Henry finished his story. It was a short little piece, a story about a murder. Dark, even darker than the ones he used to write. He went out to get another drink.
He went into the living room, poured another Jim Beam, bare with no ice, and sat down. He’s quite drunk, as he usually was at this hour.
He heard a loud noise from his office. He was a big guy, and quite a fighter. He brought the bottle in one hand just in case. In the other he brought his glass. He went in to have a look.
The room had changed. It was over grown with vegetation. A tree seemed to have grown it’s way into the room from outside. Huge roots came in from the torn down wall. Green leaves of different kinds. Flowers. Butterflies and other insects flying in the air. On the other side he saw a garden. Green and beautiful. He lived in the centre of the city, all cars and pavement. Until now.
He looked at the glass. Put it down on his desk.
What the fuck…? He said out loud. This was the strangest thing he’d ever seen.
He walked in, looking around at the plants. A squirrel could be seen in the tree tops. The forest was like a wild growing garden, just like the one he had been writing about. He moved further in. He walked for a long time, the trees got bigger, the plants greener, the flowers more and more colourful.
He heard a girl singing. He knew who she was. He walks closer, slowly.
She was sitting on a sling chair in the garden. She was as gorgeous as her voice. Familiar, like an echo from a dreams, or a distant memory. Beauty. He just stood there, perplex. Then he remembered. She’s about to die. Murdered for her perfection.
Thunder. The sky darkened.
He ran towards her. She looked at him, coming out of the bushes. Her expression was surprised, a bit confused. Then it turned into fear.
What do you want? She asked. Who are you?
Come with me! We have to get you out of here!
She stood up, moved away from him. Leave me alone!
Come! He shouted. Come with me! We have to get out of here! The alcohol made his voice loud, his movements hash and sudden. She starts running.
The sky was dark now. The beautiful sunlight coming through the leaves high in the trees was gone. Flashes. Thunder. Rain. She ran into the dark bushes, where her death awaited. It was all his fault. Why did he write this story so dark, so sad, so evil?
What had he done?
He runs after her. She screams for help. No! Stop! He shouts. He hears laughter in the darkness. His own voice. He catches her. She falls. She tries to get away, but he needs to stop her, save her. She breaks free. She falls. Her head hits a rock in the small river.
She was dead. He’d killed her. Again. The monster of his story. It was him. He held the dead body in his arms, his tears mixing with the rain, as the blood from her head.
The darkness took over. She faded in his arms, disappeared.
He was back in his office, sitting on his chair. The big tree invading the room was gone. The garden was gone. He looked at the sheet on the table. The murder. He ripped it to pieces and poured himself another whiskey. He didn’t want to write any more today. He just wanted to get drunk.
https://mythsofthemirror.com/2017/02/02/28104/https://mythsofthemirror.com/2017/02/02/28104/
https://randomsbyarandom.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/writers-quote-charles-bukowski-2/
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