Of Finishing

"The scariest story is an unfinished one." Michael agreed and so did his wife. His used to be wife. He wasn't quite sure how to put it yet. They had been together for god knew how long, and neither one really counted the years. It's not that they didn't care about time frames and anniversaries, they were just afraid they would get so busy counting they would only see numbers and forget to take snapshots of all the memories they were making. No one looks at dates on polaroid's anyway.

Writer's both, they feuded constantly, looking for some way to outdo the others words, looking for a way to change syntax so suddenly their story became a philosophical marvel while the others ceased to even match a script from an old Barney cartoon.

Michael didn't do a lot of writing anymore, not since she was gone. What was the fucking point? He didn't give a good god damn what the critics thought and he had never made millions out of a story, so why should he have the nerve to think he would now. He mainly moped, and stomped about the house, dusting off shelves and shelves of great literary pieces all the while glancing over his shoulder at the typewriter that had lain vacant in the office over the past seven and a half months.

The manuscript scared the ever-loving shit out of him. It just sat there, all two hundred and thirty three pages (with one page sticking half out of the typewriter like it was commanding some fucking army of paper soldiers). Stupid manuscript, pompous and proud that it was ruining the subtle peace he had made for himself over the passing hellish months. Some days he couldn't even bare to walk in front of that damned cubicle he and his wife had called the office. He didn't dare go near it for fear that the neat stack of papers would catch his eye, and the day would finally come when he could bear the stress no longer and have to go and read the cursed thing.

She wrote it during the hardest time of their marriage to be sure. He hated remembering all those tears and feelings of nausea, so why would he want to hear it from her viewpoint. There was no way it could be any less heartbreaking than his own experiences. Michael laughed at the absurdity of this thought. Of course it could hurt more! She wrote it you dummy! You know damn well she only wrote exactly what she was feeling. And there was only one feeling in those final few months; Pain.

Still when the company taking care of her called over and over again to remind him that his "attention to this matter would be greatly appreciated", he still had no words for them, no fleeting glimpse of wisdom or some great rhetorical slogan. He had an empty house and a large, barely subdued monster sleeping in the same room he used to practice his passion. He had anger and frustration, he had a broken heart and a soul that was useless to himself and the rest of humanity. But mostly, he had fear...

"Fear", He mumbled to himself, almost inaudibly as he headed toward the old rotary phone he rarely ever touched anymore. He dialed robotically, staring off into space with glazed eyes and a throbbing in his head.

"This is Michael Glave" he mumbled when the funeral director answered on the other end of the line. "I know what I'd like inscribed on the tombstone."