The nightmare of business

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Part 1.

Submitted: December 11, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 11, 2011



"My eyes were rolling around in their sockets, turning almost three hundred and sixty degrees in all directions, manic. My legs were above my head as my pelvis gave way, and as I fell further toward my death I felt a ball of wind collect in my mouth as the velocity increased, hopeless. But, man, I don't know. Nightmares, they don't give you the real feeling of being alone. They omit what you know is true and replace raw feeling with exerts from movies you've seen or the worst possible scenario you could ever find yourself in. They lie, and now I don't know if anything will be accurate enough to illustrate how I really feel."

"Well..." She broke the silence softly, wrapping velvet around my wounds. "Tell me how you really feel."
How did she feel that it was so easy? She stared down at me, black eyeliner defining a world that existed within a masked corporate reality. I lay on red leather, arms tucked into my torso, vomiting verbal emotion to a woman who had sucked the dicks of more professional corporations than a Thai prostitute could even fathom.

"How I really feel?" I lifted my head out of the imprint that I had created and met her stare, the only difference being that I was the hopeless one and she could somehow help me.
"I can't tell you that - hell, I can't tell anyone that!" A little boy on a tyre swing appeared in my mind, stripping himself of his juvenile attire, throwing it all in the ocean. Was this me, or who I wanted to be? Had my Armani soldier been engulfed in a sea of capitalist torment? "But I can tell you the rest of what I saw," I said, as the natural progression of my thoughts stopped verbal communication for a few minutes - added to my chart no doubt as another sign of insanity.

"My fall was timed out perfectly, my eyes blinking at the same tempo as my heart was beating, in sync. A timer that ticked away the seconds until my death. People even waved as I passed their windows, gripping a fresh Ethiopian blend with the tightness of the ropes that wrapped around those who slaved to give them pleasure. And then suddenly, it all stopped. My overall contentment with death dissipated as my expectations were unmet. I was thrusted upright as I fell through New York pavement and into a black room. The controllers of my psyche put me in a brown and lime green striped arm-chair, a mechanism for a foot rest attached like a safety bar on an amusement park ride. They told me it was for my own good. My eyes became fixated on an analog television set turned to static, I was unable to look away. I became entranced as a montage of imagery formulated in my mind and acted out my life in an idealistic euphoria and a realistic sorrow. Suddenly the television set was dragged away from my view, like somebody was pulling the cord toward them. dragging my mind with them. I was thrusted backward, with my thoughts only half formulated. The chair disintegrated and - "

I stopped, gasping for air as I began to cough uncontrollably - another insanity check.

"Well..." She said again, waiting for my response, waiting for the clock to turn another hand, adding another rolled note to the pile.

"That's it. I woke up."

"Well, that's okay. We're out of time anyway."

Did she even listen to my words? I felt more alone than I have ever felt, lying in that room, featured walls and unfurnished shelves screaming that her insanity was just as masked as mine.

I lifted myself out of unscathed leather and stood up, my mind circling as I was brought off a cloud of idealism.


Time skipped forward, leaving no room for petty conversation, my eyes fixed on a painted number six on a cream coloured door in a vacant block of apartments. I hit realistic sorrow and my heart crumbled. I pushed the woman, the nightmare, the grim nature of helping the hopeless into my subconscious, swimming as graciously as the juviniles in a hot, youthful bubble, denial.


Another break in time, another battered bronze key into another broken life. I pushed the door open with a flat palm, entering into what seemed like a world I shared no connection with. I jumped. Empty coffee pot, granules mixed with stone cold syrup. Coffee mug, newspaper sheets scattered purposely, a mild sense of destruction. My pelvis gave way. Eyes scattered, fixated on a mathematical arrangement of store bought furniture. I loosened my tie and slung it over my workchair, giving rest to a weak body. I pushed one pending thought into a compartment dedicated to suppressed emotion, but wrenched it back. I fought, gripping it tightly.

What had I become?

My apartment was an exhibition of unfulfilment, money pouring from every crevice to fill my voids. They patched my wounds, a path walked by many on the road to death. It was a simple algorithm - you are born and you die.


The day had sailed by, blissful in an absent mind. I stared at a digital clock that positioned itself on my bedside table, unaware of where I had purchased it.

4.20PM, WEDNESDAY 20TH NOV, 2011.

My eyes widened as I rapidly emerged from my mental submarine.


I looked around blankly in a perplexed state of being unable to comprehend another unfolding reality, dosile.

"Today," I murmered insanely, outloud. "Today is the supreme court hearing for our firm against the Parks Department." The words spun around in my mind as I tried to detach them from a new sense of paranoia that was heightening toward a mental breakthrough. I was letting myself down softly. Today, I had skipped work.


A realistic sorrow was further met as I rummaged around helplessly, attempting to decode a mystery in time lapsing. And then suddenly it caught my eye, a black tipped byro sat atop a scribbled note, placed conveniently alongside the clock. It read:


Rosie had been recommended to me by a work colleague, the number being clearly memorised by my innerspeaker. The montage appeared again, only now my idealistic euphoria was switched with a deep confusion. My epiphany, burried in a mound of dirt. A child sat helplessly at the pit of my mind. An empty chasm, only space seeking liberation. The logistics of the notes appearance, my unconscious calling/ unconscious being and attending suddenly became irrelevant to me. My nightmare was over, a troubled mind unlocking a wilting mathematical existence.

Simultaneously, one head turn to one phone ring. The receiver was hidden, but the caller beared a gift. I coughed, letting out a final cry to a past life.

"Same time tomorrow?" A husky voice wrapped around red lipstick was testing my fate.

"No," I replied contently, as graciously as the juveniles in their heat filled bubble.

"It was simply a tale of shame."

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