take, or better yet, he wanted someone to come in.

"Hello?" A womans voice, small, sweet, muffled some. He opened the door, slowly, peeking with one eye, until the light from the hallway blinded him, "hi," the woman continued, "I...I'm sorry to bother you, or waking you up," she shrugged, looked to her neatly tied shoes, then back at the crack in the door, back at the one hazel eye, "can you, open the door? My boss sent me here to ask you a question. Are you...John?"
When there is no one to talk to, besides yourself, there are short moments where your name becomes nothing more than a detail that is less important. His mother rarely called him John, just buddy-boy or baby. The door grew from a small crack, to a big enough width for the woman to see his face. He knew what he looked like, he could see his face in his mind. He could tell bags and dark circles had painted their way around his eyes, he could tell that the stubble was a beard, his hair knotted with grease and dread. The woman was of short stature, skinny and had dark brown hair that flowed to her shoulders. Her skin was soft, cream colored, and flaws were hidden under carefully caressed make-up. She was beautiful John thought, an angel in the midst of hell, "my name is Kate, and I am the girl of your dreams," wait his mind told him. Just wait, your half-asleep and the words she said were nothing more than your brain playing tricks on you, "my name is Kate, and I work at the computer store in town," better, that was better John, his mind talked, "my boss told me that you, or someone who lived at this address named John had bought a computer two years back," she looked confused, as she stared deeply into the mans tired, weary eyes, "well, he said," she studdered, worrying, "that the man never payed, fully on the computer, and that I or him, if you deny, will have to take it back," John thought, a computer. It didn't add up to him. He stood there, his eyes glued to the woman, Kendra, or what is Kylea, or Kate? He never had a computer, never bought one, never payed for you. A mistake, he thought, a simple mistake.

His mouth felt as if his tongue had been glued to the roof of his mouth. His lips seeled, his teeth shivering underneath his skin. The blood in his veins curled up with fear, his stomach knotted and twisted, "I," he answered, "I never," come on, his mind reassured, "I never had"

She nodded, twirled a strand of hair, and talked. John heard nothing, just watched her, "sir?" Her lips moving, the sound off, "sir, I'll have to check with him, and maybe come back to you tomorrow. Will you be around?" She looked at him," well here is my card," she placed between his fingertips, "I'll be back soon," she began to walk away, as John turned around; the door slowly closing. She looked behind her back twice as he walked off into his apartment, back into his own reality. Perhaps it was a dream John began to think. His mind seemed to get at him sometimes when he was alone long enough. He peered at the window once more, the sky fading from purple to light blue, and the orange escaping around the hills; he dropped to his knees, then let his head fall to the thin cover. He fell asleep with the card in his hand.

His Phase Four

-The Card

entered his head again, as he opened his eyes for the second time. This time light flooded the windows, illuminating the once dead apartment and erasing the shadows from the walls. He stretched, yawned, then looked down to see a small piece of paper on his chest. The name Kate had been written largely in the center, underneath was two numbers: her cell phone, and the business she worked at. Kate, was a nice name, Kate was a good-looking woman. John liked her to tell the truth, the first woman he had seen or talked to in about a year(besides his mother). He lied there, still, calm, a peaceful aura when the morning first hits. He still felt small in the world surrounding him, that misplaced detail in a work or art; that was all he was. It's funny to think, he asked himself, how a person like me, with so many troubles and worries, anxieties, depression, can still wake up in the morning and enjoy a few hues of color? He twirled the card with his hand, staring at it, wondering if she maybe wanted him to call or better yet come visit her. He waited though, for her to come back.

It had to be a dream

"Hello mother," John said softly and deep as he stood, hunched over at the pay-phone across the way.

"Hi buddy-boy, how ya' feeling today?"

Johns lips paused for a moment. He thought about Kate, he thought about the card, which he had put in his back pocket, "I'm good mom, feeling okay today. I think the sun is giving me a much needed medicine," he smiled inside his closed lips.

