Characters sketches/Vignettes

[nycwriters]

This is a fairly simple exercise that helps develop character and writing style. In about a page, page and a half, write a character sketch of one fictional character, focusing predominantly on the protagonist.

Here's an example, albeit a poor one, I wrote it up in about 10 minutes, so it's a bit sloppy ... but to give you an idea:

The Last Guy in the Bar

He stumbles in, somewhere around 2. Bleary eyed; he didn't want to go home. Not yet.

Four hundred and fifty dollar pants pooled down around his black polished oxford lace-up shoes. Hard day for him, shirtails hanging out. He decided after work, after the power-lunch, two-scotch, five-client, broker's feeding frenzy of a day he had he'd hit the
local bar. Then another. Then another.

That's why at 2 in the morning he's here. The last guy in the bar.

More or less.

He stumbles back two steps as he crosses the doorway, regaining balance as only a drunk can do; somehow clumsily graceful in spite of his incoherence.

Somewhere along the way he'd lost that tie. Yeah, the one he got for closing the Cooper-Sault account. A bonus; even though he pretended pleased he'd expected cold hard cash. Money talks, bullshit walks. Cheap bastards, some f*ckin' Armani tie instead of the cool two grand he'd expected.

But that's only the tip of the iceberg of his bonuses. Yeah, this guy, the last guy in the bar, is somebody. A man's man. Stubbly faced prima donna who knows the ladies. Or so he thinks.

He spots one, sitting mid-bar. Sipping an iced drink. Alone.

He stops as if regaining thought, puts his hand deep into his left pocket and pulls out a $20, his face surprised that he still had money. He looks up and baby-steps over to mid-bar and sits down two stools away from her; the red head at mid-bar.

"Scotch," he says as if the bartender knows him. This is his first time here. He smiles sideways at her. He expects her to notice.

The red head gets up and leaves. His head pivots, in slow motion like a sports replay, eyes following her walk out of the bar. His face clouds. Furrowed brow, confused as to what to do next.

Then the scotch comes, ice clinking against the glass and swooshing up over the edges as he pulls it gingerly to his lips. As he takes that first sampling sip, he sees the other woman in the bar.

The last guy in the bar, without any finesse, without subtlety, gets up and walks over to the short-haired blonde at the end of the bar, who at first glance, scotch goggles firmly on, he had thought was a man.

"Hi," he says, suddenly shy, without words. The guy who can close a deal in a half hour suddenly struck dumb. Or numb.

He edges his ass onto the barstool beside her. He's so drunk he can't focus on anything else but her. But he doesn't see her fidgeting. He doesn't see her checking her watch. He doesn't see her gaze returns again and again to a place behind him.

Suddenly she smiles. It brightens her face. A big, natural, good-to-see-you smile.

He's in, he thinks, and returns the smile. He moves his right elbow onto the bar, sliding it over so his body is closer to her, his butt is still on the stool. Precariously balanced.

"So," he says, expecting instant conversation.

A man comes up from behind him and kisses the boy-girl at the end of the bar. They get up and leave.

And the last man in the bar stares into his scotch, runs his fingers through his hair until it spikes up unnaturally, and looks up at the television screen.

[masterofNone]

He was a fat man. There was no other word for it. Corpulant, husky, hefty, large, he had left these adjectives behind years ago. He was flirting dangerously with obesity and morbid obesity was on the horizon. His suit fit him poorly and he was given to flop sweat when he was nervous. He was nervous now. Sitting just off stage, leaning really, on an over tasked metal stool, he pulled his note cards once again from his jacket pocket and read them for the 38th time. When the music ended he would waddle on to the stage and address the audience. But now, right now, his small mind was doing everything it could to focus on the perspiration dampened cards in his sausage shaped fingers. He had worked hard to get here.

He had started off as a lurker in the back of the toast masters meetings. His own fears of public speaking had become, in his mind, the root cause of everything bad in his world. The reason for his being overlooked for promotion at the brokerage house. The reason for his sad and lonely , hermit-like social life. He had started slowly to move into the circle of the meetings. It had taken him two years of serving coffee before trying to speak in front of the crowd. It had been a horrible thing to behold. But he listened dutifully to the critiques and took copious notes on little sweaty index cards. Over the years he became more involved in the meetings until he found himself the president. Many of the members thought it an irony. Some of the cruelest still shuddered when he stood to speak. But he was facing his fears.

