The Pills Began To Laugh

21 11 2008



“Truth will come,” Mr. Edwards mumbled. Snapping his fingers. And tapping his foot. Standing stood in his office, his back against the door. Loosening his tie, he wiped the sweat off his forehead. Not with the back of his hand. But with one little finger. The French way. And then he began to scat.

“Fortune will seek me out. Shirley it Will. A soul just got to know itself. Like some deformed creature crawling. Inside a shell at the bottom of the sandy sea. And there must be predators down there. You’d think. But there ain’t any. So the souls commit suicide. Like good women in New York City. Yes, those souls are an easy commodity to deal. What else you going to do? On a hot August night. With no job prospects the next day. Give up on your ideals. Fall in love with your dreams. Death. My, how pretty she looks tonight. Doesn’t sneak up on you. Slides across the room. Like Ginger Rogers. Her heavenly face. Has tortured my dreams. Death will come as a virus. Off an airplane. Walk right through immigration. Into our veins. Beautiful madness. I must be sinking below that rational sea. That we all float our little red rubber boats. Upon.”

Mr. Edwards placed his ear against the door.

“God save me. What have I become? Struggling to defeat my enemies, I have destroyed the prize. Why did I have to possess the whole plaza? And now that news. Like an accident. Unexpected. I could hardly believe it and yet. Wasn’t that my intention? Easy to say that it was just business. But, it’s always more than that. Is a banker any different than a priest? During the inquisition. Give up your soul to God. But first, let’s have your skin. Oh poor Singh, where did his ambitions lead him? An empty room. A bullet in his mouth. A wife who mourns the man she never knew. I took everything from him. What a victory. And the cost. Singh’s life. My soul.”

Stepping away from the door, Mr. Edwards moved over to his desk and pulled out a drawer. Reaching in, he removed a small plastic container. And opened the top.

“Here is eternity.”

He stared down at the pills.

“O sweet death. Dozens of bullets. Straight to my heart. Is it made of stone? In the end one returns to the moment of birth. Perhaps there is hope in the next world. Peace from myself. Oh, this empty hope. Singh’s face. Why can’t I get it out of my head? Why do I persist in holding out for hope? Singh has taken his life and it was my doing. Took everything he had. For what. The appetite of my dreams. But dreams are the kindling of time. Smoke filled streets. Dread. Moments before my sleep with that image of Singh in my head.”

Mr. Edwards lifted the bottle of pills to his mouth. He stared into the container where the pills began to laugh. And threw the bottle on the floor. The pills scattered across the floor like orphans. And Mr. Edwards fell to his knees. And wept.



One response

7 06 2018
David Halliday

Reblogged this on iAMaBOOK.

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