"I'm glad to hear of it. Have you met someone yet?"
".....Yeah, yeah I have. Her name is Kate, and I think she feels how I do," he said looking back at the street behind him. The cars were beginning to populate every corner of the asphalt, people were walking to school, and the sounds of the city were breathing once more, "I'll see her again tommorrow I believe."

When John had arrived back at his apartment and sat down in his empty living room, he began to write on how he felt this morning. The first word he used was....hope. How do you find hope in hopeless situations? He scribbed down on the piece of paper. Hope is only a four letter word. There are a lot of four letter words: Kate fits in, he thought. By now, the clocks slowly turned to noon. John had spent most of the day, crouched on the floor by the window writing in his tablet. He had knocked out a few pages with words that described himself, Kate, and every situation he found himself in. He was lost, but had a map-he understood. The map was Kate, she pulled him out this morning, she even pulled out words from him. She was an answer, he shook his head, an answer to that long-winded question. The page on hope was followed by a page of happiness, then finally he dotted the last sentence on the last page of the chapter called The Woman of My Dreams.

His Phase FiveThe Reassurance of There is Someone Out There


John had woke up with someone at the door. Kate he thought, smiling in the pure darkness. It must be her again. There was no hello this time, just the constant thumping on the other side of the wood. When he answered, Kate was looking around at the cracked and damaged walls of the apartment hallway. She smiled crookedly when she seen John standing outside of his door with no shirt on and a pair of old gym shorts, "good morning," she said sweetly looking down at her feet then back up to John.

"Hi," he muttered softly, almost too quiet to hear.

"There must have been a mix-up at the office, that computer never did belong to you. Our apologizes."

It was fate John, pure, undeniable fate, his mind continued, "that's okay, just a mistake. We all make them everday."

She laughed, then put her skinny fingers to her crimson lips, "I guess your right, well have a good day. It's kind of chilly out, you might want to get a shirt on and some warmer pants," she winked then started off to the stairs. Get a wink, he heard his mother say.

Make a move, his mind whispered into his ear, "wait...." his heart stopped. She paused then turned around, her eyes gleaming in the flourescent light, "will you do me a favor?"

Her faced slowly moved from delight to confusion, as she took the steps one by one, back to Johns door, "what do you need?" She questioned, her eyes darkening with wonder.

"Will you...?" His mouth dry with fire. His throat scratchy like sand-paper, "will you....go on a date with me? I mean if your busy, I'm sorry for asking. It's just I'm kind of alone in here, if you couldn't tell, and if you said..." she interrupted him.


Words are simple things to tell the truth. A large matter of them are used to hurt, put people down, ease destruction into sentences. But some are like flowers in the Spring, and to John....her saying yes brought the sun back to the sky, "yes?" He asked her, his eyes blurry with tiredness, his mouth quenching for water.

"Yes. I'd really like to. I mean you know, we can become friends. I'm lonely too, to tell the truth. The only people I really talk to is my mother and my boss...Steve, who can really get on my nervous sometimes with his goody-two-shoes acts he puts on."

John laughed, his stomach churning with stinging butterflies. His mind buzzing with sweet emotions, "how can...I...reach you?"
She looked down at her watch on her arm and dropped her mouth open, "I have to run. But don't worry about that, I'll run into, I promise."

John had put on extra clothes and walked over to the station across the street. The world seemed empty that day, giving John a worried since of damnation was around every hidden corner. His mother always had a hand-full of words to cheer him up. Words are complicated things to tell the truth. Only a small matter of them can help, while another matter can stab you, and let you bleed, "hi mother how are things?"
"Good, things are okay here. How are you feeling today?"

"The girl stopped by again, I pushed up enough courage to ask her on a date."

There was a silence over the phone, "I'm so proud of you John, your shedding your skin aren't you?"
He never answered, just hung up the phone and ran back to his apartment. There he dropped to his knees above his notebook and read back through the pages he wrote. Steve Jonas was a kind fellow, he had put about the fake character that pops up into his life. His blue eyes melt customers, and his smile pulls the strings. John was shedding his skin, his mother said, John was fading back to normality. Things were going not according to plan. It was depression, destruction, and finally a breed of...creation. John was smiling, his eyes brightening with new life, his words being spoke with....hope. Kate was changing him. Kate was happiness.

