The Roommate

The dead man beside him was rotting. The smell was so pungent that Frank could no longer discern between smell and taste. He drank heavily of it and it tasted terrible. Through a hole in the barn door, Frank could see natural light. The door gave him hope and Frank could do nothing but hate the door for it. Frank didn’t want hope; he wanted help. Hope did not sustain him, it merely made him ache more and more.

Ever since the cross beam had broken, Frank and his dead friend had been stuck. For the first two days, Frank screamed his damn fool head off trying to get someone’s attention. His voice gave out before the second day’s end. It was no use, no one lived in the surrounding mile. There was just a small house where Frank lived and a barn where Frank found himself a dead man.

Frank and the dead man had been roommates for five days. Frank couldn’t have asked for a more courteous roomy, although the man’s hygiene was not up to par. The poor fool had found Frank’s pitchfork and stuck it in his back. Death must have come slow to the man. The face read like a book. He had time to comprehend, time to come out of shock and feel the pain all over, time to see every damn thing he was slip away. He had so much god damned time.

Because his roomy looked bored, Frank was telling a story. It was about a boy named John and a girl named Bill. They were walking up a hill to get something and they were happy enough it seemed. Then John went and broke his arm. Bill cried and it all rhymed or at least it was supposed to. Something was wrong and no matter what Frank tried the story didn’t quite sound right. He was missing something and couldn’t even quite grasp the shape of the absence.

Frank tried not to think about the hereafter but looking at his roommate made it damn hard to forget. Really, it wasn’t ever easy to forget that death was inevitable. Between his corroded valves and off beat heart it was all just one wrong revolution from ending. Frank wasn’t quite sure where he was going but he was pretty sure that there is a god. However, he was also not quite sure whether or not he was on the just side of such a fellow. He wasn’t sure of much at all.

On the fifth sunrise since, Mr. Wilkerson was walking his dog. The dog was a scent hound and slightly more than half as nosy as Mr. Wilkerson. Frank and Mr. Wilkerson had talked in great loud conversations about Mr. Wilkerson’s penchant for trespassing but he was quite welcome to explore at this point in time. Mr. Wilkerson being Mr. Wilkerson, did just that.

Mr. Wilkerson’s better half found a curious smell coming from the now collapsed barn. In no time, Mr. Wilkerson broke and entered into through the barn door, with wanton disregard for law and safety. As the ammonia wafted upwards, the little wuss actually puked on the poor dog. Frank enjoyed that. The man found his cellphone and called 911. Soon the proper authorities came and carted off Frank’s roommate.

Frank was somewhat irked at the way they all ignored him, but he couldn’t keep that anger. He was just too tired and the falling leaves were too beautiful. That day was full of Indian Summer and downright gleeful in most dimensions. The night was cold out in the barn but Frank had no trouble going to sleep.

2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. William Lawson
    Dec 18, 2010 @ 18:00:18


    • Carson Margedant
      Dec 20, 2010 @ 22:29:01

      For the record, if any of the three of you out there that read my crap regularly want to hone your skills with something better than the spaghetti method of writing you probably should amble by Mr. Lawson’s blog.

      Oddly enough, I’ve got Twostories of mine that are closer to your story. Interesting that you call it an impulse, for me it’s a continuing theme.


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