So it was that when the Chesterfield County Beauty Pagent came calling on the Toast Masters to find a Master of Ceremonies, he offered his own services. So it was that on this oddly warm November evening he found himself backstage at the Raymond G. Wallace civic center in the reflected glow of the multicolored fresnels. His round face glistening, his breathing labored, he could not have been more alive.

The music stopped, the spotlight caught him, and the show began.

[nycwriters]

She had been a great beauty at one time in her life. Boys lined up and down the street to go "courtin' " as they called it. She was never alone, what with her extended family, friends, and the occassional lover whom she deemed fit to kiss her porcelain cheeks, and sometimes her full pouty lips.

But now her lipstick smeared askew across wrinkled lips, not quite covering all, and sometimes spread a little too liberally over the little dip "u" under her nose where her lips peaked. Her gait not as straight and flirtatious as it was in her youth; hips swaying, eyes ablaze with passion and that can't-catch-me look.

No, that was more than 60 years ago; when she was the girl everyone talked about, the queen of her street, stocking seams lined up and dance shoes on, eyes on the future.

The future seemed to have slipped by within a heartbeat. She looked into the mirror, sighed, and shuffled into her kitchen to prepare some tea. Lemon, no milk.

Outside children were playing. She gingerly parted her white kitchen curtains, her gnarled arthritic hands having trouble negotiating even this simple task. She smiled. Children were always so free, so young, so much yet to do. They always made her smile, even though Lord knows! they made such a racket!

But it was the most company she got these days and she relished it. No, she never spoke with the children; she tried once to offer cookies but they just screamed and laughed and ran away. Now she contented herself with just watching. Just as her she had somehow watched her life pass her by, without hardly realizing it.

[beckstra]

A trifle hungry, she grabs the iron skillet from the hanging rack above her kitchen sink. Amazed at her surroundings, the wallpapered kitchen walls, rusted over Chevy truck, lake in the front yard, freckles on her nose sparkle as the sun dances over her face. She walks in her bare feet toward the gas stove.

Her hands are careful placing the skillet on the stovetop and turning the gas on medium heat. Flipping a long strand of hair out of her way, she leans over the heating skillet to grab the butter. The sun, coming in from the screen door, glistens over her, coloring her hair a rich chocolate color.

Lips curling up into a smile, the sound of butter hitting the still mild skillet brings her to life. She turns and walks over to the kitchen, her cotton bathrobe swaying with every step. Opening the refrigerator door and grabbing two eggs, she’s humming. A velvet thick voice vibrates in her throat like a bee in spring.

The coffee, already loaded in the percolator, she, hoping to latch on to his nose, moving straight on down to his heart—through his stomach, puts an egg carefully on the kitchen counter. Taking the second between her fingers and giving it a good tap on the edge of the stovetop, she brings the egg over the skillet, and drops the yolk. With a hiss, the egg jumps over the fired iron, instantly solidifying—and then the second.

Fishing in the drawer for a spatula, the sun catches the diamond on her long fingers, lighting the kitchen on fire, shafts of light flying over the walls, floor, ceiling—everywhere. She turns her head as she hears his feet thumping down the stairs.

[dinzdale]

Paper bags contend for space around his feet, as he lies propped in the doorway. His rheumy eyes stare out across the rain sodden streets of a forgetful city. he is forgotten, but doesnt know it. Forgotten by a wife 20 years ago, and 2 kids, a country, a system and a government.
He shifts inside his stained grey coat, and moves his shoulders to ease the ache of ages. The wind blows across his face and his grey sparse hair is wetted by the mist.
People hurrying past him do not leave their mark on his distant mind. Somewhere inside he is dying alive. They say when you die, your life flashes before you, but they're wrong. It crawls past the memory, scene by scene to make up the eternity of a life.
When it's raining, no-one can see you cry.

