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Diary of a Desperate Man
This disquieting effect is alarming. It is starting to worry me. I can’t seem to get rid of it.This
 sense of complete silence,
sucks every familiar noise I know (footsteps, distantchatter, trees swaying in the wind…to name a few), into a void – which I call the“emptiness”.How do I define “emptiness”? It is like a situation in which you have a noisy racket booming in your head,
and 
silence all around you. It is complete solitude with peopleeverywhere.The “emptiness” is most present when I’m not alone. When the chattering of people is atits loudest, when those annoying questions are asked at social get-togethers (
 so, wherewere you this summer?
), when the dreaded acquaintance comes over to offer a drink (
 stick your martini up your ass, “Brad”)
– this are the times when the emptinessmanifests.This void presents itself and gladly takes over my person, like an unwanted long lostrelative coming over to a small, private, family event.My wife calls the “emptiness”, “zoning out”. I resent her description of it, though. Shesays I look like a zombie, staring into the horizon. I don’t feel like a zombie though. I feelvery much alive.And for now…
 I do not want to be here. I must detach.
Soon, my ears deafen, and my sight becomes blurry. It starts.
Wrank.Wrank.
Wrank what?“
 Frank 
, did you hear?” repeats the woman.I turn to her. She’s got a lavender blouse and the pearl earrings I gave her that time shealmost left me. I won her back, yes sir, I did.“Linda has invited us to their house tomorrow, to a little get together…and everyone’sgoing to be there.”
 
“Everyone” can bite me.
Linda smiles and turns her lips inward, into an annoying little smirk.“Frank?” she asks.I nod.My wife is very different when we’re out. I can’t seem to understand how a person canchange so much, just by leaving the house. I have a little joke I tell myself to get throughthis though – it goes like this: my wife has multiple personality disorder, except in her case, it’s not a disorder (ha ha ha, right?). She actually makes it work quite well. Sheshould be an actress.She’s a very beautiful woman. I think that’s what got her into this fake mess. Fake parties, fake people, fake lives. Fake, fake, fake. Fake loves beauty. But I
can
stand allthis fraudulence. Because in private, she’s not fake…in our private lives, she’s myVeronica.While she speaks to the rest of the neighborhood phonies, I sit and watch every one of their faces. I close my eyelids a bit, until I can see my own eyelashes. My vision gets blurry once more.I shut down my hearing. Near silence. The “emptiness”.There are now fuzzy blobs in front of me, and as they move their mouths and muffledsounds come out. I make out the word “delicious” from the blubber lips of the fat man infront of me. He takes something green, places it in his mouth and crunches.I feel a slight nudge. It’s Ronnie. She’s kicking me on my right shin.I come back. Vision and audio are now restored.My sense of touch is back too. My ass hurts.The small square pieces we’re all sitting on are sorry excuses for chairs. They barely holdmy behind in there, and there are six of these ass-breaking square chairs in total, so six people in our little cocktail party: Four fakes, my wife and me.There are other tables around, but no one I know. Ronnie does know most of them,though. I think they’re her flowers’ club friends and their respective husbands. They callthemselves the “Doonesville Petunias”. How quaint.There’s a circular table in the middle between all of us, and there’s a tray in the middle of the table, adorned with celery sticks, carrots and a small space in the center with ranch
 
dip. There’s also other trays scattered around, with cheeses, morsels of deli meat and alarge bowl of olives. There are toothpicks too.Karl, the fat man, is eating everything in sight. I’m surprised I had not noticed. I can see bits of meaty fiber in between his stained teeth. As he drinks it all down with his glass of whisky, I turn to look at his wife, who’s a mousy little number, roughly one sixth his size.She’s small, and her name is Laura. She speaks very loudly.“FRANK, what is it?”“Would you like something?”
Yes, I’d like to fucking leave, if that’s all right with you, LAURA.
“Yes, actually could you pass me all those trays, Laura, I’m famished”“Why of course, Frank” she responds.The fat man is upset at this, and I can feel it. He grunts loudly, and then crosses his arms.I wonder how people can be so shameless and do something like that. Cross their armswhen they’re upset…but hey, this makes Karl the only non-hypocrite amongst us.There’s some value in that.Of course, there’s value in anything nowadays. And how do we know if anything is
 something 
, anyways? It’s hard to find value in anything, now more than ever.Hold on to that thought, Frank.The midget-woman, is turning towards me. Her foghorn mouth is opening…“So, Frank…” she starts.
Oh no, not the dreaded question. She asks this every time we fucking meet.
 She paused. What? I feel a nudge. Shit, my face must be showing my frustration.I smile. Done. Midget-woman has now composed herself and I can feel her getting her foghorn mouth back in operation.“…Frank…so, Frank, have you and Veronica made plans yet?”“Plans for what”, I ask her.
 I know what she’s trying to get at.
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fanooli

Great piece! Very active writing style. Can't wait to read more of your things!

reply05 / 30 / 2008
Aggiejedimaster

Great short story, I really enjoy your style of writing.

reply01 / 31 / 2008
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