Brandon Tolman sat on the well-used toilet within the confines of the dingy, yellowed bathroom. With sickened thought, he wondered how many prostitutes and how many illegal drugs had passed through the small motel room, located off the six-lane main highway running through Salt Lake City, Utah.
As he sat, trying to empty himself of the many liters of alcohol he had consumed over the past three days, he watched a cockroach scurry alongside the worn, dirt-engrained shower stall. Feeling all the more queasy, he quickly steered his head into the old washbasin, but could only dry-heave with disgust.
Outright disgust. Not necessarily of the conditions of the room, but of his situation, his life, and how everything changed in such a short instant.
'But, was it really in such a short instant?' He thought, as he peered through the open doorway of the bathroom to again realize that this was no wicked, tormented dream. No, the situation he was in was no figment of imagination, for it was a matter of fact - very real, and a very harsh reality.
"What have I done?" He whispered, with sickness. "What the fuck have I done?"
Though the past few days felt like one long, tumultuous, never-ending day, it had been a grueling four days since it happened. And, other than the first day, Brandon had been on a drinking binge ever since; desirous to rid his mind of the hurt, fear, and humiliation that he had felt.
The pit of his stomach felt empty, yet was soured by the caustic alcohol poisoning that remained in his system. His hands trembled with anxiety, proving to Brandon that he was distressed and needed some help of some kind, or something. He didn't know, though his mind raced in several patterns of thought, trying to get a grasp on it all. "What the flying fuck have I done?" He again asked, with a heightened tone.
Brandon finished his duties on the toilet, all that he could muster for the moment, and staggered queasily into the one-room rental. His eyes gazed around the room, attempting to make some sense of the confusion of his now-present circumstance.
In one corner, next to the disheveled bed, was a faux cherry nightstand, probably made of the highest quality particle board. It's veneer top had several burn marks, some of which were intentional, others by burning cigarettes, joints, or whatever former occupants had smoked. It's drawer front was missing, and Brandon could see an old, barely worn Bible laying amongst complimentary writing pads. To the other side of the bed, an old 1970's table that Brandon had found to be extremely unstable, barely capable of holding the pizza box that contained one last hard piece of nutrition. Brandon thought that he might have ordered the pizza about two days ago, but wasn't confident of his assumption. Next to the wall, facing the end of the bed stood a dresser, all its drawers unoccupied except for Brandon's few change of clothes. It didn't match any of the other few pieces of furniture that occupied the room, it's wood color being a completely different hue of brown. Yet, Brandon supposed that it sufficed for the moment. On the dresser, a TV that had been locked to the wall, with a thick braided cable. Brandon mused that the piece of shit wasn't worth stealing, knowing by experience that it had only two volumes of sound: mute, or loud. It's volume buttons were missing and the remote could perform only one function: turning the TV on, or off. Complimenting, or looking odd next to the TV, stood a small refrigerator, with a warming plate on top of it. Brandon hadn't actually used the warming plate, but did try it to see if it worked. Surprisingly, he was tickled to know that at least one of the burners worked.
It was a far cry from what Brandon had gotten used to and the lifestyle that he had lived over the past five years of his marriage. In fact, just four days ago, he had it all and then some. He couldn't have wanted, or needed anything more - in a materialistic sense. And, taking a second glance of his current living condition reinforced the blatant ignorance of his own actions. 'How could've I been so fucking stupid?' Brandon thought, shaking his head in mesmerized disbelief.
Just four days ago, he was living in a lifestyle of prominence, security, career opportunity and marital, material wealth. Though he was only twenty-four years old, "he" owned a beautiful rambler situated in a new construction development. The home was only two years old, and custom built for he and his wife, Paula. Every facet, and every architectural aesthetic was determined prior to construction and built to exact specification. After all, his wife's father owned a residential architectural firm, and his wife's mother was a very prominent interior designer. By the genes that must have been given to her through the conception process, Paula's skills honed in a natural manner. She was artistic - able to naturally sketch and draw, color coordinate, and provide harmony throughout each room and area of living space. She was also business oriented - capable to realize priorities of tasks, management of assets and day-to-day operations.
Due to a tragic event within the first two years of Brandon and Paula's marriage, Paula became a non-voting officer of the board of operations of her father's firm. At that time, her mother and father were involved in a fatal accident, causing a Trust to be actualized, and the operations of the business to be transferred to Paula's control on the grounds that she graduate, Bachelor level, with at least two majors: Architectural or Interior Design, and Business. Whether or not she chose to satisfy the Trust's requirements, Paula had been Willed to receive 100% of her parent's personal assets, minus Probate costs and the associated costs of death.