Behind closed doors, John was already falling for the women with brown hair and a cute smile. He already drempt about her, while he spent the rest of the day writing in his tablet about how one thing can produce much more. He had a feeling when he flipped his paper back to the cover, that Kate was falling for him, a love at first site kind of a fix. Destiny was calling, or in thier matter it had knocked on his door.

His Phase Six

-The First Date

When will I see her again popped into his head as he paced the floor-boards that night. His chest was crushing with boredom and still a small sence of rejection. She isn't going to come back, he thought. She said yes just to make me feel good. Kate was long gone, he kept telling himself. Its that time again to step back from everything else, meet people in your mind and forget about it. You've been like this before John, remember? His mind questioned. Remember those times where you thought you had found someone, and in the end it was a set-up situation? Then you found yourself miserable on Saturday night smoking. Trying to end your worries with fake senses of happiness. When there is nothing else to turn to John, his mind talked, you have to end things yourself. You hate life, you know you do, and you want to know what you do next?
There was a knock on the door, a soft beating, Kates delicate hands. John had been dressed neatly, his hand shoved into his pocket, the other hand opening the door. Kate was wearing a long black dress, and had her dark hair pulled back in a bun. She was smiling when the door opened, her hands behind her back, nervous, shy. She never looked down, just into Johns hazel eyes then behind him at his apartment. Night was falling quickly, and the sun had fell again, "hello," she said. John felt too nervous to speak. He waved his hand and nodded his head, "I figured we could go to a restuarant. Maybe talk about our lives and get something to drink," she spoke.
"Okay," he finally said, gasping for something.

Autumn winds blew sweet smelling air. Red leaves flew from the trees and crackled underneath their feet. It had rained and Kate was dodging the puddles on the sidewalk. John looked over at the station and smiled when he seen the pay-phone. It was his back-up plan if everything else fails, "so what do you do during the day?" Kate asked looking up at him.

He thought, "I write."
"Okay....write what?"

"I really don't know to tell the truth. I kind of just tell how my day is going. How I feel, what I thinks going to happen. Just things like that."

"Have you ever....wrote about me?"
He smiled softly, his face pale in the moon light, "yeah, there are a few pages about you."
"Tell me what they say," she said smiling, pausing on the walkway, turning around to face him.

"I can't do that. It spoils surprises," he said, making an awkward silence between the two.

The restaurant was small, but it was empty inside. There was a picture of a wine bottle on the outside glass and the word Redemption was written on it in cursive, "this place looks great," Kate said, "I like going out you know? I can't stand sitting behind a computer all day, listening to Steve grasp ahold of more people with fancy words and a devilish smile."
John sat quietly, hunched over reading the fine print on the menu. The words were written in red, and for moments they blurred together. Get out, John thought he read at some point. Get out."What may I offer you sir?" A young waiter asked as he walked slowly to the booth in the corner.

John looked up to see Kate walking into the bathroom, "I guess we'll take two red wines."

When she returned, the wine had been waiting for her. John had already finished his and was now rolling up the napkins out of boredom. I guess it's getting me out, his mind said, "you know my life had been pretty crazy," she said, situating herself in the seat, "I mean when I was in school, I never was real happy. I had a good relationship with my mother, but I hated my dad. He walked out on us when I was real young, and I had the chance to see him on weekends. I never did. But I kind of did what you do now. I wrote a lot, a bunch to tell the truth. It was a diary, a chance to get away from the real world, you know what I'm saying?" He shook his head, Kate looked at her drink, "I moved out when I was a teenager, and found a job at a fast food place, it was horrible. What a waste of time. I finally got it together when I moved here. I found that job, made some money...met a few people that were worth remembering. I finally found myself dependent on independence," she smiled, "tell me about you..."
"Well my name is John," he grinned, "I hated life ever since I was born. I quit school, because everyone made fun of me. I kept my face buried in books and tablets, scribbling my life away. My father was useless in my teenage years. He spent most nights pulling back triggers on alcohol bottles, while my mother tried to comfort me in the middle of bitter verbal wars. Writing then, was a way to escape, kind of how you said. I would spend day and night just putting things down that didn't make sense. Then I'd read it, and just figure out how messed up my life is. I never really worked, just stood around in places and took orders. It made me think about my life at home. I got this apartment in town with my mothers help. She had been paying most of my bills, and I lived there...alone...falling fast into this horrible state on insanity," he looked down.

