The Resting Three

Slowly and stealthily I crept up the stairs, each of my steps creaking slightly as I ascended. I was glad that at least I was wearing my slippers. The smell of the wood floor filled my nose. It was a pleasant smell and I took a moment to take in a breath through my nose. The floor had recently been redone, it was time that I got rid of that old floor and put a new one in. The old wood floor was dark, dirty, and was starting to have a damp, moldy smell. It wasn’t strong but it made your shoes smell like a rotting log and if you touched it with your hand, it had to be washed at least three times to be rid of the smell.
Remembering why I was creeping up the stairs, I continued up them. Baseball bat in hand, I neared the room in which I thought the noise had come from and grasping the weapon tighter as I approached the door, I heard the noise again, this time much clearer. The sound disarmed me. It sounded like a pitiful sob coming from a woman. With a sudden flash of realization, I set the bat down and opened the door.
Sitting in the corner of the room, leaning over a dusty old desk, was the figure of a sobbing woman. Her shoulders shook as she cried, but it was mostly silent, a few small whimpers escaping from her throat. “What’s wrong dear?” I asked with honest compassion in my voice. The pale white face kept crying into the desk for a minute or two and then slowly turned around in her chair to face me. She was strikingly beautiful but with a very pale complexion, which probably amounted from all the sobbing she had just done. Her lips were thin and quivering, her hazel eyes avoiding mine. Recovering enough to talk, she finally looked at my face and said, “You know what I want,” her voice trailing off at the end and traveling into the darkness of the corner of the room. There was only one source of light, a small lamp that sat on the desk at the far end of the room.
The study was previously used by my father before he left the house to me, but I have no need for it and never use it. I remember my father locking himself in his study almost every night when he returned home. My mother didn’t show that she minded much but I could feel her pain. That man was obsessed with his work. Many days I would return from school and hope that my father would come back from his dismal office at the insurance company and be glad to see me, want to play catch with me, hug me. He wasn’t a mean man, or even a harsh one, but he was uncaring and unloving, at least to me and my mother.
The lamp flickered as I contemplated what I was going to say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, wondering if that was the best I could come up with. Denying the obvious wasn’t easy, even for me. Our marriage was falling apart. She said that I was always distant, something that she could never reach. I never understood what she meant. I still don’t.
“You have to let go. You have to let me go!” her voice rang out, this time a little louder.
“I can’t do that, you’re all I have left.”
With a loud scream, the woman ran out of the room crying. I went back to bed and pondered upon what to do tomorrow. “She has to come to bed sometime,” I thought.
I awoke the next morning with nobody beside me and not even an indentation or even any mark that somebody had been there at any point in the night. Putting on my slippers, I go out to search the house for where she might be. She couldn’t have gone to work yet, it’s only six o’ clock. After walking through every room in the house, I give up and decide to eat breakfast. While eating a bowl of cereal and reading a newspaper, I happen to take a glance at the wooden floor. A chill went down my spine as if I had forgotten something very important. Trying to remember what it was I forgot, I realized that it is time that I go to work. As I drive, I reflect upon how I got this job.
I was never a very good student. It wasn’t that I wasn’t smart enough; I just didn’t care about school at all. I didn’t see any point in trying so hard for things I didn’t want. In later school years some kids tried to get good grades because they wanted to make lots of money some time in their life, but I didn’t even care about money. I never was a person that wanted to attain things. I never even finished high school; I just decided to get an occupation. It seemed to me better than school.
Some people say that your job reflects what kind of a person you are. I don’t believe that entirely, but there may be something to it. I never really cared what kind of job I had; I just took the first one that I found. It just happened to be one that nobody wanted. We call ourselves the cleanup crew. Whenever something happens on a road, gruesome or not, we have to clean it up. Sometimes it will just be scraps of metal and shattered glass, but other times there are human bodies that need to be cleaned up. They say everybody has trouble at first when doing that job. I never had trouble. Whether or not a person has trouble at the beginning is irrelevant. After a while, everybody either quits or loses all feelings for those around them.
My wife says I never should have taken that job, that it did me harm. She and I both came to realize that the job had nothing to do with what happened between us.
It was a Saturday afternoon, about two weeks ago. It was a beautiful day, but we decided to spend it inside. While watching the television, my wife turned to me and said, “I can’t do this anymore. You don’t love me.” She said this in a very calm and normal manner, giving no indication that she was distraught about it.
“That’s not true,” I replied, “I love you very much.”
I said this in an equally unexcited way, which surprised me even more than her manner.
“You don’t love me. You own me. You don’t know what love is.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to love me.” She said in a rather exasperated tone.
“No, I mean what do you expect to gain from telling me all this?” I said in a frustrated tone.
“I don’t expect anything.”
“But I’m loving you! What else can I do?”
“Then why doesn’t it feel like love?”
“Does it always have to feel like it to be love?”
“No, but it has to sometimes.”
“Surely you feel loved sometimes.” A short pause left the room in silence.
“No, I don’t.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Then why did you marry me?”
“I thought it would get better. I thought I could show you how to love, but I know it was a dumb idea. You’ll never change. I want to leave you.”
