A Lady Named Misfortune

[Xeromatosis]

A Lady Named Misfortune


A lady named misfortune has been following me my whole life and I can’t be rid of her. Even when I found out I was dying, I could hear her laughing callously behind me: daring me to say it wasn’t true. Terminal lung cancer: fucking cigarettes got me in the end. Yes, I’m on my way out and I don’t give a shit. I wasn’t mad or disappointed when I found out—I knew something like this must be coming, what with the old lady following me everywhere—I was just empty, like all the things I had done in my life meant nothing.

Being privy to the hour of one’s death can do a lot to shift one’s perspective into the realm of the surreal. That’s the one thing I get to know you see, the one thing they don’t tell you that I’ve heard about. Of all the things to know, of course I got saddled with this miserable burden. There’s lots of things they don’t tell you, but the old lady saw to it that this was my rotten prize. Of course that’s not the half of it; death is just life’s final prank and I’ve got a whole life’s worth of misfortune.

So listen--

There’s things they don’t tell you when you’re a kid. They don’t tell you that bad things happen to the good people, or that others are blessed from the get-go while you get to struggle your way through. They don’t tell you that life is hard and getting through it unscathed is harder. You know all about how special you are and how hard work is bound to pay off but you don’t know a damn thing about misfortune. And how could you, if no one ever told you?

There’s things they don’t tell you when you find the girl of your dreams. They don’t tell you about how her parent’s are insane and think you’re the greatest load of shit that ever had the great honor of tending after their darling daughter. They don’t tell you that the kid you’ll marry her for—the one she said was yours—will cost more then you have to spend and drop your standard of living straight through the poverty line. That’s another thing they don’t tell you about: having kids that is. Everyone you know comes and congratulates you but it’s not till after nine months of caring for that wretch you thought you loved that it really sinks in; the birth of that little potato you get to watch your wife shove out her crotch is the death of your social life, your love life, your sex life, and every other damn life you’d had the terrible audacity to live. You’d think the little spud would be grateful or something right? You’d think that your little gift from above might show some appreciation for your ceaseless efforts and endless sacrifice but they don’t tell you the entitled son of a gun is going to be the biggest pain in the ass any tuber has ever managed to be; and then he’ll tell you it was your fault.

You tell yourself that Vietnam is a world away. You parade about, stony-faced, offering your petty little sympathies for those men foolish enough to volunteer and before you know it you’re halfway around the world and covered in mud; a sticky, grimy muck that pollutes you till the day you die. They told us all about the significance of our duty and how future generations would look reverently to our tremendous courage and sacrifice; I’m sure you can guess by now what they didn’t tell us about. Yea there was a lot of shit no one ever told me about misfortune, which is why I was going to teach my kids.

Of course, what they don’t tell you, is that when you come back from a war full of the resolve to live a hardliner cynic’s life, what everyone thinks your full of is psychosis and bullshit. I’d hoped she would have at least taken the damn kids with her when she left and then I realized that what she hadn’t told me was that she’d been screwing some piss-ant from Dallas all those years I was in Vietnam and that by now she had a proper family to run away to. I remember the day she left; it had been pouring rain like the sky didn’t have a single other damn thing to do since noon and she went screaming out of the house with her suitcase half packed and dragging along the ground behind her. They don’t tell you that it was your fault you got drafted and that I was just heartless if I couldn’t see how lonely she must have been. She was all shrieking and weeping about how the war had destroyed me and that I wasn’t the man she had loved but what she probably wasn’t telling me was how she was damn near ecstatic to dump the responsibility of the ten year old son who was probably mine and the two year old daughter, who definitely was, firmly into my misfortunate lap.

No one ever tells you that the man behind the mirror will never look the way you want him too; that the blurry steamed over face you gaze back at every morning at six a.m. will be just as damn hateful the day you die. You never hear word about how the nightmares don’t stop when you grow up and you don’t need Freud to tell you what they mean. You know full well the implications of that terrible moment when you realize the bloody pulp of a face you’d been beating is your own, but of course that’s just one of those things you don’t tell people. It wasn’t supposed to bother me after all: not a tiny little thing like loneliness.

They don’t tell you that disciplining your kids makes you the bad guy and that they’ll hate you for it. There are no words of caution that warn you about how your son is going to grow up to be a pretentious little jack-wad that thinks you’re a no good drunk or about how you’ll lose yourself somewhere along the way and slowly start to fit the bill. I fed them and clothed them though didn’t I; that ought to be worth something. When it boiled down to it there wasn’t anything those two have truly needed in their lives; I provided for them as a father should which is why I know I’m right when I tell them they don’t know jack about misfortune.

Hell, there’s a world of people out there that gripe and moan about how much their blessed lives suck—all the while having never experienced a single solitary ounce of misfortune. I thought I knew all about it. That’s why I could keep telling myself it couldn’t get worse, that hitting bottom just meant you could only go up. Of course what I didn’t tell myself was that, with a smart old lady like misfortune, there’s things she doesn’t tell you.




