He stands before the mirror naked. A question stabs at his conscience—
quirky, nonsensical, mad hatter type question…if a person is going to invent an imaginary friend, why the fuck would he have him look exactly like himself?
Granted, Reason was only five years old when he brought me into existence.
At the time, he could have made me look so much better. Maybe like Rock Hudson,
Paul Newman, Brando, Redford, but no! No such luck. Fucking Thomas Reason
look-alike…what are the chances? At least that little shit didn’t make me look
like Captain Kangaroo.
Looking at himself, he hates what he sees. It must be some inherent
self-loathing seething just below the skin. One of Reason’s character flaws.
“Maybe I need a new style…I’ve been wearing the same stupid blue suit for
years.” He walks to the bedroom closet to see if there’s anything of inter
est and hears her moaning from the bathroom—she’s so impatient, he’s
thinking.
“It’s okay, honey; I’ll be there in a moment.” He says in a loving voice.
Shuffling through the clothes, they’re all size large, and he’s a solid medium.
“Just my luck—no new clothes,” he says, irritated.
Walking back to the mirror, he looks at his face again. There’s a spot at his
hairline he missed. Now he’s going to have to wash again. At least Reason’s
body is in good shape. Everything seems to be appropriately proportioned…
not the worst looking man on the planet. Reason is left-handed, and he is
right-handed—that’s the only difference. Now, he hears her gently moaning again,
“Okay, love—on my way.” He says and turns to the bed. At the edge is a
bloodied rock that he used fifteen minutes earlier to smash Miss Kennedy’s
ex-husband’s head while his girlfriend was in the tub. He picks up the rock
and walks into the bathroom, where a half-conscious woman is soaking in
crimson water.
“Thought this conversation was over, love. Well, I’m glad you’re still with
us…I wrote something last night, and maybe you can tell me what you
think—back in a flash,” he says softly as he goes over to his jacket and pulls
out a small notepad. He hears her mumbling and trying to speak….
“Okay—let’s see—yes, here we go—
You wrap me in your diamond wings
Protect me from the threatening skies
Take me to your secret place
Where time slows down and passion flies
In emerald dreams where summer shines
To light the way to love’s intent
Where darkness dies a thousand deaths
With every rainbow you invent.”
He closes the book, looks at her, and asks, “What do you think, love?
She mumbles incoherently. “Yes, I understand completely…doesn’t matter much now, sweetie, look at the fine mess you’ve made of your life. Sweet dreams, my angel.”
The woman looks up with her blurred, stinging eyes, and then, he smashes the bloodied rock down on her head once again, and she disappears into blackness. After washing again, he puts on his clothes and stands before the mirror.
“Yes, I do believe this suit has to go,” he says, taking a final look around
the room as if snapping a photo for his mind. He spies a wooden bear on the
dresser—picks it up, and scrutinizes it, “I know who this belongs to.” On the
belly, it reads Made in China. He smirks and wraps it in a Kleenex from off the
nightstand, then he covers the rock in a bath towel and places them both in a
duffel bag, then walks out the back door and into the darkness.
“Holding him firm but fleeting as he is flying fast headfirst into the future as
another day dies.” He considers Matthew’s words about the Bushman, then
disappears into a thick gray mist.
TM DiSarro
Excerpt from my first book: THE BUSHMAN
TM DiSarro 