This is a short story I wrote to enter into the CBC short story competition
Eardrums burst. Glass shatters. A wave of heat sears the flesh of the face. The scent of singed hair, chemicals, and the inferno beyond. Coughing. Choking. Gasping for air, grasping at nothing because I can’t move my arms. I’m buried. Shouts. Cries. Others nearby. My mouth is full. I can’t speak. My eyes are screaming.
Why am I here?
Some people talk about the butterfly effect. Small movements, big impacts. A few weeks ago, that concept would have been completely irrelevant to me. Big thinkers could think big all they wanted. All that did for me was make me miserable.
On that day, the day it happened, I was cruising easy. All I had to do was pick up the cash and bring it to my contact. Simple. I knew the money was destined for the pocket of some overseas scammer but, so what? I got my cut no matter where the money was going. If grandpa couldn’t afford an extra round of golf this month, it wasn’t my problem.
As I strutted down Centre Street toward the drop point, I came to the old bank building — a limestone-laden, gargoyle-covered thing some egghead dreamed up. It was the old city. Built in a time when every building was different and life meant a damned thing. There was respectable work then.
At the bank I could go west and get to the drop point a little faster. Or I could go east, loop around a bit, grab a bite, and then head to the drop. I decided I could use a dog, so I went east toward a cart I knew had unbelievable street meat. Do you believe that? A hot dog saved my life. Where’s the sense in that?
Half blind, dazed, covered in soot and ash and dried tears. I couldn’t stop crying. I was like a newborn. Pathetic. It was the shock, I think. Had to be the shock. I haven’t cried since I was six years old, running into my parents’ bedroom over a monster in the closet. But I cried a lot that day. The weight. The unbearable weight of the rubble on me. Pressure on the chest. Can’t breathe. I was still clutching the money when they pulled me out.
I was in the hospital for a short stint. Like a prison. The whole time I felt pinned to the bed. Muscles aching. Eyes blurry, hearing muffled. Nothing but muted footsteps and beeps and moans from other beds. There were a lot of us. And a lot that didn’t need beds no more neither. They put the news on in the room. They were showing a six-year-old boy who’d just been found dead in the rubble. I pictured him holding his mother’s hand. He was me.
If I had just gone west. That’s it. Poof. No more Nicky Boy. Just a misty bloodstain on the sidewalk. But for that damned hot dog.
They figured it was some type of terrorist attack. Homegrown or not, they didn’t know yet. Maybe a hundred or more dead. A lot more missing. I was one of them for a time. I was one of them.
The whole time I sat in that hospital bed I kept looking at the money. Wrapped up in a cardboard box, taped up inconspicuous like on the bedside table. The box creased and discoloured, like a furrowed brow. It stared daggers at me. Challenging my indifference. I turned my back to it and played at sleep that wouldn’t come.
Until it did. Oozing blood. Hands clawing me down into the pit. Tearing the flesh from my bones. Acute pain. The weight. Fire. Brimstone. A haunting cackle, echoing, mocking the cries of woe. I just need to run, but my feet sink into the ooze, the bloody mire that used to be them. The tears are stinging. And then I’m awake again. In my own bed. Sheets soaked, the cold sweat running down my chest. The furrowed brow of the box glaring through me.
It’s 4 a.m. Dark. I bolt upright, suddenly panicking, my heart a capricious metronome. I need to run. I need to run. Why am I here?
I wait on my bed, staring at the box until six. Like it will lash out at me if I move. I can’t stand it anymore. I leave, the box tucked under my arm. It’s a brisk walk to the café. Infant ice crystals on grass blades, my breath dying in fleeting puffs ahead of me. Tunnel vision. Panic and confusion. There are people around and I can’t get away from them. I need to get away from them, but I need them too.
I can’t eat. Just a cup of coffee. The waitress is nice. She smiles at me. It’s a blade in the abdomen. I don’t deserve it. I leave money. It’s too much. Doesn’t matter.
My thoughts are stilted and chaotic. Suddenly my feet take me to the bank, what’s left of it. Flowers for the fallen. Photographs and memories that were shattered to appease the ego of some dubious actor. Some deadbeat loser who would rather cause mass pain than deal with his own issues. Like me. Just like me.
The tears come again but I rage against them. On my knees my fist pounds the pavement and passersby offer condolences. They’re unreal to me. I look to the box and its disapproving visage. I didn’t bother to tell my contact I’m alive. They didn’t ask.
My feet are moving again, toward the bus stop and a ride that will take me to the suburbs. I pay and get on. Faces without expression haunting me. I find a seat in front where I can’t see them. I watch the city streets sweep by. Police have someone pulled over. Probably a ticket. Alleys full of garbage. Rats skittering away. Glass and steel and brick and concrete. The means of destruction. The weight.
Buildings fade into sprawling asphalt. Hotels shrink into motels. Hints of yellowing grass appear. Parks. Benches. Rows and rows of cookie-cutter houses, a modern labyrinth. I still had the address. The bus rolled to a stop with a familiar hiss. Like the snake that was about to swallow me whole.
My feet carried me again, my mind far away under a pile of rubble. The house yawned at me, upper floor windows casting a lazy gaze and bright red door gaping. I hesitated there, my arm raised and ready to knock. Beads of sweat cascaded down my forehead. What do I say? Does it matter? Does anything? Just hand him the box and leave. I knock. There’s movement, subtle. Almost no sound. Then:
“Who’s there?”
