Cold Break (standard:other, 1681 words)
Author: kickboxrko	Added: Sep 06 2004	Views/Reads: 3331/2171	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
California...the ideal hotspot. Warmth, pleasure...and death?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

meaning. It's just there, like someone handed me a blank check. I have 
as much as I need. So now it's useless. I remember my Economics teacher 
talking about Supply and Demand. It's a lot like that. There's so much 
I can do now, so many new things, but everyday (or moment rather) it 
seems pointless. Direction is useless.... 

I saw Kale eventually. It wasn't what I expected. I was at the local
hang spot, and I saw him sort of floating above the water, looking far 
out. I waved and he waved back, and that was it. It made me sad, and at 
the same time, I moved on. Seems silly now to dwell on the past. 
There's a lot of dead people in California. Tourists and the rest of 
America have this little picture in their head of California; people 
walking about, the sunset in the distance, a light misty breeze on your 
cheek. All I see are dead people hanging around, not doing much. It's 
much quieter, least when you want it to be. Seems the dead don't speak. 
There's not much to say. 

I bet you think I must've cried at my funeral. Matter of fact, I left
early. Kind of got bored, seeing all those people weeping and moping. 
They should be enjoying the day...they should be out on the beach, 
hitting the surf. They should be in their homes making love, or playing 
with their kids. Instead, they waste time on drugs and beer, they drift 
and lope in misery. Something did stir inside me when my brother 
started doing cocaine. Those were some awful times for him, and I 
pitied him. I tried to cry when he overdosed, but I didn't. I don't see 
him in my side of Cali. 

I think my Dad is okay. He was always quiet, a surfer just like the best
of us. He was always into his books and piano. He plays it a lot more 
now, sometimes for hours.  I can hear him playing when I'm on the roof 
of the church. Now I understand what he could never say, because as he 
played, for some odd reason, I connected with his feeling. The music, 
his mind, his soul flowed in and through me. It was kind of like a 
somber dance. I only wish my mother could do the same; I worry for her. 
Dad will make it, as long as he can continue to play. I'm starting to 
think that maybe he senses me as well. That would be nice. Mom makes me 
sad. She's cheating on Dad, and even she doesn't know why. I see her 
every Thursday in the park, with some kid from school. I forget his 
name, but he seemed nice enough. I know he doesn't make her happy and 
certainly doesn't fill her loss. When I first saw them, I felt anger 
again. Anger like this I have never known, and it nearly swept me away. 
I remember I was floating high above town, trying to feel the wind, 
when I heard her my mother moaning. I rushed to the sound and saw them, 
in the that rusted orange pickup truck of his. That's when I lost it; 
the tree's started to sway, the car started to shake. I started 
screaming, and it felt as if the air itself was pulsing. I don't know 
if I made any sounds they could hear, but I saw my mother's face. It 
had changed from a look of ecstasy to a look of recognition and pain. 
It hurt to look at her, my cheeks were getting red, so I hurried away. 

Time is an enemy. Everyday it taunts me, simply because I can no longer
see it. I don't know how long It was before my father died. At the time 
of his death, it seemed important to me to know how old he was. My 
mother never knew this, but my father had long ago discovered the 
affair. He didn't let on how much it hurt him. They still slept in the 
same bed every night, and I think that's all he needed. Until the day 
he couldn't play the piano anymore. The pain got to him, and it was 
agonizing. Without his support, without his wife or his music, even his 
soul was desperate to leave. So it did. 

Seems now that life's pointless. Why live knowing death is truth? That
the only constant thing in this world is ending? I don't know. Maybe 
that's a question that can never be answered. Right now, this very 
moment, I'm standing outside my house, peering into the window. My 
mother is in the den, and she's crying, cradling my father's pistol. 
There are empty bottles of brandy all over the floor. I start to cry, 
wail, to scream. It's the first time I've felt real since my death. 
Through my tears, I see my mother looking out the window. She's 
smiling. I feel someone's hands on my shoulders, and they're long and 
delicate; a musician's hands. I hear the bang, and see the white. 


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