Backspace

Backspace

        Hail, rain, sleet or snow? C’mon, this is nothing! It’s a Seattle drizzle. The rain here barely gets you wet, more of a nuisance really. Not anything like those Midwestern thunderstorms. It’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon and still no sign of the postman. Wait! Is this him walking down the puddle ridden sidewalk? Yes, it is him! Finally! Now, let’s see what bad news the messenger of death is carrying. 
         “Good afternoon,” the young man in the blue cap unassumingly says as he begins my demise.
         “Good evening to you!” I replied letting him know of my disdain for his tardiness.
         The rain was beginning to get heavier as I reached into the mailbox and pulled out the letter that I had been waiting for. I felt along the crease searching for any sign that this letter would be different than the others. I turned it over and read the return address as I hurried out of the rain and back into my overpriced one bedroom personal jail.
        The sharpened steak knife would make a great letter opener and could be useful for later. I paused to look at my reflection in the cold steel. It was obvious that I’ve let myself go. If my dad were here, he would have told me to stand closer to the razor. Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and reached for the last of the gin. My scraggly, graying beard was not the only thing out of control. Of course, I don’t think anyone ever said that about Hemingway. I opened the letter and immediately knew what it said.
        Dear Mr. Wilson, I apologize for the use of this form letter. I have reviewed your work and feel that it is not right for us. Good luck to you in getting your novel published.
        I reached for the glass and took the last drink. It’s over! The booze is gone along with all of my money and self respect and I can go on and on.
        My dear Jessica was right! I don’t have the talent! I threw away a wonderful marriage for rejection upon rejection.
        The hard rubber around the handle of the knife felt comforting as I read the rest of the scornful words littered amongst the meaningless wishes of good luck and hope. My t-shirt, stained a brownish yellow, started feeling moist and I looked downwards to see what had spilled. I did it! Only the handle of the knife was visible as the blade had punctured my bulging stomach.
        Years of work! No one understands the pain, my work! Maybe, they will understand now! Oh Jessica, sweet Jessica, where did I go wrong?
        “Jessica Bradford here,” answered my ex-wife, the soft spoken, natural beauty. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be right over.”
        Jessica grabbed her keys and walked out the front door towards her car and began driving over to my one bedroom cell. She wondered aloud on the drive, “How could he have done something like that to himself?”
        How can she be so cavalier about this; the death of her one true love? Jessica plugged her nose as she talked with the detective while they removed my body from the putrid kitchen. No one must have missed me for a few days as I had always suspected would be the case when she left me. He handed her the rejection letter covered in dried, blood and gave her a moment to herself. Jessica looked over the letter and then began to rummage through my desk. She easily found the 400 page manuscript and the saved electronic, floppy disk. Whatever could she want with that trash? She hated it and told me so each time she read it!
         Days have passed now since my death. I’m not sure how I’ve spent them but I do know they have passed. I’ve watched her fall asleep on at least three different occasions while reading my work. She’s at the ending now and continues to make notes on the pages. Stop! Who does she think she is? She’s no writer! She uses too many commas and punctuates everything.
         My one time love, Jessica has returned home on this fourth night. She has returned to my old house, the one that saw our marriage flourish those first few years before the writing career ever began. She turned on the computer and inserted the floppy disk as I looked on in disbelief. The backspace button on the computer began to show wear as her fingers hammered the keys. My words were vanishing with each stroke. The ending, my ending, was being replaced. Her words struck me in the gut, unlike anything I had ever experienced, not even the knife had penetrated me in such a way. Her words were commercialized. Anyone who knew me would know that those words were definitely not mine. The main character was now going to survive and save the girl. I cannot allow this! I will not allow this!
         After what seemed like an eternity, Jessica finally went to bed. I began reading her words looking for any semblance of what my past few years had been consumed by. This is terrible! Does she understand the sweat, the tears, and now the blood that I have spilled working on this book? My work is now a Lifetime, Movie of the Week candidate!  I tried to push the backspace button that she had worn out but the cursor mocked me and did not move. I did not give up, and again, I pushed it as I had done countless times before.
         Jessica awoke early that morning and walked over towards the computer.
“What the…?” she said to herself. “I saved it!”
         I laughed uncontrollably as she stood puzzled over the computer.
Again, she began hitting the backspace button, only this time with more purpose. Her fingers hit the keys well into the night until my voice and name were completely erased from my book. My ex-wife drifted off to sleep and probably started dreaming of her six figure book deal as I had done so many times.
        I looked on as she woke from her slumber late the next day. She made some coffee and then went over to the computer. I could hardly contain myself as I watched her mouth drop open and another four letter word spill from it. She cursed my name over and over as she frantically searched the computer files for her book. I continued to laugh until her fingers started to punch the keys again. Hey! Wait a minute, I never thought of it that way. That’s not half bad.