The Lake

The smoke is warm when it first hits his mouth. It has an earthy taste, more grass than dirt, yet it is not at all unpleasant. He inhales deep, bringing the haze into his lungs. It burns his chest and he exhales amidst a fit of hacking coughs; white smoke spilling out of his mouth and swirling in the cold dark air. The solitary man stares at his reflection in the water before him, his eyes are fire red. He had hoped this would bring some peace and help him forget; instead a flood of memories consumes him.

         It had been different this time. He couldn’t bring himself to kiss his sleeping daughter goodbye. He couldn’t bring himself to look Caroline in the eyes when he said, “I love you too.” It wasn’t his voice, mechanical and cold; he said it without passion. No. Something had changed.

         He pulled the old car into the same motel parking lot that he had countless times before, and walked to the front desk to get the key to the same room he always did. He opened the peeling door and was greeted by the familiar aroma of sweat and vomit that seemed to be ingrained in the carpet. He flipped the light-switch and took in his surroundings. The floor was littered with trash. His trash; an empty six pack, a pizza box, and a torn green condom wrapper from his last stay. Christ, they hadn’t even cleaned it. He sat on the edge of the moth-eaten bed, turned on the ancient television, and waited for Charlotte to show up.

         As usual, she let herself in the unlocked door. She looked good, she always did, but tonight he didn’t care.

“Work was awful, I’m glad you could get away tonight.”

He said nothing, and glanced at the door.

She tried again, “I just need to blow off some steam.”

“Don’t we all,” he said and looked at the door again.

He should have left, he knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave her and instead he took off his shirt.

It was quick. Mechanical. Nauseating. Awful. She looked down at him, sweat forming on the edges of her mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

He shook his head.

“Look, I really don’t need this tonight.”

Again he said nothing. He pushed her to the side, got up, put on his pants and walked towards the door.

“What the hell, Jim?”

He stepped outside and shut the door in her face.

A raindrop strikes the water, distorting his reflection, and the invisible clouds unleash their fury. Jim drops the roach onto the wood and smothers it with his heel. He sits down on the edge of the dock and runs his hand along the lockbox at his side. He is scared, terrified, for no discernable reason. He knows Caroline will never find out on her own; he actually does travel for business often enough, yet this only agitates him more.

        His cell phone rings, as if on cue, and he lets it ring through to voicemail. The familiar voice on the message turns his insides, and he tosses the phone into the pond before she can ask how the flight was. He runs his hand along the box again, and notices that he is shaking. He attempts to stand, falters, turns, and vomits over the side of the dock and into the water. His hand finds the edge of the box and opens it. The rain splatters on the barrel of the .45 as he lifts it out of the box. It’s slippery in his hand, but his arm is steady. The cold steel on his temple sends a chill down his spine, and the man thinks for a moment that he’s being rash. His trigger finger loosens slightly, and he decides he’d like to go for a drink.