The Writings of a Blind Man - Chefelf.com Night Life

This is another of the creepier things that I have written. The order of events in it is a little changed around, and can be confusing if you don’t follow it close enough. It starts in the present, jumps back to the past, and then goes back to the present. This story I’ve also meant to do a little rewriting on, and just haven’t done so yet.
Why Does it not like to indent things?! I must be doing something wrong. I guess you'll just have to pretend the enter spaces are the indents.

Desires

She runs her hands over his bare back, pressing and kneading as they go along. The scent of sweat and body oils permeates the air of the bedroom. He reaches back with his left hand and strokes her thigh with his fingertips. Clothes lay scattered about the room. A blue button-up shirt and black tie lay crumpled near the doorway. A maroon colored knee-length dress is half hung on the door knob. One black shoe decorates the mahogany dresser, the other is upside down near the wood paneled mini-fridge. Black socks and long black slacks sit in a pile near the foot of the bed. A pair of blue silk boxers had been tossed about a foot away. She is partially wrapped in the down comforter, and is still wearing her stockings and black heels. He is sitting on one side of the bed, feet touching the floor, waiting for what will come next. She is kneeling behind him and leans forward. Her chest presses against his back, her arms wrap around his stomach, and her tongue begins to flick at his left ear. He reached down to the floor with his right hand, moving ever so slowly. She stops flicking his ear, closes her eyes and begins to nibble. He aims his right hand and with his index finger, squeezes.

Dr. Michael Ansem drives down route thirty-two with windows down and radio playing Help by the Beatles. He does not want to go to work today. He wants to cancel all of his appointments for the day and spend it with his wife, who has the day off. Instead, he sings along with the radio. An eighty-three Ford Mustang drives past him on the opposite side of the road. Michael isn’t really into cars, but this one always irritates his eye every time he catches a glimpse of it. This is because, thought Michael, that for some reason the owner had a fascination with piss yellow. Such a wonderful color to put on such an expensive car. Pulling into the parking lot, he rolls up his windows and begins his almost daily ritual to mentally prepare himself for the coming day by blasting some death metal.

After its completion he opens his door, steps out of his car and walks to the his office building. Passing the receptionist by the door, he forces a smile and a good morning, and she does the same. The smell of dirt cheap perfume wafts around her and he wrinkles his nose in protest. He makes haste to the elevator and his office, which sits on the third floor. Checking his watch, he notes that he still has a good eleven minutes to breathe. Then his first patient walks through the door. Dr. Ansem proceeds with the usual formalities and waits for the man to speak. The man lowers his jaw and begins to go on and on about how his parents had mistreated and abused him as a child. Michael thinks to himself that he is learning in this session that the person who ought to be fully grown up by now, has been forced to do things such as household chores that included cleaning animal shit. The boy had grown up on a farm. When the time slot finished Dr. Ansem gives his closing thoughts to the patient, and when the man had left, proceeds to bang his head against his oak desk. More than anything Michael desires to tell him to suck it up and cut the crap. He desires the same for nearly all of his patients.

The second patient, Dr. Ansem already knew, is going to be no better. It is a women, who for all intents and purposes, made conversations seem as though he happens to be speaking to a wall. She opens with her usual tirade about husband. It is always the same, only the details ever change. He treats her like the only set of salt and pepper shakers at a holiday family dinner, he still isn’t working, he smacks her around every now and then, he probably is still cheating on her with the same floozy that he promises he’ll stop fucking, so on and so forth. She is his patient of many years now, having gone through a string of asshole boyfriends, from smokes to alchies until she married one of them. The entire time she surrounds herself with decent human beings, as far as men go, ones who could support themselves with their own money if need be. Of course thought Dr. Ansem, for he told himself this many times, if everyone had more than half a brain and didn’t just use the one in their crotch anyways, he would be out of work. Michael could tell her right now that she didn’t actually need therapy. He could tell her that she should just divorce him, that she should just throw him out. He could tell her that she is perfectly capable of supporting herself, and that she could easily find a wonderful man that would make her actually happy for the rest of her life. He could also simply sit back, put up with it, and just teach time to flow a bit faster, since she doesn‘t actually listen anyway. So, this is what he did, or at least tried to do. Time is a very slow learner and is showing no improvement at all today, rather a regression.