[agentsmith]

She smiled again, and it seemed to drag her down into the darkness as she remebered there was no cause to smile. Her only solice was that she still had her beauty. She recalled in the distant past a high school literature class, where they had recited a quote. What was it again? Oh, yes. "Death hath sucked the honey of thy breath, though it has no power over your beauty," or something like that. The memory slipped away again as she walked on.


Past hat shops, a butcher's store, and a tailor, on and on she walked. Was that it? No, she recalled, it wasn't. He hadn't taken her there. No, He hadn't. Ah, yes. There it was. Martine`s fine italian dining. She remembered how His hands fit perfectly between her hip and stomach, and as she stood there, she almost felt them there again. She tried despertely to keep the memory and the feeling, but it wrenched itself away.

In the cold of the night, she floated over to the door of the resteraunt and sat down. She felt so desperately unwelcome, but the other diners accepted her, looking only at her fine silk dress and perfect hair, and somehow missing the cold, empty shards of ice that were disguised as eyes.

She sat there, in the same booth they had shared, and slipped into remembrance. He was there! Joyously she embraced him, in another existance, her vacant body slipping under the table, unnoticed. In the morning, they found her body, cold as ice, and called the police. But her soul was already gone. And unlike her body, her soul was warm.

[sybil]

She woke up earlier than usual this morning and watched the sunrise through the window by the bed. He slept like a baby, as always. As the sunlight began burn through the early morning's mist, she realized she was leaving.

She rose from the bed that they had shared for 32 years. He never stirred, his face to the wall. The hair on his chest, that she had once found so sexy, so seductive, had moved to his back in thick black patches. She wrapped herself in her robe and slid her feet into her slippers.

She ran the shower to let the water warm. As the steam began to fill the small bathroom, she gazed at herself in the mirror. It had been a long time since she had seen herself. The skin on her face had grown coarse and wrinkled. Her breasts had fallen with the weight of her childrens' hungry mouths and the years that had since passed.

She dressed quickly, without waking him. As she left, she locked the door behind her. She didn't leave a note.

[agentsmith]

;) sorry i have such a hairy chest...i thought you still found it sexy.

[sybil]

i did, but it kept getting stuck in my teeth!:p

[nycwriters]

The "crazy russian" still thinks he's in the '80s. Down the street he spins and dances, sometimes to a tune only he can hear, other times with a ghetto blaster held up by one arm on his shoulder.

His orange/blonde dyed hair is showing roots, black, his teeth are yellowed, but he smiles at everyone he sees; lavish bows arm-reaching towards his feet when he spots a pretty woman he likes.

His shirt is always unbuttoned to just above his navel, gold chains adorn his neck, oversized sunglasses cover his drug-addled eyes.

He has no fear.

Passing whispers about him that he's "connected," that he runs numbers for the Russian mob. And it might be true. Even big burly men, twice his size move out of the way as he walks up the street, his leather jacket flapping behind him.

Or it could be that they see he's just crazy.

Some weeks he's out there every day. Other weeks he is conspicuously absent. The neighborhood breathes a sigh of relief when he's not there. He's crazy, you can see it in his eyes. Flashes of anger can be glimpsed just behind the laugh lines on his face.

A car screeches to a halt as he suddenly bolts across the street. Absent is the usual blaring of the horn.

[nycwriters]

It was about the fifth drink that did her in.

She strolled in about half past ten, plunking herself down on a barstool near the door. She wore a summer dress that would have been considered demure or innocent, were it not for the plunging neckline. She had a string of pearls around her neck and her shoes appeared to be brand new and expensive. She ordered one martini after another until her bouncy mood became quiet and sullen.

Suddenly she was in tears, the people around her edging their stools away, obvious in their discomfort.

"Fvcking bastards," she slurred, "they're all fvcking bastards."

Her head down over her drink, she suddenly looked up, mascara trailing its way from her eyelashes down to her chin. The once-beautiful bouncy blonde that had sauntered into the bar so confidently reduced to a puddle of incoherent alcohol-induced rambling.

Those men who had eyed her as she came in secretly patted themselves on the back for not getting up too soon to buy her a drink. They dodged the bullet that time.

