I Lived Alone

People always say that there can be no bed more comfortable than your own. At the time, I would have wholeheartedly agreed. I slept on a twin-size mattress with three blankets, two pillows, two pairs of sheets, a comforter, and a bedspread. Plain walls bothered me, and I did everything in my power to cover them. On the east wall, I had a contemplative Bob Dylan standing in a recording studio with a Fender Jazz Bass slung over his shoulder. On the west wall, an early fab four could be seen golfing. I managed to auction a few Marüshka prints online, as well. Surround sound speakers were mounted to each corner of the jet black ceiling. I purchased the thickest, darkest window curtains I could find. I lived alone.

This particular apartment was very peculiar. It was a stand-alone building, hidden in the trees behind a large rental property. It could very easily have been mistaken for an over-sized tool shed. There were only three windows. Two on the entrance wall, and one in the kitchen on the opposing external wall. In the kitchen, the stacks of non-perishable food items might have suggested that I was running my own food pantry. I had enough to get me through the end of the year. The bathroom was located just off of the kitchen, and it contained a combination washer and dryer. The disposal of trash could very well have been the largest problem, but I found that if I paid the waste management company a slightly larger monthly fee, they would retrieve the garbage can from the side of the building. This worked out greatly to my advantage, because I had it placed right outside the window. When I had a full bag, I opened the window and dropped the bag into the can. This could have very well been my weekly glimpse of the outside world, but I always chose to shut my eyes.

I would always remember the way my father's face looked in that casket at the funeral. The expression they glued it in was so unnatural. I had never seen him make that face. He looked bored, and my father was never bored. He was a working man. My father owned a successful chain of novelty restaurants across the Midwest. Unlike many men of similar job descriptions, he worked his hands to the bone. He had no regional managers, and he did all the auditing. If a location was close enough, he attempted doing repairs himself. As for me, on the other hand, I have never been much like my father. The hardest thing I ever did was spend five years at a state university getting a degree in music that I will never be able to use.

I recall those days we spent on holiday in the upper peninsula. I remember when he realized I didn't know how to fish. He showed me how to cast the rod when I looked confused, and he told me fishing was a sport of patience when I looked unamused. We sat for hours before he decided it was getting too cold. By that time, I didn't want to row back to the cabin. My father was a simple, quiet man, but I loved that about him. He always saved his breath for the important things.

The heart attack happened on the day of my graduation. He collapsed in the parking lot, fifteen minutes before the ceremony started. I remember the sinking feeling I got when my family was nowhere to be found. I walked eight circles around that auditorium before I finally threw in the towel. All their phones went straight to voice mail, and my confusion wasn't broken until I got the call.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, he had already been pronounced dead. I wrapped my arms around my sister as her tears soaked into the bright blue gown that I didn't have time to remove. We had nothing to say to each other, and neither did anyone else. I felt claustrophobic in the waiting room, and the hospital orderly marching toward my weeping family members with a clipboard in hand was the last straw. I walked off and into the men's room. I kicked open the door and ripped the graduation gown over my head. I triggered the motion detector on the sink and splashed my face with cold water. As I opened my eyes and glared into the mirror, I thought to myself, I don't look the same. I don't even recognize my own face.

Shortly thereafter, I slipped out of the hospital unseen by my family. I got into my car and turned off the radio. I sped off west until I couldn't recognize things anymore. I saw a sign for a state park and pulled off the road. I slammed the car door as hard as I could. I looked up into the evening sky, and screamed with all the air I could inhale. Over and over, I punched the picnic bench on the grass next to where I was parked. I watched as the tiny bones in my hand were shattering and I could hear the awful sounds it was making. I lifted my hand in front of my face, and I could see the blood running down my wrist, staining the milk-white dress shirt my father lent me for the ceremony. I laid on my back in the grass. As the mosquitoes swarmed my body, biting every exposed patch of skin they could find, I remained still. I turned my head and stared at the brutal mess of my hand again, but it didn't mean anything to me. I couldn't feel it. It was a severe injury, and I could see that, but I couldn't feel anything at all.

When I awoke, I was in the hospital again, but this time, it was me under the sheets. Completely motionless, I looked at the sterile, blank walls of the room. Within five minutes, a nurse entered the room, followed by my grandmother. I didn't flinch as she changed my bandages. My grandmother sat down on the edge of the bed and the nurse left the room. She looked me dead in the eyes with no expression on her face. As soon as she attempted to speak she began to sob. She was barely able to say, “I love you,” and that's the only thing she said before she kissed the back of my good hand and exited the room.

The funeral was a few days later. The cathedral was packed full of people I'd never seen before. Every single person in attendance looked as though a part of them had died. Every eulogy likes to proclaim that the deceased loved one had a meaningful impact on a large amount of people throughout their lifetime. We could have gotten away with skipping that part, because you simply could have read it on the faces in the crowd.

We gathered at my grandmother's house to talk about the will the next day, which was probably the most cryptic thing I've ever participated in. As we had expected, my older brother inherited the company. He held a management position just beneath my father, and recently graduated with a business degree. My father had a great deal of savings, all of which were distributed evenly amongst my siblings and myself. The inheritance was large enough each for us to retire, and I was the only one that actually chose to.

It was not originally my plan to stay inside, but with each ideal possession I acquired, I felt less and less like leaving. I hadn't spoken much since he had died, and I didn't feel much like starting back up again. Following my extended absence, returning to work was barely an option. At that point, I had no reason to. I wanted to stay inside because I was afraid to love anything that could die. I didn't keep in contact with anyone except the businesses I needed to pay. I couldn't stand to see how my family changed, so I didn't. I didn't get lonely. I was alright with missing the four seasons. Everything stayed the same, and that's exactly what I wanted then.

One night, after what must have been about a year on the inside, I awoke to the smell of smoke. I panicked, searching for the source, but my room grew cloudier and cloudier. Flames were starting appear, and I realized my options were becoming limited. I slammed into the door and burst out into the snow wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts. I turned around and stared into the fire. I could see my material possessions through the open door, engulfed in the flames. The plastic on my speakers was melting. The artwork on the walls curled and turned to ash. My perfectly comfortable bed was becoming nothing but a metal frame. I silently regretted turning down the rental insurance.

I started toward the street to find somebody with a telephone. I looked up at the building next door, where there wasn't a single room illuminated. It was three o'clock in the morning. I pounded on the door for five minutes, hearing not a single stir. I rounded the building to observe my smoldering home once again.

I only made it a few steps before noticing a human silhouette. There my father stood, with a gas can and box of matches at his feet. My eyes were fixed in awe as he brushed ash from the sleeves of his favorite suit. He adjusted his tie and paced toward me. A smile begun to appear beneath his neatly combed mustache. As soon as he got close enough, he opened his arms and pulled me in. During the extended embrace, I closed my eyes and imagined all of the things I could have amounted to by now. For the first time, I truly wanted to be more like him.

“I love you, son,” he said. That's the only thing he said before letting go of me. He walked off, slowly and gracefully, into the trees and out of my life once more.