The Writer – A Short Story

The Writer – Part 3

As he sat there in shame, pondering his next move, he looked over at his work bench, untidy and messy and covered in tools. He notices a yellow handle poking through the debris. Puzzled, he slowly lifts himself from his blood-soaked chair and hopped his way to his work table. Clearing the debris and unveiling his next plan of attack against the hard, sturdy oak door. A yellow handle maul ax. Quickly grabbing the handle, he slowly made his way through the dark, damp basement and approached the staircase where he once fell earlier that day.

Looking at the ground below the stair case, shards of broken glass and blood filled the floor as a gut-wrenching feeling passed through his body as he relieved the horror of today events.

Slowly making his way up the staircase, step by step, he reaches the top and steadies his footing and with his ax in hand, he took one mighty swing at the door. Boom! echoed through the short of the hall when he was greeted with excruciating pain shooting through his body as the impact of the ax sending a crippling shock to his leg wound from trying to steady himself on the staircase, He dropped to one knees and began breathing heavy.

He stood up and tried again. Boom! he fell to his knee and hanged his head. Gritting his teeth, He stood up and swung the ax for a third time. Boom! He screamed as the pain rushes through his body, but he did not fall. Turning his body once again, steadying his footing, lifting the axe from his side, he swung for a fourth time at the hardwood door. Boom! In an anger rage, he exhausted the rest of his energy, swinging faster and faster, boom, boomboomboom, boom, screaming in hatred, swearing with each swing, you, boom mother boom, fucker! Boom!!

He fell to his knees, sweat falling from his brow, blood dripping from his wound, feeling defeated. Pressing his hand against his wound, he glares at the blood dripping from his hand glistening in the sunlight. Surprised, he looks up and sees the sun creeping through the hole in the doorway.

Placing the ax against the wall, he slipped his hand through the make-shift hole and reached for the door knob on the other side. Noticing the door knob turning but not opening, he reaches a little higher and finds the knob of the deadbolt was fully engaged. He turned the knob right and watched as the splintered, beaten up door slowly open and felt the warmth of sunlight shining on his face.

Relieved, he crawled his way through the door, laying on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, bathing in the sunlight. Hope was restored as he pauses for a moment in the contrast of the dark basement in comparison of the sunlit room.


Staring at the ceiling with his hands on his chest, he knew he was not done yet and lifted himself onto the kitchen counter and reached for his phone.

Quickly opening the contact list and finding his wife, he never hit that green button so hard and quickly before this moment. He waited. Ring. Ring. The phone rang several times before an automated greeting came up, he left her a message explaining the day’s events and ending the story with a simple “I love you”

As he laid on the floor, the sun became brighter, almost a blinding white light as images of his life fluttered past his eyes. His first steps, the loving look on his mother’s face, the echoing voice of his father’s words, his first day at school, the loving smile of his wife. Becoming distracted, he quickly tries to focus his eyes on the dimmed screen of his phone, he slowly dials 9,1,1. as he slowly slips unconscious to the sound of an unknown woman, he’s only able to say one word.

“Help.”


As he passes in and out of consciousness and if time itself has stood still, only briefly seeing the flickering of overhead lights as he is being pushed through a narrowing corridor. He feels the crashing of being pushed through two heavy doors into a dimly lit room. The room is filled with chatter as he can hear the mumbles of people talking to each other, racing around him. with what strength he has left, he cries “where am I? but that cry fell on silent ears as he is not able to speak, the people do not know he is awake.

Terrified, he tries to struggle but is unable to move, being able to feel everything that is happening to him, tears fall from his closed eyes as he feels every poke, prod and stitch until he inevitably passes out from the pain and settles into the darkness of sleep.

“Quite the day you have had son” a familiar voice echoes across the room.
“who’s there?” he said in a puzzled tone, “I can’t move, help me!” he pleaded to the voice.
“Get up son” as he felt a reaching touch, grab his hand and help him sit up from his bed.

