Sometimes when Aric had trouble
working, he entered his grandfather's studio—a dead, preserved land
in his house. He would dig out some old CDs and play his
grandfather's favorites. As he listened to Andrews warble, “No
one knew me, no one knew me, Hello teacher tell me, what's my
lesson?” as he would look over the reports a second time before
sending them to the main office. Time passed by as he shuffled
papers, studied photos, and connected observations to truths.
Eventually, he heard a key enter the
lock to the front door and the familiar shuffling gait of his
housemate, James. By now, the CD player spout out “You know I
used to live alone before I knew you” and he remained sitting,
staring at a particularly photograph of white and red. His housemate
called out as he walked around the open main room of the house.
“Ah, there you are,” James said,
“We've got a reservation at that new wine house you've been raving
about.” The music track jumped and regained its place, “Love
is not a victory march, It's a cold and it's a broken...”
James disappeared, most likely heading to the closet to put away his
coat, calling out, “Give me a half an hour, though.”
Aric tossed the
photo on the desk, leaning back with his hands behind his head. His
mind wandered off as he stared at the white wall—it beheld the
century of life that lived here. A telltale dent in the wall, when
his grandfather pushed a particularly heavy microscope against the
wall—an accidental scar that would last forever. It was lined with
a black smudge. Aric contemplated on the photographs in front of
them, the story they told through simple details. He wandered through
the facets they brought to light, every so often taking a small note.
The minutes ticked away.
Aric turned of the
CD player and exited his office. He wandered into the kitchen and
took out an opened bottle of orange juice, drinking straight from the
bottle. James was there, sitting at the table and reading the
newspaper, and looked up in disgust, “Oh, see? That's why I don't
drink that....” Aric smirked and capped the bottle before placing
it in the fridge.
“Closing
walls and ticking clocks.”
“Ready
to go?” Aric asked.
James shrugged in
consent and stood. “Sure, nothing good today anyways.”
“Too bad,”
Aric said, exiting the kitchen, heading to the closet.
“For you,
perhaps,” James said dryly.
Aric raised an
eyebrow, handing James his coat. “Perhaps...”
“Am
I a part of the cure? Or am I part of the disease?”
The two put on
their coats. James held the door open as Aric exited, placing a
cabbie's cap on his head, looking around with his sharp eyes.
“Blackbird
fly into the light of the dark black night.”
James
locked the door and the two headed to the Lincoln sitting in the
driveway.
James remained
silent during the drive.
Aric continued to
think of the photographs on his desk and the report he would
complete, the mysteries he had solved. He moved on to the next
agenda, the painful idea that James was unhappy. They rarely spoke;
they rarely joked.
“You
thought you'd found a friend to take you out of this place.”
James adjusted his grip on the
steering wheel, glancing in his housemate's direction. He noted how
unhappy he looked. How pained and lost. He wished he could help, be
what his housemate needed to salve these aches of the mind.
“You know I can change I can
change I can change I can change, But I'm here in my mold, I am here
in my mold”
Aric knew that one day James would
leave. James could be happy. He could find a family. Find love. He
was unable to. He was broken.
“And I'd give up forever to touch
you.”
...
This was a bit of fun with including music with writing.
