Wednesday 29 May 2013

2.37 The Headache





2.37 AM, Jerry sat alone on his balcony. He was in total darkness except for the red burning tip of his cigarette; glowing in the night. He wondered if anyone could see him, sitting alone smoking at this ungodly hour of the morning. He imagined a sniper waiting, steadying the gun, ready for Jerry’s third drag before firing the bullet that would release his pain. But there was no sniper and no blessed relief. 

The rain hammered down on the roof above him and on the garden below but it wasn’t the weather that kept him awake; it was the headache that prevented sleep. On days like these Jerry wanted to rub Ibuprofen gel into his skull to see if he could kill the pain in his brain. But he knew he couldn’t, and he knew it wouldn't.

2.37, would eventually turn to 2.38 and then seemingly an hour later would turn to 2.39, time moved like that at night; every second taking a lifetime and every minute taking an eternity. During the day of course it was different, during the day he could hardly keep up. Time disappeared like the water draining away in his garden down below. Jerry took another drag, his head ached but it wasn’t like your normal headache. This was a pain in his frontal lobe that made him feel like his skull was closing in on his brain from all angles. It was loneliness, desperation, helplessness, haplessness all rolled into one. 
The stupid thing was he had a wonderful wife, two beautiful kids, and a great job that most would die for, so why the pain? Why the loneliness? Why the desperation? 
Just then something caught Jerry’s eye, two glints of light, in garden below. He looked closer and saw the outline of a cat who, despite being drenched, was walking proudly down the path; a real stray cat strut. Jerry nearly smiled as he took one last drag. He wished he could have that arrogance, that confidence, that ability to deal with adversity. He wished he could be feline. As the cat disappeared Jerry yawned,  stubbed out his cigarette, quietly opened the balcony door and climbed back into bed next to his wife, hoping sleep would come before the alarm clock.

6 comments:

  1. Why? Good question? sometimes it's just like that?

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  2. Hemingway said: Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.

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  3. very sad.... but how true...

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  4. Maybe his life is too sweet, too beautiful, too pleasant, too easy, too light. The sweet lightness of being. But how long can you veg out like that? This lightness of being becomes unbearable, as one writer said. A human being needs some heaviness, weight, burden to feel the meaning, importance, significance of life, needs to get rid of fake aspirations, superficial relationships and the overwhelming feeling of nothingness.
    The film American Beauty came to my mind as I was writing this.
    This story carries lots of meaning (and I couldn't sleep for a couple of nights too so this chracter is very dear to me:-))

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  5. Sad and touching stories today

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