"FVCKING BASTARDS!" she screamed, and the quiet casual atmosphere of the bar has suddenly spotlighted on the blonde at the end of the bar. All heads turn in her direction, some amused.

The bartender, the one to pull the short stick, edged his way down to her end of the bar. His face, a smile, but behind that smile wariness.

She regarded him for a moment, then turned back to her drink, her voice quiet now; "yougivethemeverythingandtheybreakyourfvckingheart, why me why me why me why me....."

"You ok?" the bartender asked -- a pointless question.

She looked at him fiercely, about to say something, then her eyes clouded over and she withdrew her gaze.

"Yeah," she said. "Pour me another."

And the rest of the bar went back to drinking in silence.

[laughingbuddha]

He sits alone in the crowd.

Watching people pass him by, ignoring him in his tattered clothes...torn due to age..the wear and tear is self evident but they remind you of a past that was pleasant.

He smiles, faintly at first and then breaks into a guffaw as his mind wanders. The influence of alcohol evident in his speech, slurred by time and its ravages. Half awake, through his glassy eyes...life appears to be a bad nightmare.

He looks appealingly at the passerby's for help, emitting a cry sounding more like a moan...barely discernable...a few look at him in disgust others take pity on him and spare him some change.

His face lights up...another night..more alcohol...sorrows to drown and money to pay for it as well. Tomorrow will be another day...the street he hopes will be kind to him again.

[laughingbuddha]

Some memories recalled, a few forgotten...

A prodigy in the making -- they said.

As he walked away from the game he loved, driven away by people and their incessent chatter, he imagined what things might have turned out as if he had continued on the same path.

Now years later, he recovers from the shock, the love of the game returns...dripping...permeating into his very soul.

They said, he wasted his talent. Failed to recognise his own genius, failed to make the best of his unending talent but behind the cool, clam exterior he maintained...he suffered palpitations everytime he lost.

Then one morning, he awoke to life to find that his skills had deserted him completely.

His heart uttered a silent cry and his mind heaved a sigh of relief. Now, he could tell people he was not special and get on with life.

This day, he will remember for a long time to come.

His focus and desire returned with a vengeance. As he walked towards the crowd, he felt a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, the darkness that had shrouded his eyes for so many years dispersed with amazing agility.

His touch had not been lost in the abyss, the muscle retained their memories too...albeit a bit slowly but they eventually came around.

Life was beautiful again.

[nycwriters]

Dawn broke in waves of sunlight sifting in between the idle clouds.

It had been a painfully hot day yesterday, they forcast more of the same today. He sat at his kitchen table and looked out at the world, unsure of whether this was the beginning or the end. He wasn't really seeing anything; vacant eyes staring out the window.

Three dollars and forty-seven cents. That's all he had to his name; and an address scribbled onto the back of a pack of matches.

He ran his hands through his hair, and looked up at the clock ticking on the wall, its hands seeming to hover as if time itself had stopped, waiting for his next move.

In the next room his wife slept, ignorant of the weight he was carrying. Its opressive burden sometimes made it hard for him to breath, caging him, rendering him impotent. But he loved her more than anything else in his life and he wasn't going to stop her breathing, too.

That's why the matchbook was now clutched in his fist, why he was sitting at the kitchen table staring at it, instead of in bed asleep.

He'd flipped it absent-mindedly through his fingers throughout the night, considering the possibilities. Her offer had seem real, although somewhat bizarre. He was certainly no Brad Pitt. But new realities are formed in compromising situations.

He shuffles to the bathroom to take a leak, bare chested, pyjama bottoms dragging under bare feet. He looks into the mirror. Under the 60 watt bulb he doesn't like what he sees: unshaven, unkempt, uncontrollable, unbelievable.

Toilet flushes and his wife turns over in her sleep, mumbling. He can't quite make out what she's saying, but he knows from experience it's nothing pleasant. She fights demons unknown to him with eyes closed.

And that's the way it always goes. Each keeping insipid little secrets, coveting them like the taste of an old lover's kiss, never letting them out to breath.

His eyes cannot bear to look at his washed out, faded out, beaten up face in the mirror.

Three dollars and fourty-seven cents. He finally breathes.