"I know how you feel John, I meen each day is a fight."
"Finally my mom stopped paying, and since then I've been living each night in complete darkness. Using candles and the moon light to light my pages. Then I meet you. Since that day you knocked, I haven't stopped thinking."
"John," she cleared her throat, "will you tell me what you wrote about me?"
He stared at her, his eyes flowing from her eyes to her nose, to her mouth. He watched as she looked at him, beautiful underneath the light, "I wrote how I planned on meeting you."

"What do you mean...planned?"
"Will you come over after this?"

"Yeah, yeah I will."

The stars were bright, the wind had stopped, and the dark apartment was lit up with candles in each room. John had sat Kate in his living room, where they both sat on the wood floor. His thick notebook had sat between them, and they both looked at it oddly, "you know, it's funny that little pretty whole life."

"I like that John. I think I like that about you. Your simple, but there is so much more...I can tell. Your creative, your smart, and...your cute," she giggled, Johns cheeks lit up with fire, "can I read it?"
"If you promise me what you read won’t pull you away from me."

"My life John. On my life."

That night the two stayed up until the sun was pulling its way up. Kate had fell asleep on Johns chest. His breathing soothed her, his voice made the tides calm. He lied there with his eyes open the whole time, playing with her brown hair, hoping that the end was far from now. When he finally fell asleep, he drempt of Kate wearing her black dress, and he drempt of her telling him she loved him. When he awoke...she was gone...only a small note on his chest was left.

Dear John, last night was amazing. Your words can give life to the world. I hope you never stop. If you want me just write....Oh and I hope you like your surprise-Kate

His Phase SevenThe Unimaginable Ghost Story


To tell the truth, John hated surprises and as he lied there alone in the morning light, he thought about the night before...and wondered why Kate never drank her wine. Things didn’t add up right to him, even though the night prior was the happiest he had felt in years. Something was still missing though, John thought. It was as if she was too perfect. Everything she had said, John told himself he had done the same thing. Hopeless fathers, their world in writing, even the helpless unhappiness they both felt when they were young. What was the surprise? He asked again. He walked from room to room, peeking around corners and checking under his clothes. There was nothing. No gift. No note. Just the emptyness that he usually felt when waking up, feeling little underneath the brightness of the early sun. His notebook was still in place, his door was shut, even his feelings of life were there. Brighter, he thought. Something was brighter. As he passed small desks in a room, slid by the cracked door leading to the living room, and slow-paced to the kitchen he noticed something that struck him differently. A small lamp on the counter was bright, ridding shadows in the kitchen. John ran back to his living room, where he hit the switch and watched as light slowly faded on. Electricity he thought, it’s back. Oh and I hope you like your surprise, he thought. He had mentioned that his mother stopped paying the bills, and how he spent months now with no light. She wants me to write, he told himself. She said I could give life to the world. Kate wants me to continue. John sat down in his lit living room and flipped through the pages of his notebook until he came to a page that was empty. With a pen he wrote...I’m writing to live, or is I write for others to breath. Do I really give life to this world? If I stopped would I die, if I stopped they die? Am i the main character in a ghost story? Am I the hero...or the villian?