Standing up I said, “You can’t, I won’t let you.”
“Just watch me.”
As she headed for the door I ran after her and tackled her to the ground. As she wriggled and writhed in my arms I whispered in her ear, “You will never leave me, not like this.” In a horrific rage I threw her to the ground, her head hitting the ground first, knocking her out. Walking calmly to the door, I turn the lock and make sure that she will never leave me again.
As I reflected upon that day, I think that I may have been a bit rash, but at least my wife is still here with me. After work I ate dinner and headed straight to bed. There was still no sign of my wife, but I knew she had to be around here somewhere.
During the night I had a dream. I was a young boy again, sitting at the table. My mother and father were making dinner in the kitchen. My father was cutting onions because they didn’t bother him and they made my mother’s eyes water a great deal and she liked to avoid that if she could. “Can I help you honey,” my father asked in a very loving tone. “Oh no, you have helped far enough already. Only so much work needs to be done. You can’t help if there is nothing left to help with,” my mother replied. They continued to finish making dinner. My father started whistling a tune and the room resonated with a cheerful melody. I felt very happy as I continued to watch them enjoy each other’s company. My father then turned to me and spread out his arms.
It was at that moment I awoke. I knew my father would never hug me. Sitting up in bed I heard a sound. It was coming from the kitchen. I grabbed the bat that I now kept beside my bed every night and crept out of my room and down the hall towards the kitchen. The noise was becoming louder and clearer as I drew closer. It was a slow shuffling sound followed by low and feeble groans. Creeping slowly into the kitchen I see nothing. Gripping the bat tightly and listening for the noise again, I look around the room
.
After feeling quite sure that there was nothing there, I flipped on the light. Just then I heard the noise behind me down the hall I just came down, this time it was faster, more frantic. Rushing back down the hall I see the figure of an old man.
“Oh, hi dad,” I said. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Well there aren’t many places to go,” he replied through a sheepish grin. “I’m too old and weak to go very far. It’s been years since I’ve made it to the kitchen.”
“Why don’t I see you more often?” I asked in a polite and simply curious manner.
“Well, honestly, I don’t really want to be around you.”
“You’re avoiding me?”
“Ever since you locked me up in here.”
“Why do you want to leave? Don’t you feel guilty?”
“Son, I’m tired and I don’t want to waste my energy arguing with you. Let me leave!”
“I can’t do that dad.”
“And that’s why I’m avoiding you. Why can’t you just let go?”
“You have to pay for your mistakes!”
“And who made you the judge! I loved your mother greatly.”
“No you didn’t. If you did, she would still have been alive and I wouldn’t be here today. I wouldn’t be in this place.”
“I knew she wasn’t going to live and I gave up hope! I couldn’t bear it any longer; it was too much for me.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Suit yourself, I’ll only be trapped in this house so long, but you, you could be stuck for much longer than I will be.”
The old man vanished into thin air, leaving me staring at the wood floor.
I wasn’t surprised at his vanishing, but rather the fact that he appeared at all. It had been a long time since I had last seen him. I knew he had to be around somewhere; I just never looked for him. It was his punishment that he had to stay in the house. That punishment was decided by me. There was no one else to inflict it upon him, but he deserved it.
The old man had it coming to him. He let my mother die, the last person I ever truly loved. I remember waiting by her hospital bed, tears in my eyes but not truly understanding what was going on. My father was standing beside the bed, looking tired and ragged, but not worried. He didn’t seem to care at all. In fact, it seemed like an inconvenience to him that he had to stay with her, as if he had better things to do. His favorite show was probably on or he had some work that was more important than she was. She was dying of cancer and he couldn’t give her the strength to carry on? She had no hope left and nothing to live for.
I could never forget her dying words. The coarse words wrenched themselves out of her raspy throat as she spoke to me, but didn’t turn towards me. “I’ll see you soon,” was all that came out of her mouth. I was the only one in the room so she must have been talking to me.
With those words, her dying sigh emanated throughout the room, only to be squashed by the sounds of nurses walking back and forth through the hallways and beds being rolled along on the cold, hard, tile floor. I was so shocked that I didn’t cry for three days. I couldn’t eat or drink anything either. I was forcibly made to drink some water, and upon its being forced down my throat, I could hold back no longer. The water poured down my throat and the tears streamed down my cheeks. It seemed that I was losing water just as fast as I was gaining it.
After all this happened, I don’t think I was ever the same again. My friends didn’t want to be around me anymore. They said there was a marked difference in my temperament. It wasn’t a violent change except maybe in the sense that I was violently indifferent to the world around me.
Enough ruminating. Time to go back to bed.
It just so happened that the next day as I was returning home from work, as I was stopped at a stoplight, I saw a large and innocent looking golden retriever starting to cross the street slowly. It seemed as though it was completely oblivious to the actions it was taking and the danger of it. The light turned green just as it started crossing the street and many cars started moving along just like they would any other time they were going through a green light. Adrenaline kicked in and I opened my door quickly and ran after the dog, waving at all the cars to stop. Many honks followed my actions; for many people thought that I was a crazy jaywalker. A big truck was making a left turn that would certainly flatten the dog, but as it was nearing the dog’s imminent death I picked it up and brought it to the sidewalk as the truck let loose a long and certainly unneeded blow if its horn.