Two, then three more appointments drag by. He wishes that one of his patients would at least get out of control so he could exercise the defensive training he took up after getting attacked once. He takes a swig from his flask of vodka and cranberry juice. Licking his lips he places the bottle back into his desk drawer. None of the other patients get any farther than they were about a month ago. Today it seemed to Dr. Ansem, they were only getting progressively worse. Dr. Ansem leans back in his chair and lets out a long heavy sigh. His patients today, it seems, had gotten together and most definitely had decided to plot against him. He checks his watch and a little color creeps back into his face that has been slowly turning pale. It is almost time for his four o’clock, his breath of fresh air before his day is done.

Her name is Angela Gamino. She is a very intelligent young woman, with conversation topics running from Shakespeare to science. From Voltaire to vectors. Ansem has been intrigued by her from the first time they had a session together. And, although she could not come close to his wife who is endowed with many fine features, she is still a fairly pretty girl. She is wearing black heels and stockings, and a dark green knee-high skirt. She has on a black blouse and a dark brown jacket. She has no lipstick, nor any makeup at all except to cover up a scar that runs from the left corner of her mouth to the lobe of her ear. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun. She carries with her a plain manila folder. To him, her ailment is completely curable.

“H-hello doctor” she says when she enters the room, her eyes locking to a spot four feet to the left and down a little ways. Her movements are quick, almost twitchy. They are the opposite of slow and sure.

“Have a seat. Are you feeling better than last week?” Michael asks, although he already knows that she has been fine. Angela is the only patient he has ever made a house call for. He always decides that to let her pretend to be sick so as to not have to interact with other people is detrimental to her recovery. Also, it is not what other people might think. Dr. Ansem is a person who does not invite infidelity into his life, nor things that would cause him to be thought of as one who toys with his patient‘s trust.

“Yes, I’m feeling m-much better” she says trying to smile but frowns instead, and takes the chair by his desk to sit down in. She refocuses her eyes on a spot in the middle of his desk, and places the folder on his desk.

“Good, I’m glad. How far are you into that book on Greek literature that I lent you?” He leans forward resting his forearms on the desk, fingers intertwined. He does his best to look at her eyes, to get her to look into his eyes.

“I-I’m almost finished with it.” She retreats as far back as possible into the uncompromising chair, and yet lifts her head up ever so slightly. She nearly locks her eyes with his.

“Very good, and have you enjoyed it so far?” When could she have actually found time to read so far into the book, he didn’t know. He began to slowly move his fingers up and down in a wave motion, an old habit for when he was thinking of … certain things.

“Yes, I have especially enjoyed Plato’s Republic” she says, but pauses for a moment and adds; “I am honestly not ready to discuss ancient Greek politics with you today, or any other kind for that matter”. She can feel a different subject nagging at the back of her skull.

He let‘s out a small chuckle and says “That’s fine, we can move along then. First though, remember what I said about keeping your hair up?”. At this question he cocks an eyebrow.

“Y-yes, I remember. It tenses me up, makes me less relaxed. S-sorry.” she practically whispers as she reaches up behind her head and begins to undo her bun. This motion straightens her back and lifts her chest up. She begins to let strands of her hair fall a few at a time.

“Isn’t that much better?” he asks as he takes his flask back out from the desk drawer and unscrews the cap. She looks at him, her eyes narrowing just a little, her lips forming the beginnings of a question. “It’s alright, my mouth is a little dry” he says, then takes a sip and licks his lips after.

“May I have a s-sip as well, … to help me relax better?” she asks, unbuttoning her jacket with one hand and accepting the flask with the other. She tilts her head back, pressing the rim of the flask to her lips. When the rest has drained into her mouth she swallows it all with one gulp, a bulge in her throat going along with the liquid. “Thank you” she murmurs, handing the flask back to him and starts to breathe a little heavier. He loosens up his tie, suddenly feeling much warmer.

