He opened the fridge and looked in. The bulb flickered a bit before turning on. All that was in there was a pizza box with one slice, a rotten orange and a six pack, minus three. He grabbed the beer.
Back at the sofa, he cracked it open and it sprayed, getting on his hands and shirt. He wiped his hands on his sweats and reached for the remote. The batteries were dead.
He tossed the remote aside and headed towards the window. Raining again. It seemed to only rain these days. It was 4pm in the city but it looked like midnight in some God forsaken rainforest. What did he care? He hadnât been outside in weeks.
The constant beep of the answering machine was the only sound coming from his one bedroom apartment. If it wasnât for the occasional toilet flush or food delivery, the apartment seemed vacant. Condemned.
He stared out the window for a while, watching as people struggled with inverted umbrellas and soaked newspapers. Always in a rush, always on the go.
The phone rang. The machine gets it. It was his mother. She was just checking in. Again.
He opened the second beer, a bit more cautiously. No spray. As he finished the first sip, there was a knock on the door.
The knocks became louder and more aggressive. âOpen the door, man, I know youâre in there. Iâm not leaving until we talk.â
He opened the door, just slightly, with the chain still on. âThe fuck is it?â
âNo ones seen you in days, you donât return your calls, youâve gotta be the last person in the city without a cell. Whatâs with you? Where have you been?â
He turned around and looked at three weeks of dirty clothes, takeout boxes, and beer cans in the living room, turned back to Brent and shrugs.
âAre you gonna let me in?â Brent asks. They stared at each other for a moment. He let out a sigh, took the chain off the door, let it close, and walked inside. Brent followed him inside shortly after.
Brent walked over to the bathroom and tossed his umbrella in the tub. The bathroom was just as filthy.
He walked back to the living room and hung his jacket on the back of the recliner. âI guess you fired the maid.â Brent laughed, clearly amused.
He forced a smile and took a large gulp from his beer. âDid you want something?â He asked.
âYeah Iâll take a beer.â Brent replied. He sighed, âno I mean why are you here.â
Brent paused and looked at his brother in confusion before answering. âWhy arenât you answering or returning my calls?â Brent looked over at the beeping answering machine. âYou have thirtyâŠthirty seven messages on your machine. Have you even listened to them?â
He shook his head no while taking another gulp. âSeriously whatâs going on?â Brent seemed to be getting annoyed. He shrugged again.
âYou know we canât help you if you donât admit you need help, right? Brent asked. He looked at his younger brother as he sat across from him.
Brent was thirty five , three years younger than his brother, but since their father died he seemed to assume the âbig brotherâ role. Their mother had been in and out of rehab three times in the six months since her husband passed. She knew most of the staff by first name.
âMomâs worried about you. Stacyâs worries about you. Weâre all worried about you. Come home.â
He gulped down the last of the beer and opened the third, mouthing âcheersâ toward his brother, then shook his head no. He took a long sip and looked at his brother who seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.
âAnything else?â He asked. âNo, I guess not. Call your mom once in a while.â Brent grabbed his things and left, leaving the door open.
He watched from the window as his little brother ran across the street and into the car. Stacy was driving.
Stacy was his and Brentâs younger sister. The youngest of the three. Ten years younger than Brent. âWhy would Brent let her drive in this weather?â He thought to himself. âWho cares.â
He chugged the last of the beer and tossed the can at the window. It settled on the floor beside the end table where the answering machine sat.
Thirty seven messages. He reached towards the playback button but hesitated. âFuck it.â He sat back on the couch and fell asleep.
But he couldnât sleep. Nightmare after nightmare. He often woke up screaming, sweating profusely, sometimes crying.
He dragged himself to the bathroom and washed his face. He looked up from the sink at a shattered mirror, blood stains still fresh.
He swung open what used to be a medicine cabinet, and pulled out a pill bottle. He poured two in his hand, then two more and tossed them in his mouth. He put his mouth to the faucet, took a sip, and swallowed the pills.
He walked into the living room and glanced at the clock on the cable box. 11:18pm. âShitâ he thought. He reached for the remote to turn on the tv. Still dead. 'Fuckin batteries.â He threw the remote at the recliner Brent was sitting in, the back of which was still wet. 'Fuckin Brent.â
He walked to the kitchen, opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He looked in the sink where all his glasses were. He opened and drank straight from the bottle. He slammed the bottle down and gasped.
After several shots he made his way back into the living room. He turned the tv on manually, and threw himself into the recliner, forcing it open.
The news was on. Sad story after sad story. Someone died. Someone robbed someone. Some kid some place Iâll never go is hungry. 'Who caresâ he thought. He took another shot. And another.
The phone rang. He didnât answer. It was his grandmother. Checking up on him. Again.
He stumbled over to the answering machine, almost knocking it off the end table. He fumbled with it before finding the play button. He pressed it.
First message was Stacy. Telling him not to be late picking them up. Delete.
Second message was Brent. Also telling him not to be late. Delete.
Third message is his aunt. She was crying hysterically. He canât make out anything sheâs saying.
Next message is his cousin, saying she would be there for him if he needs anything, anything at all. She sounded like she had been crying.
He scanned through the next few messages, more of the same. 'What is everyoneâs problem?â He thought.
Message after message of crying family and supportive friends. What was going on?
He looked down at the answering machine. He had gone through thirteen messages with the same weird theme.
He pressed play one more time. It was his mother. She sounded
pissed.
âWhere were you?!â She yelled. âHow could you do this to me!? How could you do this to your family?! This is all your fault!â
'What could she have meant?â
He skipped forward to the last message, his grandmotherâs.
âHoney, I know youâre home. Answer the phone I just want to talk.â She paused. âHoney, itâs not your fault. No one blames you for the accident. You tried to save them, there was nothing more you could doâŠâ
Her voice trailed off as he stumbled backwards in disbelief. He looked down at the beer can from this afternoon, it was spilling on a piece of paper.
He reached down to pick it up but fell over. He grabbed it and read it.
âFuneral services for Brent Patterson, Stacy Patterson, and Roger Patterson Sr will be held atâŠâ
janainaart
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
izzy806
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
