Sentiment

...........................................................................................................................

"I don't consider myself a pessimist. I think a pessimist is someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin." -Leonard Cohen

...........................................................................................................................

The funeral was scarcely attended; the few who came did not cry, did not mourn, they simply were there.

Eric was there. His questionable feeling of obligation to the now deceased Patrick had led him to the funeral home that day. He and Patrick had met during an alcoholic's anonymous meeting the year prior. They had bonded over their commonalities, the principle being their abusive addiction.

Eric had long since stopped attending those meetings. He had always thought about calling Patrick, but couldn't think of what to do with another guy besides get a drink. And he was working off the assumption that Patrick was still in the program.

"Surprised" is much too strong of a word to describe Eric's reaction to the news that Patrick had caused a fatal collision. Two dead, Patrick and a seventeen-year-old girl, she had been heading home for dinner, a special congratulations dinner, she had just passed her driver's license test. The average citizen would mourn the loss of this girl more than even Patrick's closest "friends" would mourn him. Eric didn't know it, but he was Patrick's closest friend.

Eric left the funeral home contemplating a great many things. The funeral had affected him more than he thought it would, he didn't expect to be happy obviously, but he had gone in feeling apathetic to whole scenario. Something about the funeral had made him care, whether it was the lacklustre eulogy, or the lack of attendance, Eric began to feel he had more of a role in Patrick's downward spiral than he ever would have considered. Eric needed a drink. 

"Just one" quickly became "just one more." Within the hour, Eric's inebriation was complete. The bartender cut him off and sent him on his way. Lucky for everyone, Eric didn't drive to the funeral, he was supposed to call his wife when it ended. Calling her now was most certainly one of Eric's least intelligent ideas, she would not be impressed. 

After that call Eric did not get a ride home, nor did he have a wife. She told him that she just could not be around such a self-destructive person, that she was sorry, and that he needed serious help. Eric called her a "bitch." 

Eric stumbled home stopping at two different liquor stores, the first refused to serve him, the second asked if he wanted anything else. His home was empty. Normally Eric would've passed out on the couch, purposely avoiding his wife, but as he was alone he slept in the master bedroom. He did however enjoy his habitual post-alcohol cigarette. 

That night, whilst Eric slept, a series of events occurred that dramatically changed Eric's life. His still smouldering cigarette fell from his lips and rolled off the bed. The cigarette landed in a trash bin, normally empty, but on this night it was nearly filled to the brim with tissues, Eric's wife took the break-up much harder than Eric. The fire quickly spread throughout the bedroom. A startled Eric awoke, nearly trapped, but he quickly ran from his room, from his house, leaving behind the knick-knacks and sentimental items that he once looked at with such superficial affection he almost believed them to be important. The only item Eric managed to grab on his way out was his jacket, it was leather and very nice.

As Eric stood in his front lawn, still quite drunk, watching his house burn to the ground, he placed his hands in his jacket pockets hoping to find either a flask or another cigarette. What he found instead was a note and a pamphlet. The note, from his wife, simply expressed her sincere hope for Eric, it was quite sweet. The pamphlet was for a rehab centre just outside town. 

It would be about four months later, but Eric would end up at that rehab centre. He lost his job a few weeks after the fire. His boss was a nice guy, but could only put up with so much of Eric's neglect of his work. Eric's lowest moment was when he awoke one morning in his car somewhere out in the countryside. He had little memory of the night before, he could only assume he had driven himself out there. His heart sank, he thought about Patrick, he thought about that nice girl, in that moment he cried more than he had in the lifetime leading up to it. 

Eric composed himself and tried to start his car. It didn't start, not surprising as regular maintenance hadn't been a priority. Eric, frustrated, depressed, alone, walked across the street to the only building around for miles. The sign out front read "A New Beginning," it was the rehab centre Eric's wife recommended. "This is it, a new beginning," Eric thought to himself as he checked in, determined to change. A nice sentiment, to say the least.  

Short-Changed

It wasn't supposed to happen like this, everything was supposed to work out. They promised...

Daniel was not an interesting person. He strolled through his life at a leisurely pace, finding most of the world too mundane to put in any effort. He believed his soul accomplishment, the only aspect of his life that he could take pride in, was somehow he managed to convince a girl to love him. A task he had all but given up on before he met Penny. 

