One Dark Morning

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A sick man battles his voices.

Submitted: June 16, 2008

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Submitted: June 16, 2008

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He looks around nervously. This is his last chance. He opens the door and steps out of his red four by four. He sports a black windbreaker over his grey hooded sweatshirt. His black hat conceals his aging hairs and a blue bandana hangs in front of his face. It hangs in front, as his greying beard grows slowly in the soft, cool spring morning’s wind. Today was a bleak day for the man, as was every day. Every day he wakes up and every day he sees grey. Why get up anyways?

 He walks behind the truck and opens the trunk. A man walking his dog smiles at him. Fuckin’ idiot. He told himself. The world had been bad enough to him, he didn’t need one more fake idiot to let him know. He reaches into the trunk for a black gym bag.  It contains three items. First, he pulls out a 9mm pistol and nervously slips it into the front of his pants, then he pulls out yesterday’s paper. Wait. What did that paper say? He twitched and looks at the paper again. “Gymnast in ICU after Wednesday’s accident.” He could have sworn it said “Four killed in bank robbery.”

Then he pulls out a rock. His daughter painted it in school. “It’s a good luck rock,” he remembers her telling him. It’s just bigger than a coin and very smooth. He likes how it feels on his hand. “Some luck”, he said, “Maybe she should have bought me extra bullets.” He chucks the rock into the bag and throws the newspaper on the road. He slams the trunk shut. Then he sees the paper again, “Eighteen killed in bank robbery.” “Fuck.” He yells, as the paper re-arranges.

He doesn’t remember how he got to the bank that day. The people were screaming at him. Do this, do that. He could hardly think over all the anxious voices. The red truck stopped outside and he opened the door. His legs moved him to the trunk where his arms, trembling, shaking, and weak, pick up the gym bag. As he puts it from his left hand to his right, the rock yells, “Don’t do it, you have a choice.” He freezes. Rocks don’t talk. Where are my pills?

 “What did you say?” he asks timidly. The rock remains motionless. He rips it from the bag. “What did you say?” Again, the rock maintains it’s composure better than the most sly of all criminal masterminds. “When I ask you a fucking question, you will answer me! What did you say?”  He can’t take it. The rock.

How could I be beaten by a rock? A rock. A bunch of sand compressed over time, eroded to smoothness, and picked up by a beautiful little girl. She paints the rock with all her heart because she loves her dad. She loves the way he picks her up when he comes home from work. He used to come home from work. Before.


© Copyright 2017 DR Cudmore. All rights reserved.

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