Last Few Minutes

The room smelled like old wood, dust, and freshly brewed lavender tea. He wanted to feel cosier and safer for what he was about to do. He was sitting in his chair, looking around to the cluttered room. He really needed to clean. He didn’t want to though. He didn’t want to do anything anymore. The reason he was even in this room was to take a look at what had happened in his life. This room was a little summary for him. He didn’t make a habit of throwing things away and most of the time the things he didn’t want to let go of, ended up in this room. His room. Now looking dark and dusty. He had been away for too long. He was going to leave again. He just wanted to be in this room for what he was about to do. In the room, he could store his memories when his brain betrayed him. It wouldn’t betray him for much longer hopefully. The room contained everything that made him this depressive son of a bitch he was today.   

He sat upright in his chair and opened the desk drawer. He got the bottle of whiskey and spiked his tea. Something else that soothes him. He drank a few sips before getting up. Enough to warm his insides up. He had to look at the bookshelf. He didn’t want to, but he had to. He hoped it would offer him some sort of closure. He regretted the moment he touched the bookshelf as his finger immediately got covered with a thick layer of dust. He grimaced and wiped his hand on his black sweatpants. Another thing that made him feel cosy. His eyes immediately caught the book. How could he have ignored it really? The only thin book in the entire bookshelf. The only children’s book. Well… “Children’s” was a loose term. He grabbed the book and took a deep breath. The dust filling his nostrils. He tried his best not to sneeze while he opened the book with one hand and took another sip from the cup. It was amazing to him how this book could take him to 6th grade. The grade when he thought he was too old to read this book again and again. The grade when he forced himself to grow up but a part of him could never throw the book away. On the first page was a note from his father. He immediately teared up when he saw his handwriting. The pride in his words was overwhelming. He traced the indents of the pen letter y letter., citing the note from memory. He took a big sip of his drink and shook his head to keep his tears at bay. 

As he started to walk to the desk, he saw the little red robot his parents had gotten him when he was only 6 and obsessed with robots. Dusting it off he clutched it tightly to his chest. They made some robot noises and moved its arms, trying to make himself laugh. Trying to convince himself not to do what he wanted to do. He set both the robot and the book on the desk next to the type-writer and sat down and his chair. He took another gulp of his drink feeling a little tipsy at the pace he was drinking. He went to top the tea off with more whiskey, but he ended up spilling most of it on the type-writer. Cursing loudly, he threw the bottle towards the sunflowers in front of the window. Gillian must have gotten in here to water them as they were still seemingly alive. He tried to wipe the type-writer clean of whiskey with his shirt, but he only ended up making everything stickier. He no longer tried to hold off on crying. He was having a full-on meltdown. Angry at himself for ruining everything, angry at life for taking everyone he wanted close away. All this time he made sure the butler Gillian dusted the type-writer off regularly, kept it clean and running. But now he, himself, had fucked it up. How was he supposed to write now? The bottle didn’t even reach the flowers, thankfully and ended up falling on his son’s piano making un-music-like sounds that startled him. And the bird on the windowpane apparently. It cooed and took his attention. It must be the bird Gillian was telling me about, he thought. The bird who came by every day, lustfully looking at the sunflowers’ seeds. Wiping his tears and chugging what was left of his drink, he smiled and took the sunflowers and placed them on the windowpane. He might have given up, but the bird didn’t deserve the same ending as him. The bird was not bothered by his presence. Come to think of it, none of the animals did find him threatening. Maybe except for the lobster and fish that laid and hung in the room, courtesy of his sister’s hunting trips. He never really liked them. He kept finding himself wanting to box with the fish when he was younger but now that he was older the only thing he saw when he looked at them was death. The summer breeze eased through the window, making some dust move in front of his eyes. What a perfect day, he thought as he inhaled the cool evening breeze. He decided to keep the window open. Fresh air made him relax. He took the bottle of whiskey from on top of the piano and sat on the chair. Taking large swigs of it he just looked at the TV. The TV he used to watch as a kid secretly with his best-friend when the kids were asleep. He could see the moving pictures of documentaries; he knew they weren’t really there, but he could see them. He was back on the couch laughing at the name of a bug with his wife one second and back to the lonely room the next second. He sniffled. He wasn’t crying anymore. Kissing the top of the robot’s head and his dad’s hand-writing on the book he opened the drawer he found the whiskey in again. 

He was found in a pool of his own dried blood and still clutching to his memories.