[laughingbuddha]

The war clouds still crowded the horizon.


"Fear," the sergeant had said, "has no place in a war."


But he felt fear, now more than ever, as the war reached the gates of the city he protected.


Images of his life flashed before his eyes...as he tried to shut out the war cries that were emerging intermittenly from his fellow soldiers.


He wondered if he would make it back, as he had promised his son and family. He wondered, why this war was being fought and why did he have to die for anyone or anything other than himself.


The politicians talk about war, they also talk about the suffering caused by it. But what do they know of war? what do they know of suffering?


Sitting in their posh, air-conditioned offices, they send out men to do battle. To die


"Go fight for your country," they say.


If they really are that patriotic, why do they not fight themselves?


These questions jostled fear out of his mind, he lost focus of his immediate goal, that of fighting and surviving a war


He hoped he was a politician too.

[noxxville]

The Mule

They'd turn to him. They always do. Come pinching with questions, poking with dilemas, tearing at his flesh with their fears. It was his duty.

It hadn't always been this way. Once he was faceless, invisible. Just another blade of grass. Unbeknowst to the world, and that was O.K. by him. Head down, feet first, he walked through his life without remoarse or question.

But something changed. He could never put his finger on it. One day he was a mystery, wandering alone in his world. Then, quite suddenly, they were upon him. Asking his advice, presenting their problems, waiting for salvation from their pain.

He never fully delivered. That wasn't his job. He picked them up, brushed them off, held them up to the light and said, "Look. It's over." Then sent them on their way. The rest was up to them.

They relied on him. No burden to much to bear. He took them all on, lifted them up, and watched them run. And they ran.

They never looked back.

But that was OK too. It was his job. He carried their burdens and pulled them through. He was their shoulder to cry on, their person to blame, their inspiration, their mechanic, their father, their son, their love long lost. He was whatever they needed.

[laughingbuddha]

The bar was crowded not as much as in it's heyday but crowded all the same. The walls were a memory of the times when it was the place to be, the adorning's were rich but now in a state of partial decay.

He entered the place and surveyed the surroundings for a victim.

Someone, anyone..who would listen to him talk. He was a talker, an impulsive talker..one who talked without reason or thought...just talked.

Especially in times of stress and today was one of those days.

His friends usually left him alone in moments such as this, they knew, he was beyond hope and in a bid to keep their sanity intact they would disappear. They did not mean him harm, they were not deserters...but they put their good before his.

So, he had steped out from his neighbourhood to find an innocent victim.

In the crowded bar...few tables were empty but he spied one with a solitary guy on it.

"Just perfect!" he told himself, surprised at his good luck.

His senses came alive, with alertness he moved towards the table. The man was in a sorry state, most probably drowning his sorrows..., he thought.

As he moved towards the table, the to-be victim looked up...his eyes were glazed and watering..were they tears, our man could not say.

"May I join you?" he asked the innocent chap. Without waiting for an answer..he seated himself.

Having made certain that his victim could not escape..the hunter smiled triumphantly.

He started making small talk and much to his surprise he found the man more then willing to talk..Soon they were engrossed in a conversation...each relating to the other...understanding each other. The killer instinct melted away, he was actually enjoying himself.

Suddenly he noticed, that he was hardly uttering a word...the conversation was being dominated by the so-called victim. The hunter had become the hunted.

He wanted to speak but he was not allowed to. The words flowed, fast and straight, without any stop or inkling of stopping in the near future.

He looked around in panic..at the bartender, who had a devious smile on his lips, and the people all around him, they all were smirking. Only now did he realise the trap had been laid and he was the victim. A spider caught in a fellow spider's web.

The words pounded his ears..his mind and his pysche. His love for talking started to slowly dwindle..he realised exactly what his friends were going through. He resolved to change. To change for the better. In so many years, he had never caught a glimpse of how the others viewed him. That day, the harsh reality dawned upon him...

To be ignorant of one's ignorance is the malady of the ignorant - Amos Bronson Alcolt

[nycwriters]

"She's 15 minutes late," he said, mumbling to himself at the Union Square station. "FIFTEEN GODDAMNED MINUTES!"