“Now, lets get back to business” Michael says. Glancing at his wedding ring, the far more developed and respectable of his two brains finally kicks back into gear. “How is your photography coming along?”. Dr. Ansem had prescribed different things for her to do to help her open up more to her own feelings, and to the people around her. These things included photography, drawing, painting, writing, different readings, and had even had her sign up for a movement study class. At each session with him she was to show him the work she is currently doing or things that she finished.

“Why don’t you see for yourself.” she says a little too loudly. Her eyes begin to dart around the room, and she begins to turn her head to look over her shoulder.

There wasn’t that much left in the flask, thought the doctor as he reached for the folder. As he reaches for it her left hand slams down on top of it.

“Actually, I um … I don’t think you should really look at these” she says with the pitch of her voice raising above normal levels.

Oh god, he thinks not saying anything just yet, these aren’t actually pictures of me are they? For the past five weeks she had been following him around. He sees her all too often when he is out running errands. His suspicion is that she will fall for the first person that she would begin to open up to. He hopes that he is mistaken.

“I um, maybe would could talk about something else” she tries to fake a smile and fails miserably.

“Angela, you have to let things like this out if you ever expect to get better. Now, why don’t you let me decide whether or not I should see them?”, as he says this her hand relaxes and he slides the folder out from under it. Flipping the folder open, he instantly recognizes the house in the pictures as his own. In the top picture there is the piss yellow mustang parked in his driveway. “Angela what …”

“Just keep looking” she says as her eyes begin to wet.

“Oh my” Dr. Ansem whispers to himself as he goes through the pictures one by one. They are of another man, and his wife. There’s pictures of them in the back yard, pictures of them in the mustang, pictures of them pressed against windows.

“I-I’m s-sorry doctor” she whimpers.

Of course, how easy it had probably been. We live in a neighborhood full of nine to fivers with all of the kids in school and the houses spread out plenty far enough anyways. How had this happened, how? I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, and only drink enough to make the day go by. I’ve never practiced adultary, never hit her, or really yelled. Should kill her. Always listened to her opinion; showed her the proper respect. Should kill them both. She never complained about the sex. Didn’t hide things from her, could easily talk to her. The German Leuger pistol gramps brought back from the war.

“D-d-doctor? I-I’m s-so s-sorry Michael”

Her parents loved me, she was never really bored. She had her personal space. Kill them both. Glass case. Bullets included. Why didn’t I see this coming? Kill. We live in a neighborhood full of nine to fivers with all of the kids in school and the houses spread out plenty far enough. No one around to hear when gunshots might go off. Helped her finish getting her doctorate. Put in evenly when it came to bills, finances, and vacations. Went along with not having kids when she didn’t want any. Didn’t want to be tied down? Dirty rotten tramp. Wipe them out. I loved her the best I knew how. Cloth around handle. Too much of a good thing? Too good of a life?

“Please say something to me” Angela says as she gets up from her chair. She walks behind his desk and wraps her arms around his body. Tears for him stroll down her face. She begins to press her face close to his. At least he was starting to see some measure of success in one of his patients.

Have the lover kill her. Could be a suspect. Definitely have a motive. Need an alibi. Need someone to work with. Need someone I can trust. He turns his head and looks her straight in the eyes. Their lips press together, and their bodies follow. Why has this happened to me? Have an alibi. Have a partner. Have a lover. Tuesday. Stash pistol and cloth under bed. Leave for work very early. Cancel all appointments. Leave car at Angela’s house. Disguise self. Hurry back on foot. Sneak in the back. Have sex one last time. One bullet to the brain. Cover entire body. Wait for lover. Cut off blood supply to brain, not air. Knocked out. Drag to bedroom. Smash glass case. Position. Gun to mouth. Blow out second brain of the day. Go back to Angela’s. Burn clothes. Bury what’s left. Continue affair. Go home. Wait a few minutes. Call police. Work out details later. Clothes lay scattered about the room.

The gun sounds off and she is thrown back onto the bed. He stands up, placing the pistol on the bed in the same motion. The angle is perfect. His body did not stop any of the blood that splattered around the room. He turns to look at her. She is not dead. A trail of blood seeps from next to her left eye. She is only moans in pain, too stunned to do anything else. “Goddamn it” he says as he picks the pistol back up and fires three more times at her head.

This post has been edited by Zatoichi: 07 January 2009 - 12:28 AM