Duh. It’s old Nicky Boy here with a package for you.
“Hi sir, I was here a few weeks ago. To pick up a package?”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve come to return it.”
“They keep calling. You were supposed to give it to them. They’re going to cancel my account and send me to prison!”
“No, sir. That’s a scam. I’m sorry. I just—I just need to give this back to you, that’s all.”
“Take it to them! They’re going to set up my new account!”
“Sir, please, that was a scam. I—I’m just trying to bring your money back. If you’d just open the door I could explain.”
“You fellas need to sort out your business. Now get off my porch or I’m calling the police.”
You believe this old mook? I’m trying to return money that I stole and he’s threatening to call the cops. Doesn’t he get it? There never was any charge. There are no police. Just a guy and a phone line and an internet connection and no scruples. The kind that gets by on the back of everyone else. The kind that come out ahead and have the fancy cars and the jewelry and the nice homes they don’t deserve. The kind of guy I used to look up to. They’re getting theirs. What’s it matter if anyone else gets hurt?
I turned to leave, looked down at the face of the box with its tattering tape and discoloured, furrowed brow and its judgement. There was a newspaper slot next to the door. I opened it and stuffed the box in. It’s in the hands of fate now. Maybe they send someone else to pick it up from the old man, maybe they don’t. I can’t help that now. So why do I still feel sick? I returned the money. That was supposed to make it right.
The guilt presses on. Like an unstoppable train on infinite track. The guilt presses on. So do I. I hide away, my apartment a darkened reformatory. No more pool on Friday nights. No more drinks. No more laughs with the boys as we talk about the weekend’s conquests. No more.
Sleep is a memory. From before. From before the weight and the guilt. From a past Nicky Boy. Another life that, somehow, I just can’t reconcile with. It doesn’t make sense to me. I can still see the face of the box. It’s my face in the mirror. I wasn’t supposed to be here. There are pills on the bathroom counter. Pills to make me sleep. Forever if I want. I pick it up to read the label.
The phone rings. It’s a salve against the burning guilt, a distraction against what feels like an inevitable final chapter.
“Hello, could I speak to Nickolas Esposito? This is the hospital calling to schedule a checkup.”
“Yeah, this is Nick.”
“Hello Mr. Esposito, would you be able to come in tomorrow morning? We just want to do a quick checkup to make sure everything’s good after…”
She stopped speaking. Seemed choked up herself. I made the appointment and quickly hung up to get away from the grief. I had more than enough of my own. The pills. The pills had eyes. And they were on me. We exchange glances, but I put them away. Maybe another day. Just one more day.
When I was 12 or 13, I saw my father die. He was a wreck anyway. A drinker. A heavy smoker. Used to hit my mother on occasion. Used to beat me senseless when he’d had enough whisky. He decided he was going to race some young punk in a souped-up convertible. My father never raced a day in his life. He drove some old beater. No chance. But the whisky has a way of convincing you. And he was convinced he could win.
I watched the cars tear down our little rural street. I watched the cars touch, my father’s drunken hands flailing before he slammed into the hydro pole. Downed lines. Head through the windshield. Blood everywhere. The punk tore off, ready to race another day. My mother and I thought we were free. But for the money.
I started working shortly afterward. First a newspaper route, later digging ditches and hauling building materials for about seven bucks an hour. It was a hard time. It was years before I realized I never grieved him. He could be mean. In some ways there was relief in his death. But for the guilt. The guilt that I wasn’t sadder that he was gone. The guilt that I wasn’t man enough to live up to him. He’d look at me now and spit.
You’re lazy. You think the world owes you something? Let me tell you something, Nicky Boy, the world doesn’t have anything for you. Digging ditches. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to. Digging ditches and a car that don’t start, a house that’s older than dirt, and a wife and son that hate your guts. That’s what you’ve got to look forward to. Look at me. Look me in the eye. You got dreams? You want to be an actor? You’ll be on the street begging.
It had been a long time since I thought about him. Maybe I’d see him again one day and I could tell him how right he was about me. I’m nothing. I didn’t do nothing with my life. I failed my mother. She did her best for me, but I was wild. I was so wild. It breaks my heart. She faded so fast I missed it. And she left me all alone.
Why am I here?
You can’t do it, so don’t bother trying. That’s the thought that’s pretty much been running my life. I’ve jumped from job to job to job, just looking for a kernel of fulfillment.
Why am I here? Because I can’t lie anymore. I can’t pretend it’s okay because it isn’t. I can’t pretend that I can be an ordinary person. I’m not. I’m alien. Going to work in a factory? You may as well remove my heart right now. And believe me when I say, sometimes I really wish someone would.
It's not that I want to die. I don’t want to kill myself. But it’s too hard to live. I can’t do it. I don’t fit in society’s box. So why am I here? Why am I here? I’m here because I finally reached this realization. And when the doctor asked me how I was feeling, I didn’t say fine. I told the truth. I’m miserable. I’ve got nothing in this life and nobody gives a damn about me. I should have died that day. Of that I am certain. Why couldn’t I go instead of them?
Locking me in this padded room isn’t fixing anything. You’re not preventing anything. I’ve just given up trying to be okay. I’ve accepted that there’s nothing more for me. And maybe I can be content with that.