Sins of the Father
My father is dying and I couldn’t care less. I thumbed the small, baby blue vial over and over in my hand before replacing it on the shelf in vexation. Something must be wrong with me, right? People are supposed to feel something at times like this aren’t they? I should be sick with worry and putting on a brave face to hide my tears but I smiled when I heard about the cancer. I fucking smiled. I suppose I’m a proper asshole but I can’t seem to manage to care enough to change. All too quickly I’ve become just as callous and spiteful as him, and in spite of my best efforts; the sins of the father have passed to the son and so I imagine it won’t be too long before life wears me down to a bitter and jaded edge. Nothing, I feel nothing but a cruel satisfaction at the thought of my father’s demise. I should owe him everything: the man who brought me into this world and raised me, even if he did do it all for his own amusement. Yet instead I can only laugh at his poor luck and maybe in the back of my mind I even think he deserves it. Something must be wrong with me—this isn’t what I wanted.

Of course, he probably thought the same, my dad. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This…isn’t the way things should be. There wasn’t a whole lot that had gone right for my dear old dad to be fair, but let me tell you he made it sound like he was the world’s single solitary target of what he called, “All this goddamned misfortune”. If there was one thing I hated about my dad it was this: he was always harping on about how much life sucked for him and that everyone else didn’t know how lucky they were. Granted there wasn’t a lot I didn’t hate about my dad; he was impulsive and viceful and altogether too grounded in the idea of being well grounded. Mundane and spiteful he was most definitely a father worth despising, but I’ll tell you this—he managed to keep us stapled together, at the very least.

That man held us together, but at arm’s reach. He was like someone desperate to protect something precious—or maybe even something that had once been precious a long time ago—but at the same time was afraid of obtaining happiness lest he should lose it once more. He still had that last picture of mom too, I knew. When I was younger I used to watch him sit on the porch, staring at that bent and wilting paper with a lighter in his other hand. He would be there for hours sometimes, weeping his drunkenness away and daring himself to hold the flame just a little bit closer. He never could make himself do it; I hated that about him, he was a coward who couldn’t allow himself to let go of his own sorrow.

We were a family in name only. My sister and my Father and I were all very much independent quantities. There could be no happy family events or interaction; my father would never abide such in his household. Even our birthdays would go uncelebrated with him spouting his usual drunken nonsense about how we had to learn about misfortune before it was all too late. From a young age we had looked after and entertained ourselves; days would go buy with us not saying as many as three words to our grand parent. The pattern had continued for years; even on the rare occasions when we ate together, my father would return to his drinking, my sister her merry imaginings and I my vengeful scheming against the man who had driven my mother away. Maybe it was just the good fortune of insight so rare to our family but I seemed to be the only one who’d grown out of his petty escapes.

My father started waiting to die the day he heard the news. It was kind of sad to watch; It was like all the fight went out of him, like he was tired of trying and just wanted to lay there dying. Now he just spends his days in bed, pretending he can’t move until he runs out of alcohol and waiting for the end. His eyes had lost their squinted, scrutinizing demeanor and filled with a strange mix of relief and self-pity. Like a marathon runner who had found a bear waiting for him at the finish line, my father fled his fate and longed for it. Ever the coward he’d convinced himself that he wanted to die so that he wouldn’t have to be afraid, so that he could just wait for the end and spout bitter and cynical sounding sermons. It was as though he thought he could escape his depression by casting someone else, anyone else, deeper into the pit. It was rare though for anyone to listen to his preaching so mostly he just lay in bed waiting to die and staring at the damning chest x-ray he’d had framed on the wall opposite the head of his bed. The doctors say next Thursday or the Friday after so it shouldn’t be long to wait now.

I swear though, something must be wrong with me. I stared at the little baby blue vials of Serendipity in front of me in indecision. I knew perfectly well what his intentions were and I didn’t much like the thought of aiding him in anything let alone this very particular endeavor. He’d never asked me for anything before, not really, not like this, and so I ought to give it to him right? He’ll be dead by next Thursday or Friday anyway and besides, this is what he wants. I ought to provide him with this one measure of comfort at least right? Father or no, a dying man has certain privileges and this was his single and only request. I made my decision and snatched one of the vials from the shelf—this was his choice and determination to make—I withdrew the entirety of the baby blue liquid into a small syringe and stared at the swirling cocktail with intensity. I’m doing the right thing aren’t I?

----------------------------
More to come, godwilling.

But what next?
A blue mystery illuminated
Exciting new characters
8( no one has cancer, that's good i guess?
Find out what people are saying about a peculiar little room

i bid you Goodwill and Good fortune, Goodmen it's goodnight
until the next time~

 

[xxxyyy]

well written and a good set-up for whatever you intend to do with it. certainly makes me curious for more.
only criticism i can find is that the character of the alcoholic, shellshocked, bitter veteran is sort of an overused cliche. but that's just my two cents and it didn't really diminish that i enjoyed reading this because you wrote that part very believably. good work.