When the familiar face of his mother emerged from the blinding light, with soft pale blue eyes and faded white hair, she stared at her son with a gentle smile as he quickly embraced her and felt something he hasn’t felt in several months since her passing

“Mom, this can’t be real”  he said in a whimper
“No son, it isn’t” she said kindly as she places an open hands over the right side of his cheek, she smiles and says “This is the moment where you either come with me and rest forever or you be the man I thought you would be and go back, write your book, live an honest life and love those who love you, quit the drinking son, it’s not what I raised you to be”
“but mom, I’ve missed you so much, I can’t bare it” he pleaded.
” Son, that’s life, people die, I lived a good life and you need to as well” she said kindly
“I don’t want to leave you again” He pleaded once more
“that’s your choice son, but just know, you will be leaving those that love you, just like I had to leave you, the only difference was, it was my time to go. It’s not yours”

Hugging his mother one last time as tears stream from his face, he holds her tightly and gives his love. “Now blink son, it’s time to wake up” she says as she slowly disappears into the light.


Almost as if traveling through worlds in a blink of an eye, he awakes in a hospital room, on a bed that is too stiff, surrounded by lights that are too bright and the feeling of a warm hand touching his. He slowly fixes his gaze upon his beautiful wife. She sat there, and she was as perfect as he remembers her early on today. He takes a moment and watches her sleep upright in the chair. Her auburn hair shining in the moonlight, her hand gripping his, he gives her a gentle tug of his hand to wake her. As she wakes, her emerald-green eyes lock onto his as a relieving smile slips passed her lips as a tear gently falls from her eye while she exhales a relieving gasp at the sight of her husband smiling back at her.

She quickly leaps from her chair and into his arms and once again, time stood still as he felt the warmness of her body against his, as they sat there in silence, as they sat there in peace.

After a 3 day stay at the hospital, they finally made it back to their home and settled in. As he walks into the kitchen and sees the broken remains of the basement door, he feels a sense of panic rush over him until he is quickly calmed by the touch of his wife’s hand
“you go and rest, I got this” she said reassuring,
“No, there’s something I have to do” he states as he kisses her softly.

He stood at the top of the basement stairs, looking at the mess of the previous day, he takes one step down the narrowing staircase, then another and with each passing step, he relived the harrowing moment that not only changed him but changed the course of his life.

As he made his way to his office, He finds himself standing in front of the liquor cabinet, his wife watches behind the door with a concerned look covering her face. He reaches for his signature Rye and Whiskey. He walks over to the sink in his office, opens the cap and pours it down the drain. His wife smiles as she turns away and walks back up the stairs. He slowly walks over to his office desk, opens a word document, takes a seat, lights a cigarette and begins writing.

“As he sat in his Burgundy cloth high back chair, sipping on lukewarm coffee, taking small drags off his cigarette, he stares at the flickering white screen in front of him, wordless. He wipes his brow and takes another puff. The sound of smooth jazz playing on the radio behind him adds to the tension as he struggles to begin his sentence.”

The End.

The Writer –  A Short Story By Lucas Durelle


Part one can be found Here
Part two can be found Here

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The Writer – Part 2

As the pain shot through his body and adrenaline coursed through his veins, inch by inch he slowly attempts to pull out the shard of glass protruding out of his leg. As the sweat drips from his brow and his hands shake, he began feeling nauseous as he immediately let go of the jagged shard to calm his nerves.

“Come on, you can do this” he says to himself, as he takes quick, shallow breaths. Gripping the shard once more as the familiar feeling of pain covers his body, “ugh, ahh” his screams are deafening, his spine is tingling, teeth chattering. He firmly grips the piece of glass and with a hesitant tug, he pulls the shard out in one swift pull.

Dropping the glass next to his leg, he lets out a cry of relief, and quickly tightens the ripped-up cloth around the wound. Feeling woozy, light-headed and faint, his vision begins to tunnel as he falls from his chair and lands on the cold, grey concrete floor, slowly passing out from the pain.


 “Drunk, again are you?” He hears a disapproving, familiar voice off in the distance. He tries to adjust his eyes to the blinding light. “What?” he asked, confused and afraid. “Seriously, we are going to be late and your drunk and passed out! wake up!” The voice said in an angered shrill.