He was pacing back and forth along the platform, completely unaware of the cursive glances he was getting from others who were waiting for the train.

You could spot the tourists from the locals. The tourists clutched their packages and purses a little tighter with each loop the man made in his preoccupied pacing.

He loosened his tie. The subway was scorching hot. The back of his white dress shirt visibly wet -- as if someone had poured a pitcher of water down the center of his back. It was easily 20 degrees hotter down in the bowels of the city than upstairs in the sunlight.

He stopped suddenly, his body tensing, sensing her approach rather than seeing her. His head pivots, almost independent of his entire body as he watches this waif in high heels drift from one end of the subway platform to him. She's almost like a mirage in the heat -- fuel fumes wafting up blur her image for a moment.

She takes her time. He fidgets. Agitated. His fixes his loosened tie and unconsciously runs both his hands through his hair to fix it -- like a woman would.

"Hi," she says, her breath puffing out a plume of her fragrance with it.

He'd never forget that fragrance. Ever.

Especially not now.

"You're late," he glowers, then catches himself and smiles as he sees a crease appear on her forehead to his response.

She stares at him. She says nothing. He melts.

He falls down to his knees and grabs her around the waist. She reaches down and puts her hands on his hair and pets him like a lapdog.

"Look can we get out of here?" she says, distracted, looking for an exit.

The train light grows larger in the tunnel on its approach to the station. Hot dead wind billows up from the engines pushing errant pieces of newspaper down the platform.

The noise is deafening as the train bellows into the station. She's busy holding down her hair and being jostled by people trying to get ready to board the train. She doesn't like being here. It's so loud.

"I love you," he says -- for the first time.

She can't hear him over the noise.

[rapscalious rob]

Today was a busy day for her.
3 to midnight, as usual.
at night, slips into the heady world of unasked for wishes and conversations with funny ghosts.

[nycwriters]

Unsteady.

That's how every boyfriend before had described her. Funny how moments before she walked down the aisles, tulle in place, head adorned, she stumbled.

Not ready. Those two words flashed in her mind. Runaway bride.

Four inch stilettos, baby steps down 100 feet. Knees knocking, flowers in hand. Everyone staring.

It wasn't right.

Knees caving in. Knees unable to propel a step forward. Seeing him at the end of 100 feet. It wasn't going to happen.

She knew it. He didn't.

All eyes looking. Her mother flapping paper against her face on the hot August day. Her mother giving her the look that said so many things ... all and nothing.

Sartre would be proud.

Feet folding over onto themselves. Feet finding fleet.

Running.

Look of confusion on husband-to-be's face.

Limousine on the street. Sanctuary.

Safety.

Blackness.

[nycwriters]

She was 12 going on 40.

A child so young, she shouldn't have witnessed half the things she'd already seen -- and that was going two years back. Pretty little blonde head in makeshift pigtails. One dirty baubled elastic slightly higher on her head than the other. Part crooked. Startling green eyes that had been dulled by years of pain.

Daddy had a junk problem. Half the time he wasn't there, even when his body was slumped over in the ratty living room lazyboy. Greasy hair, soiled clothes, long greedy fingers that were part of the skeleton that represented her male role model.

But he was harmless compared to Momma.

Momma had a similar problem, only the junk didn't make her placid -- it turned her into what the 12 year old called "the heebies."

"Momma's got the heebies again," she'd say and roll her eyes, hitching up a pair of pants that were two sizes too big, held together with a gigantic baby diaper safety pin. Little girl woman.

Momma's heebies were basically the involuntary shakes she'd make after her first hit. Body twitching, eyes rolling into the back of her head. That's how it started. Then the violence would ensue.

The 12 year old often met the end of her Momma's closed fist, sending her reeling across the room.

She'd since learned to hide when Momma hit the junk.

That's what she was doing now, out on the front stoop, close to midnight, on a school night. She hoped that the inevitable fight between Momma and Daddy would start and be over soon so she could safely go back inside. They'd roll around inside their one room studio, throwing punch after punch, biting, kicking, screaming obscenities, until they both crumpled into a heap exhausted -- spent on the fighting and the junk.