Penny was not an interesting person. The main difference between Penny and Daniel, however, was that Penny recognized her life as boring. She always knew there was more she could be doing, but her crippling phobias prevented her from truly enjoying life. Instead of travelling, or learning to ski, she stayed at home, ensuring her apartment was clean and free of spiders. 

Daniel and Penny's meeting was an accident. You could replay the same scenario a dozen times without them ever meeting, Daniel could have been his usual indifferent self, Penny could have been her usual quiet self, but that day everything worked in their favour. 

Penny was in a hurry, she was late for her therapy session, all she had asked was if she could cut in line, not an unreasonable request. She wanted to buy a pack of mints, she was always worried about her breath during therapy since all she did was talk, but that self-righteous woman with the cartful of groceries couldn't be bothered to listen to reason, rather she took the time to explain why that wouldn't be fair to her or the rest of the line. "Get over yourself," Daniel said from behind the register. The woman, completely taken aback, would proceed  to complain to the manager about Daniel, his third complaint in the last month, this little comment cost Daniel his job, but it was best thing he ever did.

The next day, with advice from her therapist, Penny tracked down Daniel, determined to apologize and relieve some of the guilt she felt so strongly. "You don't need to apologize, that job was a joke," Daniel said, not trying to console Penny, rather just being honest. Penny smiled. Daniel smiled.

The two went for coffee. They talked, they laughed. They immediately got along, but don't think that they were "soul-mates" or perfect for each other, they were simply comfortable, which they both would misinterpret as love. It would only be Penny that would realize this.

The two stayed together for a year. Daniel's parents and the few friends he had left were thrilled, Penny's were less so. At first they thought he was great, but they soon realized that Daniel enabled Penny's lack of living. Daniel's overall disinterest complimented Penny's fear of the world nicely, the two spent hours together not really doing anything. Daniel was content, but Penny, with support of her friends, grew indignant.

Penny moved out on a Sunday, only two weeks after she had moved in. Her car, filled to the brim with boxes she never bothered to unpack, pulled away. Now, Daniel stands alone in the street, a broken man who was never fully put together to begin with. 

Slight

Malcolm strained his neck and fixed his posture as he stood in front of the sign, he had always hated carnivals.

The drive home was long and mostly silent. Between Malcolm's self-hatred and Audrey's guilt, the two had little to say to each other. Audrey apologized for her poor choice of destination; she clearly did not think it through. Malcolm gave a sheepish smile as he closed the car door and walked towards his apartment building.

Malcolm's night would prove to be sleepless. At 1:06am he fixed himself a drink, scotch and soda; he always liked the idea of drinking scotch, but couldn't stand the taste. Malcolm stared at his television screen, not sure whether or not he was actually watching something, his oscillating fan whirred in the corner. Malcolm's thoughts, like most nights, were fixed on a series of what-ifs. He liked to picture himself almost completely different. He'd keep his chestnut hair and his ironic sense of humour, but change most everything else.

The next day Audrey called and to her disdain continued to only be connected with Malcolm's voicemail. Immediately after she finished recording her message Malcolm was listening to it. By the third message her voice was harsh. She would say a great many things that later she would regret. Malcolm grew increasingly more fond of these latter messages, merely because he knew that she always thought those things, and Malcolm craved validation in any form. Over the last few weeks Malcolm had grown to realize that Audrey looked down on him in more ways than one.

A week passed since the carnival; to Malcolm it felt like one long hazy day. His perpetual stupor continued from that first night into the rest of the week. His cell phone's battery had long since died, Malcolm had already assumed he had lost his job, Audrey had finally given up after her twelfth call, and besides that no one else would probably call, and no one else probably cared.

Malcolm finally had to leave his apartment eleven days after the carnival; he had exhausted his supply of alcohol. It could've been the group of women snickering, or the teen-aged liquor store attendant who demanded ID, but when Malcolm returned to his apartment he decided he was much too tired of this world.

As Malcolm struggled for breath and his feet kicked around barely hovering above his apartment floor, it occurred to him that this would have been much more difficult to do if he had been taller.