Attempting to adjust his eyes to the blinding light, the familiar voice got louder and deeper in an almost demonic sense, that echoed throughout the room, when suddenly the white light vanished, and blackness was all that he could see.  A sudden feeling of wetness covered his body and a strong aroma of alcohol filled his nose. Choking, he gasps for air as the liquid rises higher and higher.

Barely able to hold his head above the acidic, brown liquid, he attempts to scream for help, but his voice is not there. His heart races as he tries to comprehend what is going on before he falls into an endless abyss, drowning in the liquid.


Quickly shooting up and gasping for air, he awakes, confused as he surveys his surroundings and pats his body all over. He turns over onto his back and rest his head on the concrete floor, rubbing his eyes “A dream, what the fuck?” He mutters to himself in panic and relief. Still feeling cold and wet as he looks down at his leg.

The rag stained in red and a small puddle of blood laid beneath him, he turns over onto his side and places his hands on the table and slowly pulls himself up onto his burgundy red chair. He sits heavily as his heads sways back and forth, feeling weak and tired, his gaze fixated on a bottle of whiskey sitting on his shelf. Slowly reaching for the half-filled bottle, he grabs it and cracks open the cover and presses the bottle against his dry, cracked lips and takes a swig. “ah!” He whispered as he looks at the bottle, shaking his head in disapproval. He whispers to the bottle ” this is your fault” as he pours a little whiskey on his wound.

Placing the cover back on the bottle, he takes a moment to reflect back on his morning, from his first cup of coffee to his 4th drink of whiskey. He sat in reflection, his gaze still fixated on the brown bottle with black lettering and a white label. Remembering the fight, he had this morning with his wife. The hateful things he said, the tears that filled her eyes, and the loss of love leaving her heart. He knew he had lost who he was, and when he became this inebriated monster, he not only lost himself, but he lost her.

Tears filled his eyes as he silently weeps to himself, knowing if he doesn’t escape his office in the dark, gloomy basement, he would die leaving her with only the most recent memory of what he had become, not who he once was.

In a sudden rage, he quickly grabbed the bottle and threw it against the wall. The glass exploded, spraying whiskey all over the concrete floor, and as if a 1000 lbs.monster just fell from his back, he felt relieved, and looked back at his computer screen, opened his word document and began writing a letter to his wife.

“To my dearest love”

“As I sit here in pain, frightened that I will not make it out of this alive, I felt the need to leave this letter behind in-case my hopes of escape fail. And although I am terrified of death, I am more terrified of not seeing you again. I am terrified that you will only remember the recent version of myself, the drunk mess that blamed his problems onto you when the only problems I had been caused by me. I am sorry.  All I ever wanted to be was a writer in this life, but it wasn’t until these recent hours that the only thing I should have been is a better husband to you. And while i may not escape this nightmare, I will leave this world with pleasant memories of you and I hope you remember the person you fell in love with, not the monster that I have become. I am Sorry, I love you.”
Love, Your husband.

As a tear falls from his eyes and splashes against the keyboard, he hangs his head in shame and cries. Wishes he was a better husband, a better man. Trying to find the strength to escape, trying to find the energy to stand, trying not to die and for the first time in a long time, he was trying to live as the man he once was.

He Tried.

By Lucas Durelle
Modern-Typewriter


 

The Writer – Part 1 – A Short Story By Lucas Durelle

As he sat in his Burgundy cloth high back chair, sipping on lukewarm coffee, taking small drags off his cigarette, he stares at the flickering white screen in front of him, wordless. He wipes his brow and takes another puff. The sound of smooth jazz playing on the radio behind him adds to the tension as he struggles to begin his sentence.

Extinguishing his cigarette in the over flowed ashtray, he stood up and stretched and heads upstairs to re-warm his coffee. As he began climbing the staircase, the sound of soft creeks echo under his foot. Reaching for the door knob, the door is stuck. Puzzled, he tried again with a little added force but was unable to even wedge the door open.