They'd sleep it off. And somehow they'd find more money, magic money, out of nowhere to get more.

She wasn't afraid, even though the neighborhood boasted nightly ricochets. She was more afraid of what was inside.

Still, she looked at you coolly. Bold, not afraid to look you in the eyes -- but it was in defiance, a false confidence meant to deter. Assessing you before you could even say a word.

You were either bad or worth ignoring. There was no in between, no promise of friendship, no hope for anything more than hitting the brick wall she'd erected.

An at 12, she was an island.

[rapscalious rob]

“No!” he shouted, at the top of his lungs. “No, wait. Listen to what I have to say. Can you do that for once, can you just listen to me?”

The steam rose in the shower. His thinning hair limply stuck to his forehead. He stared off past the tiles and continued…

“Why do you always insist on making things into disasters when they aren’t? Everybody comes across these bumps in life. Everybody makes mistakes.”

“Five years, Harold!” he imagined her saying. “Five years, I’ve listened to you. Five years, and where has it gotten me? Should I have listened to you when you told me to not go to the doctor when I found that lump in my breast? When you said to go tell Mr. Sintei to go f#ck himself? Where would I be then, Harold? Where would you be? I’d be dead and you’d be sued off your ass, you jerk!

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, backing into the tile and hitting his head. Ow. “I had a valid reason for not wanting to go to the doctor right away. And we wouldn’t have been sued by Mr. Sintei. He didn’t have the balls or the brains. Really, Caroline; this is the whole problem. You take everything I say out of context. You’ve been doing this for ten years. When will you ever learn to stop all this fatuous knitpicking and see reason…”

The water had begun to turn cold. Wrinkles formed on his toes and hands. Inevitably, the landlords would come knocking on the door in about a week, with their mouths puckered into a frown of disgust and their eyes squinting in the darkness of his duplex apartment, asking if he’s noticed any water leaks…

The argument had been Harold’s last with Caroline. The one right before she left. The kids had all moved out by then. They never called him. He had alienated them. “They never understood,” he thought to himself, as he turned off the water and grabbed at the slightly mildewed towel to dry himself off. “…They never knew how hard it was. How hard it always was, trying to do what was right for them, without hurting them.” He could see them now, in his mind’s eye, Craig and Dustin, always out of sight, never talking to him beyond a simple “hello,” “goodbye,” “yes,” “no.” That time when Craig got hit by a car when he was skateboarding, he felt like he was going to explode with grief. Instead, he gave Craig a four-hour lecture about how stupid he was to have skateboarded in front of a car.

He wiped off the fog from the mirror. He still couldn’t see himself very clearly. “Probably better that I can’t,” he said aloud. With shaving cream and a disposable razor, he scritched away at the scraggly stubble that grew from his chin and jawline. His outline in the mirror seemed a little too big. He looked down at his sagging stomach and repeated to himself: “Yeah, better that I can’t…”

The thoughts were the same as they had been yesterday, last week, last month… life had become a messy series of routines. Moldy towels. The acrid smell of the dirty dishes he hasn’t washed in a month. The frozen pizza boxes that filled the trash can. The endless hours spent in his underwear on the sofa he found in the alleyway, watching Letterman, then Kilbourne, then Carson Daly, then a movie. What’s the point, life, rhythm, love?

There was no point anymore. He slept until 1:30 most days, then went to work at the office, sitting in front of the monitor, making phone calls, harrassing people. Sometimes he didn’t get up at all. He kept the phone right next to his bed in case one of those days comes along. Calls in sick. What’s the point of getting up in the morning? What is there to look forward to? His coworker’s snickers about his rank body odour, an inevitable accompaniment to the two weeks he had gone without taking a shower? The angry voice of an irate client on the phone? Another night of frozen pizza, until he could muster the effort to wash the dishes?

No point. No point at all. He remembered one of the last conversations he had with Craig, the month before he left. “You don’t even understand yourself, Harold; you could never have understood me. If that’s how you want to live your life, fine…”

“…But, it isn’t,” he said to himself. “It isn’t that simple. You don’t understand the sacrifices I made for you.”

The lights went out again.