I rolled over; my throat burned with the sting of vomit.
I said out loud throwing up in a small bucket next to my couch. I put my hand on my forehead.
I said to no one, but myself. I live alone in my small Manhattan apartment; no wife, no kids, and I liked it like that. I sat up; breathing heavily . Ever since that night I’ve been sick, I thought, as I got up to grab a ginger-ale, I looked at it cracking the top open. I took a swig, and looked over to my kitchen table.
“Bottles, nothing but fucking bottles.”
I bent down and reached to grab a black garbage bag. I chugged the rest of the soda and threw it into the bag along with all the other empty bottles. I heard the door knock.
I shouted Nearly throwing up again.
The voice beyond the door shouted.
“He’s, uh, not here. Go away!”
I snapped. They knocked again. I put the bag down and swung the door open to see a younger lady holding a note pad and smiling. I felt slightly embarrassed standing in my boxers and no shirt.
she said blushing. I composed myself.
“What do you want? Who are you, and how do you know who I am?”
I stood there; staring at her unamused. She flipped through her notes , and responded.
“I’m Amara, Amara Jenkins. I came to ask you about what occurred on the night of November 21st…”
I slammed the door in her face.
I yelled and threw up in the sink. She never responded. Finally, I thought, splashing my face with water. I walked into my room, looking at my desk, I noticed that my stack of papers laid by my laptop untouched. I walked over to them Flipping through the pages, reading some of the old lines I wrote that described ghosts, and vampires. What I joke I thought. I got disgusted reading my work and threw the pages in the garbage. I heard a thud, from outside my door. I went to go investigate and found a business card on the floor. It was Amara’s.
On the back it read. Call if you want to talk. I did call a few hours later after cleaning the mess I had made in the living room and throwing on some clothes.
“So you have a pad, pen, and an hour to burn?”
I asked my voice sounding horse.
“Yes, yes and yes.”
Her sweet voice said eagerly.
“Good, So, What do you know about death?”
I asked inquisitively.
“Uh, nothing really of the sort.“
She replied. I’ll admit she sounded more nervous than I would have expected.
“Let me ask, how old are you?”
I asked trying to make her a bit more conferable.
“I’m 25.” She remarked.
“Ah, so tell me this then. Why does a young woman go creeping around, digging into things she does not comprehend?”
“I don’t follow sir.”
“You asked me about what happened on that night. When you ask that you ask why I drink to hide my terror? You ask me why I shudder at cold breezes in the autumn, and you ask me why I jump out of my skin when I see shadows move in the night.” She remained silent.
“So, Amara. I will ask you again. What do you know about death, and allow me to add this. What do you know about death, that you deserve to know such a gut wrenching story.“
“I want to know everything sir. I have been following this story since you,and your partner went down to that house.” She said determined. I’ll admit I admired her persistence.
“Okay, get your pen ready.”
I told her as I spun a story of haunted horrors, and horrid sounds. I heard her pen scribble and scribe the words I told to her. This world, I thought as I spilled lies and exaggerations to her, will never know the real story. I knew I would have to take the dark entities that haunted me to the grave. I feared if I told the truth, and she knew the true extent of the horrors that took place in that basement, in that house, the demons that lurked near me would crawl through the phone. I knew if the world had the story in its hands they would begin tormenting their new play toys.
“So, there you are.”
I said snickering to myself.
“Thank you so much! That was everything I could have hoped for, and more!”
She said fumbling her papers .
I said, and the line disconnected. I got up from the chair of my desk, and turned around to look outside the window over looking the Manhattan skyline. I took a sip of cheep whiskey, and opened the window. I stood there, looking out over the city and felt, small.
So many people, and I stand here insignificant in so many of their lives. I liked it that way, no wife, no kids, and alone. I stared for a moment, then shut the window.
I walked over to my couch and sat, listening intently for my demons to call to me again. Like clockwork I saw them. They crawled up from my floors and slipped through my windows. Vile little things, but they conferred me. They walked over to me and nipped at my feet and hands telling me to get up, and have another drink. A drink they never wanted me to wake up from.
I smiled and told them I would, and they danced and howled. I looked around for a glass. I found one next to me by the arm of my couch. Looking into the remainder of the dark liquid contents that was in the cup I saw my reflection. I did not look like myself. I looked small, tired and ugly. The youth of my early twenties was gone, giving way to a much older, uglier man. I felt sick and bitter. I sighed, and took off my white shirt. I sat back running my hand through my hair. I was sitting in darkness by myself, and alone.
I paused, and as I looked at my reflection again. I realized I am more alone than I thought, and I hated it. I looked over to the table, bottles, I thought, and laughed. I turned to grab the bottle of pills to my right, twisting it open I shook into my hand five jagged shaped pills. I put them in my mouth and poured myself, what I had hoped, would be my last drink. I laid down after chugging the whiskey shot, and swallowing the pills. I felt my heart racing and thought, Finally alone, and closed my eyes.
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