“This is ridiculous” He muttered to himself as he placed the coffee down on the step next to him. Gripping the old, rusty doorknob, he pressed his shoulder into the door and slammed his body against the door. Thwack! the booming sound echoed throughout the cold basement. He quickly shifted his body towards the right to catch himself from falling off the narrow staircase, causing his coffee cup to tumble and shatter at the platform below.

Looking down at the coffee spilled mess and shards of ceramic glass laying everywhere, he placed his finger tips on his temples and began gently messaging his head. “OK, this is foolish now”  turning around and walking back down the staircase and carefully stepping over the shards of glass, making sure his barefoot was not damaged, he made his way into his office on the other side of the dark, damp basement and found a bottle of WD-40. Smiling to himself, he grabbed the bottle and made his way back up the staircase, once again carefully stepping over the glass to prevent injury.

As he made his way up the staircase, shaking the can of WD-40 in his hand, he approached the door once more and carefully sprayed the chemical around the rusty door hinges and door knob. Placing the can down next to him, he quickly grabbed the door knob and gave a shove into the door but his hand slipped on the greasy doorknob, causing him to lose his footing and come crashing down the staircase, hitting his head against the staircase and landing on the ceramic shards of broken glass that laid on the floor.


As he attempted to regain his vision, he propped himself against the wall and waited to realign himself. Looking at his hands, covered in blood, he felt a sharp, rushing pain shooting up his leg. Looking down, he notices a piece of shattered glass sticking 3 inches out of his leg, and feeling almost faint, he attempted to inspect the wounded area. He noticed he was slowly loosing blood.  Afraid, he attempted to pull at the shard, when he was over-come by an intense buzzing, tingling and excruciating pain covering his entire body, as if he was shocked by a high-powered taser. He screamed and began breathing heavier.

Panicking, he began screaming for help in the old broken down 2 story house with nobody in it. His screams fell on deaf ears as he stuttered to himself “this is bad!”

Knowing that if he doesn’t act quick, he would be in serious trouble, he made his way back to his office, crawling on his hands and knees on the cold, dirty, grey concrete floor while dragging his injured leg behind him. He slowly made his way back to his office leaving a trail of blood smeared on the concrete floor.

While laying on the ground, he searched for his cellphone… that was laying on his office desk. Feeling a sense of panic, as his hands searched in place of his eyes, he realized that he had left his cellphone upstairs, as it was a distraction previously to him while he was writing. His life line was behind a door that could not be opened. His eyes widened in fear as he stared at his wound. Quickly pulling himself up on his burgundy cloth chair, he attempted to open his Internet browser and contact someone who could help.

As the page loaded, he was greeted by a dinosaur standing next to a cactus stating “Unable to connect to the internet” Frustrated he screamed “Fuck!” burying his face in his hands and began crying, pleading to god for help but god did not come, nobody did.


Sitting in the chair, feeling faint, he stared at the shard of ceramic glass sticking out of his leg. With the gentle touch of a single finger, he touched the tip of the shard and felt an immediate buzz run through his body, pain like he had never felt before, knowing the only way to survive this was to remove the shard and apply pressure on the wound.

Staring at the serrated obstacle in his leg, he took off his button shirt and ripped a piece of cloth from the shirt and carefully tied the bandage around his wound, as he staggered from the immense pain he felt while to trying to slow the blood.

He let out a simple sigh and reached for his cigarettes. As he placed the white filter tip against his quivering lips, he sunk back into his chair while his eyes fixated on this piece of glass. Grabbing his lighter, he lit his cigarette, inhaled than exhaled very calmly as he knew what he had to do. Staring in pure agony and overcome by fear, the writer knew he had to take that shard out, no matter the pain.

He took another puff from his cigarette as his free hand wrapped his fingers around the shard. Immediate buzzing and excruciating pain rushed through his body with every slight wiggle and tug on the shard. His body  began trembling and the pain could be felt in the root of his teeth. He had to push through. But could he?

To Be Continued….

Part two can be found Here