 

[Xeromatosis]

The White Room
“Just a white room? Really?” James slammed his beer on the table with a small splash and looked expectantly at his friend.
Brian drained his beer with a satisfied sounding slurp and brought his glass down in a slow arc that belied his drunkenness, “Not just any white room, the white room. I’m talking about the freaking light at the end of the tunnel here, the last stop, the end of the line.”
James sat in a contemplative silence, musing between drinks, before deciding on his next inquiry into the abstruse white room, “Well what’s in it?”
“No one knows,” Brian replied, smiling, an impish note in his voice, “Every lab test has failed to produce reactions with any known chemical. This stuff is completely out of left field, as far as our lab guys can tell they’re little blue vials of air.”
James rolled his eyes in intoxicated exasperation, “You know what I meant. I was asking what’s in the white room?”
Brian leant forward as he sipped his freshly poured beer, “That’s just the thing—it’s different for everyone. The only point everyone agrees is that it’s a quiet little white room with really bright lights on the ceilings and walls and beneath the floor.”
The two sat drinking, and staring at each other in a sort of lackadaisical wonder.
James let loose a hacking cough, taking several moments to recover before continuing their conversation, “So this stuff, Serendipity they’re calling it yea? How long does it last?”
Brian squinted in the dim light of the bar, struggling to keep his failing vision in focus and wishing the damn music would stop skipping, “Well it’s heavily dependent on the individual’s tolerance and weight, but in general eight to twelve hours. Just one shot from one of those little baby blue vials and you’re off to the white room for the evening.”
James took an extra large swig of his bubbly beverage and shook his head in disbelief, “Hours they spend there. Honestly I don’t understand the draw; what do you do in a little white room for the better part of your day?”
Brian belched boorishly and leant far over the table with a drunken grin splitting his dark features like a jagged scar, “You don’t understand bro, they find their answers there.”
“Answers,” voiced James gruffly, struggling to ignore his friend’s melodramatic tendency, “What answers?”
Brian ran his slender fingers through his straight black hair, “I’m talking about the answers man, like every question you had gnawing in the back of your skull about the absurdity of life answered. I’m talking about total peace and acceptance. Utter tranquility like every stress in your life is inane and petty; absolute serenity like all the loose ends are finally tied up. Happiness caught, desire fulfilled, fuck it’s the White Room man.”

The two sat in silence, pondering the significance of the White Room for a few moments before Brian pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and motioned for James to follow him. They each planted their unsteady feet on the ground and worked their twisting, swerving way to the park bench behind the bar.
“You know,” said James suspiciously, “The way you talk about it I’d almost think you approved.”
A car horn blared in the distance and Brian waved his hand dismissively, “It’s not like this stuff is all sunshine and rainbows ok? They say the mortality rate may be as high as fifty percent.”
“Half?” James exclaimed in shock, “What the hell is that? People throw their lives on the flip of a coin for this shit?”
“It’s the goddamn White Room man,” said Brian as he took a deep drag from his cigarette, “besides, that’s why they call it serendipity, to wish you luck in getting back.”
“I didn’t even know getting back was an issue,” replied James, still stunned by the absurdity of it all, “This stuff is insane.”
Brian nodded wisely, “Yea man some people just never make it back. Maybe they couldn’t find their answers or they fled from some inner demon. Those unable to handle the White room’s brilliance or else those constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves become blinded and lose their way. There’s nothing physically wrong with their bodies, they’re just stuck in the White room, unable to wake up.”
James sighed in vexation, “Will you chill out, you pretentious fuck. I swear, you don’t listen to some of the shit you say. Why do you always have to make things so dramatic?”
Brian paused a second, smiling softly, “Don’t be mean, there’s worse flaws then stilted speech.”
“It doesn’t make you sound smart,” said James annoyed and tired.
Brian shrugged indifferently, “It amuses me, that’s all. Words are my like my, well like my White Room you see.” Inside, Someone shattered a glass and the bar erupted into noisy disorder. “If it bothers you then you don’t have to talk to me.” Brian added at a pause in the din, “Don’t complain about your own choices.”
James waved his head back and forth in sad submission, “Whatever, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just forget it and tell me again why people wont leave the white room.”
Brian swung himself off the stained wooden bench as he spoke, “Well what do you think.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they just liked that world better then this one.” Offered James, unwilling to think too hard.
Brian nodded in agreement, “Entirely possible, I mean, it’s the White room man.” The two sat in silence, puffing on their cigarettes for a few moments before they caught each other’s eyes. “Just a White room, Really?” said James still disbelieving. “A little White Room.” Said Brian simply, still nodding, “Just a little White Room.”