Kate was sure to show up again, John thought. If you want me just write...and that was what he had done. As morning progressed to noon, and noon had hit night, John had ended his notebook. Each page was filled with his words, each page filled with love, happiness, hate, hope...and now Kate. His last chapter wasn’t fully about Kate, it was about what would happen to him if he lost her. What would happen when darkness finally hit light. What would happen to him if he stopped writing. He wondered, he had always done good at that, and when Kate finally came over that night...he told her about his mind. Kate listened and payed attention closely. She was cutting out words and pictures from a stack of newspapers. She said when she is alone this is the best thing to do. John watched her as she read and flipped through pages, watched as her face lit up with happiness when she found something she liked. He loved her, he loved life, he loved writing. He had told himself that if Kate would have been around when he was younger, he would have never fell into that darkness he was used to. He would live in a life that was full of light. He would be Steve Jonas, and smile at strangers, and offer help to hopeless. People take wrong paths, I took the bad one that had a good sign. I am the reason my life is messed up. Not my father. Not my mother. Just me. Kate had cut out a picture in the shape of a disorientated heart and turned it around for John to see. "Look it says Love is Redemption."

There was a knock on the door, John looked at Kate and told himself that she was the only one that had ever did that.

"John!" A deep voice filled the apartment building, "open this door," the voice angered.

"Who is it buddy-boy?" Kate asked softly, still cutting up pictures and forming things on the floor.

"Johnny it’s me...your mother," another soft voice arose.

He never locked the door, perhaps because he never had nothing for anyone to take, or better yet, he wanted someone to come in. The door squeeked and cringed with pain as footsteps gathered their way into his apartment, "this place is a mess," his father yelled.

His mother walked into the living room first, she was holding onto her purse and a tear fell down her cheek, "John, you haven’t called in days, we were worried sick," she sniffed, "I hope you like the light. I finally was able to spare another hundred dollars to get your electricity on."
"No, Kate did," he said as he looked over at his mother, still listening to the scissors cut the paper.

"Son, what is going on?" His father asked.

"Yeah, and when can we meet this Kate?" His mother strolled her finger over the television, "ah dust."

"She...she is right is Kate."
His mother and father stared at John, deeply, horribly, intoxicated. John looked over at Kate, and seen nothing, but the wall that she sat in front of, and the notebook that was beside her. Paper was cut up in shapes and words were mis-matched over the floorboard. She was gone. John looked down at his hands to see the scissors in his left hand and a piece of paper that he was cutting. The words on the news said she can be real in your mind.Johns dad walked over to the notebook, stepping on cut-up papers, and kicking over a canister of glue. He picked up the book and flipped over the pages, "meet a character," his father said out loud, "His name is Steve Jonas and he lives in Chicago. He works at a computer place, selling expensive computers for half price to willing and waiting customers. Steve's greatest trait is his caring blue eyes, and full-hearted smile," his father turned the page, "Meet a character," he read, "her name is Kate and she lives in Chicago. She works for Steve Jonas selling computers. She came to my door one morning, and that is how we will meet. We’ll go on a date, where I’ll drink red wine, and invite her over. She’ll love me for my writing, and I’ll love her for her since of compassion, John what is this? Kate will become as real as I want her to be. She hates her past, and wishes she could live life normally, like me. She’ll leave me a note one morning, the rest will hopefully unfold."

His Phase Eight

-He Never Smoked Anything in His Entire Life

On lonesome Tuesday nights, he always created people on pages who did a lot in thier successful lives. Built things to help people, made money by being nice, just simple things that he wished he could do, or have done. On lonesome Tuesday nights he wrote about how he wished he could meet the woman of his dreams, who would love him for who and what he was.

"Hey John," he heard a womans voice in his mind, "if you need me again, just write...miss you," He was in a painting, he felt, a small detail in a magnificent masterpiece. He was the line that no one ever noticed when looking at it, the little face in the window that was overlooked, he was a flaw in perfection. Kate was gone for now, he told himself, but she’ll come back, she’ll be knocking at my no time.

John was placed in a room where the walls were bright enough to make him forget about the darkness he once knew. They were padded, and there were no windows. John missed his notebook and his old apartment. As he lit up another ciggarette in the room a doctor checked his pulse.

© Copyright 2018 Aaron Hardin. All rights reserved.

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