From Tyler, With Love

This is where it ends.

This could also be where it begins, but the decision isn't mine to make; I don't really believe in redemption. I don't deserve that compassion; I don't deserve the pity. You probably look at me now as worthless - hell, I might actually agree with you - But there was a time when my life meant something.

I was a husband. I was a father. I was a grass-cutting, rent-paying, news-watching, beer-drinking 26-year-old with a future! I'd been taking acting classes, running through scripts and even tried my hand at writing a few of my own. Things were looking up and I wanted to make it in the world - I wanted to do right by the girl who sat at home, wine glass in hand, waiting for me to walk through our apartment door.

God, she was beautiful. I loved the way she would bite her lip when something was bothering her, the way she would trace her fingers along my neck and shoulders, sending shivers through my body... and I loved the way she worried about me so much, that she sat me down on our couch one evening as she answered my puzzled expression by resting one hand across her stomach.

I started hunting for a few extra screen tests and auditions to bring in the cash. I called up old friends, new friends, co-workers, managers and even talked to my agent at least three times a day. In two weeks, I had been asked to do three more small films that could go straight to DVD, if we were lucky. I would be on set day and night, but I was sure things were going to work out; Sarah and I were going to build a life together, a life that we had always dreamed of.

Then came the crash.

And I crashed hard.

It all started on the set of my newest project called "From Tyler". The storyline wasn't too bad - about a man in his thirties who led a lonely life as a photojournalist, and stalked his subjects by leaving them mysterious notes and snapshots each signed "From Tyler". Tyler was autistic, which would be a challenge for me as an actor, and was ultimately at the wrong place at the wrong time when he caught a shot he shouldn't have; a gang of about five beating to a pulp one of Tyler's previous subjects - a teenage boy whose name he couldn't remember.

Tyler started leaving messages for his other subjects in the only form of communication he could manage; photography. Although he didn't understand what was happening, he knew what danger looked and sounded like; he wanted to warn them, to save them from being beaten, abducted, or worse... but nobody believed him. Doors slammed in his face, angry husbands drew guns. He understood that these people were angry, but why didn't they listen? Didn't they realize that Tyler was only trying to help them?

Didn't they?
Didn't they?
Didn't they?

Tyler panicked. He was uncontrollable; Faces became blurs of colour and expression; he flapped his arms, pointing and waving and stomping his feet willing for somebody - anybody - to listen to him. He wandered the streets at night yelling and screaming as loud as he could, babbling incoherently. He started to dream terrible dreams - were they really his? - of hurting these people, really hurting them. His boss fired him. Then Tyler, the respected Chicago city photojournalist, suddenly had nothing left to lose.

I had nothing left to lose.

My head throbbed with pain for hours after filiming; I started to shout in my sleep, my arms and legs jerking without my consent. Light hurt my eyes. Everywhere I walked I heared gun shots and cries for help - muffled, I knew, as a result of passing garbage trucks and the cacaphony of heavy traffic. Couldn't anyone else hear it?

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

At first I slept on the couch so I wouldn't disturb Sarah. Then I stopped coming home altogether. I spent my nights with Jack Daniels, with streetlights, concrete slabs of sidewalk, with groups patrolling the streets dressed in black

The Gang.

They were coming after me! They'd been following me for the past few nights, I was certain!
Had they somehow figured out that I knew about their plan, their hit list of vicitms who were to endure God knows what?
But God didn't know what; if He did, He wouldn't let it happen... Would he?

I panicked. I was uncontrollable.

I ran home and pounded my bruised fist on the already open door of the apartment. I heard Sarah call in response, and I bolted straight to where she stood at the kitchen counter, slicing up vegetables for dinner.

As I cried out, a similar sound escaped Sarah's lips. I had my arms around her, squeezing her tightly to my chest, tears starting to streak down my face. She didn't protest. The warmth of her body scultped to mine was comforting, almost as though it was seeping into my heart.

Dripping into my heart.

Leaking onto my shirt without a pulse.

I looked down at the handle of the kitchen knife Sarah had been holding; it was now protruding from her chest, a halo of blood soaking the fabric of her violet t-shirt.

She didn't protest.

She didn't protest.

***

This is where it ends.

This could also be where it begins, but the decision isn't mine to make. I'm accompanied, now, only by my own mangled heart, a curb of cement and metal beams. I hardly pay attention to my grip or the raging water below; Why should I? I am my own worst enemy! I was the one who killed her - who killed our baby! I shouldn't be allowed to live. I would do anything to take back the last couple of months - But life doesn't work like that. No, instead, life will make you think you can make up for every piece-of-shit thing you've ever done. Is false happiness what waits for me?

I guess I'll never know.








eeeeek. sorry its long. sorry it's not well developed. This is NOT meant to be a monologue, however, if i go back and edit, it might be worthy of a short story. Maybe i'll fix it up to properly fit that style. but for now, 2 blog posts down - 5 comments, king lear, other short story, research report, studying and scholarship applications to go.
hobey ho, let's go.