How To Destroy Yourself

The flames of his townhouse exploded with a raging combination of power and fury, pushing him back because of the sudden heat and intensity.



The house exhaled the smells of propane gas, charring brick, and burned wood.  Graham’s agony flushed over him as if he had jumped into frigid cold water.



“HEATHER!  NICOLE!” Graham roared as he staggered to get to his feet and tackled by his neighbors from going into the inferno.



The firefighters of Frankfort zoomed to the sight of the fire, quickly unloaded all of their hoses and wretches.  Within minutes, the hoses were charged with a surge of water from the fire hydrant that blasted the monstrous flames back into submission.



This is the day that Graham’s life changed forever.



1 month later…



Graham wobbled to the soft auburn couch and the air released from the furniture as he lies on what felt like a puffy cloud.  Graham was no longer the bright and cheerful construction worker he was known for.



His face was covered with beard with flecks of gray that sprouted out in different directions.  He did not have a wild beard like a fox terrier in heat.  He would brush it like the beard was his pet…he just forgot today to do so.



He played with the buttons on his green flannel shirt and stared at his work boots caked with red dirt and mud while waiting for the doctor.  Tired of what felt like an hour of waiting (actually he only waited for 15 minutes), he stuffed his meaty hand into his left pocket to fish out his favorite banana-favored Pez candy to calm his impatience.



The door squeaked open and a wispy and lanky Dr. Sharon Archer strides in like a quiet whisper.  “Hi, Mr. Creaven.  How are you today?”



“You’re late again, Doc.” 



Sharon looked at her watch to see that she was on time.  She adjusted her glasses, “I’m sorry.  I promise this won’t happen again.”



Sharon swiftly walked over to the Victorian chair next to the cough and grabbed the creased manila folder with a white sticker on the front reading “Creaven – Insomniac.”

The smell of old paper permeated from the folder as she opened its contents.



Sharon quickly scanned the notes to refresh her memory due to a busy week: Heather – wife.  Nicole – daughter.  Fire. 



“Uhm, Mr. Creaven.  Last week, you stated that you still haven’t slept since we last talked.  Is it the nightmares again?” 



Graham clasped his hands on his barrel chest, “Doc…I kept seeing them over and over every time I close my eyes.”



“Your family?”



“Yes and the nightmare of that day are starting to become darker.  Twisted.  Abstract things or people start to appear.  I can’t explain them.”



“Like what?” Sharon began to scribble notes using her multi-colored pen.  She chose the color red for serious patients and he delicately clicked on the color.



Graham heaved a heavy sigh to release his frustrations and he raised his hands to express himself, “It’s like…I don’t know.  The last dream I had…uhm… a 1 year old, a green felt pen and an Orla Kiely laptop bag then the images turned to the fire again.”



“Maybe those images are connected somehow.  Sometimes the weirdest dreams have a deeper and stronger message.  I do know that if you don’t start getting some sleep, your body will start to shut down to rest whether you like it or not.”



“At this point in my life, Doc, maybe destroying myself is not such a bad idea,” Graham said with the word “destroying” with intensity.



“Let’s go back to the three items,” Sharon quickly changed the subject, “How do you think they all joined together?  What are the similarities?”



Graham’s hazel eyes was glazing over and his eyes drooped a little as if someone was pulling them with an invisible thread, “Okay…1 year old…I remember seeing the 1 year old as a little boy with a nametag on his Mickey Mouse shirt.  The name said…'Graham'.”



“And what do you think you represent in the dream?” Sharon adjusted her blouse as she listened.



“A scared little boy who doesn’t know what to do.”



“Okay, this is a start.  We are getting somewhere. What about the green felt pen?”



Graham crossed his strong arms against his chest while fighting sleep, “I think…I think this pen is highlighting the loss in my life.  Did you say something about green meaning healing?”



Sharon nodded, “Yes.  This is good.  This is good.  How about the Orla Kiely laptop bag?  What’s in the bag?”



“Nothing.  The bag was empty then the dream switches to the fire.”



“What does that mean to you?”



“I…I…I think the empty bag means that I need to…I.” Graham’s husky voice quivered.



Sharon scribbled more in red about what she was listening to, “It’s okay.  Take your time.  You’re doing good.”



As Sharon’s feathery words touched Graham’s ears, he swallowed hard and continued, “I think the empty bag means that…I…I…I…I need to…”



Sharon paused in her writing to look up while adjusting her glasses.



Graham’s words with the size of an apple lodged in his throat, “I…I need to…forgive.”



Suddenly, the tears from Graham’s eyes flowed like soft rain.  Ashamed, Graham covered his face with his large hands and the darkness that he had held so long oozed out of him.



“Finally…I’m free.  I’m free.”  Graham sputtered as he cried within his hands. 



BAM!  BAM!  BAM!



“Graham!  Graham!”  A bellowing voice snapped Graham back into the moment.  Graham’s hazel eyes adjusted to the glaring lights and looked at the blob of a man standing behind an ivory door with a window.



“Yeah?”



“Time for your meds,” The man barked like a drill sergeant, “You finally get some sleep or what?” 



Graham looked around at his padded cell and bowed his head, “…I’m free.”



Then he obeyed. 

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S.D.G.
(Word Count: 974)