Leaving the dog on the side of the street with a firm, “No,” to let him or her or whatever it was know that it was not to do that again. Walking back to my stranded car I see the dog following me. Knowing that if he keeps doing this he will get himself into the same predicament that he was in before, I quickly picked him up and put him into my car and continued to drive home. As I drove, I rolled down the windows and let him hang his head out the window. There was something special about this dog; I could just tell.
Entering the front door, I set the dog down on the floor and I look up to see my wife, standing there waiting for me, up from her usual resting place. “So this is him?” she asked with a peculiar grin on her face. “What are you talking about? Were you expecting this dog?” There was no reply as she went up the stairs. As she reached the top, a voice came from behind the shadows, “This will be good for you,” she said with a smile that I could feel but not see.
I turned to the dog and said, “Well, if I went through all that trouble to save you, I might as well just keep you. Of course, if I’m going to keep you I need to give you a name.” I thought a moment and tried to think of something catchy and ironic that had to do with how I found him, but nothing of any value came to mind. I finally decided to just call him Buddy, thinking that was just generic enough to be an unpopular name.
From that point on, except when I was at work, buddy was always an arm’s length away from me. He would play catch with me until my arm was so sore I couldn’t hold up the newspaper to read it the next morning. He would just keep bringing it back, wagging his tail like a propeller gone wild, swinging back and forth and criss-cross until it seemed that it must fall off. I was right; there was something special about Buddy. He made me feel different. It was as if something inside me had come alive again. It was a familiar feeling and I liked it, but there was a melancholy note to the feeling. It felt as if my mother was still alive and I just had to reach out and touch her, but I knew she was gone, leaving a bittersweet feeling in my stomach.
The whole world seemed to fade away. All that I cared about was myself, Buddy, and what we could do together. One day, about a month after I brought Buddy home, my wife appeared again. Buddy and I were wrestling playfully on the floor when she appeared in front of us. Buddy immediately ran to another room.
“Finally, I was worried at first that it was never going to happen,” said my wife.
“What are you so happy about? I am perfectly happy and with no thanks to you.” I said with a proud smirk.
“I know. This is the best way,” she said, leaving me in a mysterious stupor.
After saying these words she vanished. I never saw my wife or father again.
Trying to figure out her cryptic little speech, I was suddenly struck with the feeling that I had forgotten something very important to me. I never saw buddy again either. Ever since he ran to another room when my wife appeared, I couldn’t find him. I blamed it on my wife; she must have had a hand in this. I knew she couldn’t stand to see me happy.
I was left alone in my house. Lonely and depressed, I was reduced to staring at the wood floor. There was something about that wood floor. I kept staring at it hoping that it would give me answers. It felt like the answers were inside me and if I stared at the floor long enough, I would be able to find it stored deep within.
It started off as a whisper every time I looked at the floor. It was almost as if it was trying to tell me what I could not remember. I tried to make out what it was saying to me, but it was too quiet to hear. The whisper became louder, now an audible noise. I could hear one word repeated over and over very slowly, “Come.” The voice continued to grow until it became two distinct voices, a male and a female. They were frighteningly familiar, but had a demonic aspect to them, as if they were under a trance. My wife and father were calling me.
It seemed as if I couldn’t think of anything else. I was being called. I was being called not upward, but downward, towards the place I had been avoiding. Their cries echoed in my head all the time. My entire being raged against their calling. Everywhere I went was I haunted. It came to a point where I couldn’t even hear anybody speak but those that called me to the floor! The ritualistic voices were now accompanied by drums, pounding my head into oblivion with a constant thump, thump, thump.
I wanted to leave the house, but every time I did the noise got even worse. I didn’t want to remember what I had forgotten anymore. I was so close to recovering what I had forgotten and was eager to remember, but the voices in my head made it clear to me that I did not really want to know.
The voices were very clear now. They had been clear for days. My wife and my father screamed at me day and night, not allowing me to sleep. I didn’t know where to go for help. Any logical person would have thought I was crazy, but I know I wasn’t crazy. The noise eventually became so loud and made my head throb so much that I could actually see my forehead bulging and receding beneath my long brown hair. My eyes were bloodshot and were encircled by dark bands of darkness.
As I tried to go to sleep that night, I couldn’t bear it any longer. Running into the kitchen with my bat I tried to break the wood floor but was unsuccessful despite the incessant battering of the bat against the floor, driven by the rhythmic beating in my head. Running out to the garage, I grab a sledgehammer and return to the room. After breaking through the floor, I kneel down beside the hole and start ripping up the wood planks in a furious frenzy. The jagged wood cut my hands and blood dripped onto the floor.
The beating in my head finally stopped as I stared into the hole I had just created. The only rhythmic sound I heard now was the constant drip, drip from the blood on my hands hitting the ground. Exhaustion finally took its tool as I fell into the deep, dark, tear.
“No, mother, I won’t see you soon.” I said. I closed my eyes.
Shadows danced and laughed on the walls, but there were no lights.