Infest

The room is dark, lit by a single overhead light fixture. Expensive looking enough, but with only one of three bulbs working, it makes is seem cheap and this sets the tone in here. And where is here? Here is a messy office with clutter thrown precariously across any flat surface available in the room. The wooden blinds are drawn, and the last light of the day seeps out through the cracks, the dull streaks of sunlight making visible the dust and smoke that floats in the air, silent, without disturbing.

The place looks lived in, in a rough kind of way, but this hasn't always been the case. A man, for sake of purpose his name will be Mike, was sitting on a luxurious brown leather couch that is set to face a television on the opposite side of the room. The luxury of the piece, however, is lacking, the brown leather, even at first glance, looks worn and faded, old. Maybe it's the lighting, or perhaps it's the mess of a person sitting upon one end of its cushions, head bent and legs folded beneath him, staring blankly at a handful of useless papers in his lap. He doesn't read any of them, he doesn't have to; he knows what they say already. They say that he's fucked up. They say that everything that has happened is his fault, and at the end of it all he finds himself lost. The little black letters blur out of focus and smear together, illegible and incomprehensible. They just sit there, accusatory and judgmental of everything he's ever done.

Shift to another angle in the room, and there's a coffee long table in front of the couch. At one end there's a newspaper messily thrown onto the top, more than a few weeks old, with a black remote sitting atop of the pile. At the other end is an empty soft-pack of cigarettes, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's with its cap off, and a tall glass – mostly empty – with melting pieces of ice floating in the fading amber colored liquor, the water slowly changing the hue translucent. The condensation built around the outside of the glass, its undisturbed drops proof that it hasn't been touched in quite a while. A heavy drop slides down the sides, pooling around the base of the glass. Time passes.

But Mike isn't drunk. He wants to be. He wants to down the whole fucking bottle of whiskey that's staring at him, while he stares at the papers in front of him, but he doesn't. Maybe it's because he knows it won't change how he feels, or maybe it's because of the man on the other end of the couch. The one that's sitting there, one leg propped up, knee bent on the cushion, quietly smoking and staring at him. One hand is stuffed into an oversized front pocket, silently fingering the keys inside, the other resting atop his propped up knee, cigarette slowly burning in hand. Waiting.

"Anna's mom can't have kids." he starts simply enough. "Her sisters, her aunt, none of them can." It was Mike's turn to tell the story. He tosses the papers on the coffee table; they land with a quiet flutter, the neat pile they once made in his lap smearing into another mess, partially on the table, partially on the weeks-old newspaper. "She told me before we got married that she wouldn't be able to have any without some kind of medical help – like her mother. I didn't care, why the hell should I? I didn't want kids.

"It wasn't really something we ever talked about. I didn't want to talk about it, and it was a soft subject to bring up around her, so we didn't. Simple as that.

"When Anna got pregnant we were both surprised. She was so happy I…" Mike trails off the tension in his shoulders building, his eyes shut and a he lifts a hand that squeezes the back of his neck. It's the first time since pouring his drink that his head lifts. Even through the dim lighting you can see the few harsh months has added years to his face. His skin is dull, face unshaven and unkempt. Tired eyes are bloodshot with heavy rings beneath them. No one would think to assume that at one point, only a mere handful of months ago, he had been an attractive looking man. He takes in a long breath and lets his hand drop back into his lap, not knowing how to continue. In spite of not knowing, his mouth opens and words still fall out. "I didn't do anything. I couldn't tell her I didn't want her kid.

"I went with her to the doctor visits, to the specialists, and went to the bookstores with her for those ridiculous How-To Mommy books." He laughs, but it's abrupt, sardonic laughter that falls short when the memory of his wife swooning over the parent section in the bookstore surfaces to the front of his mind.

"When Anna got sick, she was scared." It's a short statement, a definitive one that holds a weight in its words that's felt by both men. Then again, perhaps that's because both men know how this story ends. "The baby was fine, the baby was fine, four different doctors told her the same thing. She finally settled down, but the happiness she had turned into wariness. Even after she got better, she started acting different.

"Two months in and I kept thinking 'I'm running out of time, I'm running out of time', but I didn't even know what that was supposed to mean. Part of me knew, but not really, even if I knew that I didn't want the responsibility of a child. I knew I was being selfish. A kid? I have no room in this kind of life to be a father. Not a good one anyway." Mike ignores the sharp look he can feel coming from the other end of the couch. This is his story, and this is the way he needs to tell it.

"It was that I know a guy who knows a guy with a brother that's a doctor sort of situation. I couldn't even tell you what he gave me, I didn't want to know - still don't want to know. I didn't even think about it, because I knew if I did that I wouldn't be able to go through with it. That crap sat in this room for days. The only place I could put it, it was the only place Anna wouldn't go. I thought I had to do it.

"I remember-" Mike stops short, taking in a sharp breath. "The day she burst out from the bathroom, shampoo still in her hair and dripping wet. I didn't even notice the blood at first. I don't know how, it was everywhere. Her hands were covered in it, it was smeared all over her abdomen, dripping down her thighs, it was thin and pinkish, but there were these… <i>chunks</i> and these slimy strings sticking to the inside of her legs, some of it was on her hands. She was crying, screaming. The only thing I could understand was "our baby" she kept saying it over and over and over again "our baby, our baby".

"Never once had I ever thought of it as ours, it had always been hers in my mind." Mike's eyes lift to the stack of divorce papers and that was it, the last crack he couldn't handle. Broken. The repercussions of the worst thing he's ever done. The worst thing he didn't do.

"I didn't do it." His voice cracks, the stress of tears shaking his words. "Jesus fucking Christ I wanted to. I wanted to do is so bad. But I couldn't. I didn't do it. I couldn't. I wanted to. But I didn't." Mike smothers his face in his hands, trying to regain some sense of composure over himself. But the same collection of jumbled words spill from his mouth.

"It wasn't me, it wasn't me. I didn't want it, but it wasn't me."

Shift out and that's how it ends. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's on a table in front of a tired couch in a dingy room, with one man smoking, quietly staring at the other who is curled up and crying next to him. On the underside of the coffee table you can see a small paper bag neatly folded up and stapled, unopened, and untouched.

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End
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