A Bump in the Day

Was he a monster?  He didn't think so.  It wasn't like he was out, sobbing in his car trying to regain composure because he wanted to kill someone.  He was pretty sure most murderers didn't get their title for being sad sacks.

But.  He definitely hit someone.  His arm cut in front of his face at a most inopportune time, trying to wipe away the snot and tears from obscuring his vision.  Then, that was that for someone else's day.  He knows people who hit and run are evil, no good, a waste of space, and that's just what he was thinking before he did it.  That he was no good.  That he was a waste of space.

The space he had been occupying was nice enough.  Some crickets found their way inside at night.  The shower sometimes didn't spray water, so much as dribble a bit out, like a baby new to eating.  But otherwise, it was nice.  Quaint even.  A pretty tiled floor in the kitchen, and a pristine white carpet covering the rest of the apartment.

It was mocking him, the niceness of the place.  He couldn't afford it for long, was just passing through.  Except, he was doing a shitty job of passing through, and the solitude of the place was haunting him.  Or maybe he was haunting him.  So he had to get out.  He had to just get into his car and drive.  Somewhere.  Away from that nice place.  But, the kind of nice you can't touch.  Because it'll fall apart right then.

So he got out.  He got in his car.

At first it was great.  He was out.  But it couldn't last.  After driving for who knows how long, he figured out the ironic punch line.  The funny thing was, he was going to turn around and go back to his oppressor.   He had to.  All his stuff was there.  All his hope of getting out of the place, was wrapped up neatly within the place.  That's when he started sobbing.

Not a full sob at first.  At first it was a funny sort of sniffle.  One where he looked at the rear view mirror,  saw half of his own face and said, "No."  He said it aloud.  To himself.  Inner monologues just aren't as effective when you're trying to prevent sadness.  Sadness needs a firm verbal command.  Then, his face scrunched up in an interesting way.  As if to say, "Hey, I kind of smell something, and there's something in my eye all at once."  It was a smile, if smiles were hideous things that only made you want to cry when you saw it.  He saw it.

Then tears came.  He told himself he could stop at any time.  He giggled a little.  Felt like he was addicted to tears.  That was sort of funny.  He told himself that all the snot leaking out his nose would just go away when he wanted it to.  That he'd --

bump.

It wasn't even, a catastrophic bump.  Well, not for him.  He was sure the person he hit died.  So, if you die, that's probably catastrophic.  He wasn't sure of the exact definition, but thought fuck it, that's gotta be close enough.  He wasn't sure how it could have killed them, it was such a little, barely noticeable bump.  But, he was a monster after all. Maybe when he bumped, it was worse.  A big bump from him could have leveled the city for all he knew.

He had to run.  If he ended one life, what was the point in staying there, and waiting for someone else to end his?  Sure, it was shitty.  He wasn't happy about it, but what else could he do?  Go to jail for being a cry-baby?  While he appreciated he may gain respect if he said that, and followed it up with immediately murdering someone while sobbing, in front of a large group of people, that wasn't going to be his Plan A.  He drove the fuck away.

Stopped crying pretty fast though.  He thought, maybe that person was a practical joker.  Maybe, they were just lying down, and would pop right back up after they realized no one was laughing at their joke.  This made him laugh.  He started laughing hysterically.  What a good joke.

He pulled his car up, back at the nice place.  He parked his smeared, dirty car on the street.  There wasn't room in the driveway for it.  He got out of the car, and slowly approached the apartment.  Tentatively, he opened the door to go in.  It let him in.  The house didn't care he was a killer now.  Didn't care at all.

He cared.

But, it was just all so funny.  He couldn't stop laughing.

That is, until he stopped laughing.

He stopped laughing when the biggest punchline hit home.  This punchline was not articulated with a guffaw, but instead a deep silence.  Not even the cricket, on the tiled floor, next to the white carpet, could find it in itself to chirp, even a little bit.

It was one of those jokes, that just wasn't funny.


Note:  This is 100% more fictional than my blog usually is.  That's not to say my blog is usually true, but this is much more story like.  I would have put this disclaimer at the top, as that's where you put disclaimers, but then no one would have been dragged into the story by it's initial inquiry.  So forgive my poorly placed disclaimer, but in case you hadn't noticed, the above is a story.