All the symptoms were there. There was no denying any of them. He knew it and, then too, knew the feelings of helplessness that went with them. Life had been a cruel task master for Leachim and, now, approaching his thirtieth birthday, the helpless, depressive feelings were whelming up inside once again.
All the questions, all the regrets, all of the days, months and years that passed without fulfillment brought him to this point once more. He shook his head, silently, wondering why there were never any answers. Mentally, he felt debilitated. He was slipping from rational thought, consumed in dark thoughts.
For Leachim, levity, even simple laughter, was a stranger. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had a genuine reason for laughter. Over the years he'd grown suspicious of people that laughed too much. Something was surely wrong he reminded himself and often. He was certain many of those people laughed for other reasons, perhaps personal, nasty, reasons; masked, cruel, responses to those around them they thought lesser of.
But, this particular morning, Leachim managed a cruel little smile, of his own, and even followed it with a small chuckle. Leachim's thoughts turned to his life again. This morning his mind bent the thoughts, comparing his journey through life to that of a small child placed on a merry-go-round. The circular motion of the ride compared favorably to his life, he thought. Each time he was tossed from the ride, following some self destructive path, he was somehow thrown right back on to the whirling ride, never quite knowing how or why. Each return frightened him more, making the effort harder and harder to maintain a solid grip - on his ride of life. "What was the point?" He muttered.
His cruel smile faded and Leachim Nuthrof felt his time was coming to an end, for real this time. He had made that circular journey, perhaps, for the final time. There was no golden ring, waiting to be plucked from a pole, for him. There was no higher purpose to his life. (A folly that he once entertained after giving thought to having escaped death on several occasions.) Long ago, Leachim gave up believing in God, fate perhaps, but not God. Grabbing another cigarette a form of, slow, corporal punishment he believed, Leachim lit it. For some reason the arcade game, Pong, came to mind.
"Pong! Yes, that was a better analogy." He said aloud, exhaling a long stream of cancerous smoke from his lungs. He used to love that game, as he recalled. He was good at it too. At least about as good as he was at the game of life. Somehow it all made sense to him. The ups and downs, slow – then faster and faster – back and forth went the small orb. As long as he kept the ball going he won. The trouble for Leachim was he could never keep it going. It always slipped by him at some point. Game over. Start again.
So, here he sat at the start of another day waiting for the incessant phone rings of bill collectors, looking for their money. Most were automated and Leachim knew nothing would stop them, short of payment and that he didn't have. Once again, Leachim felt the small white orb had slipped by his paddle. "Fuck!" he muttered.
This day was to be different though, at least in one respect. Setting at his table he'd made a decision and this time it wasn't with uncertain conviction, as in times past. This time, Leachim was ending the game willingly with no desire to restart it; Leachim had stepped off the merry go-round, set his Pong paddle down. What Leachim didn't know was that his particular life game would restart, with or without his permission. There would be a twist that even he could never expect.
Following the first dun call, Leachim jerked the phone line from his phone. He rose silently and stripped down, as he walked into his bedroom. It was a game he played with himself, when these thoughts came around. Stepping in front of the full length mirror, Leachim tried viewing himself as others might, after he was dead. Thoughts of pale, cold, flesh entered his mind, sending a chill through him. It delighted him in some perverse way and his thoughts turned to other more chilling visions, visions of blood. Long streams of his thick, red, blood oozing from beneath his shatter head, a victim of a self inflicted gunshot wound. The cruel, little, smile crossed his lips once again. "Why should he make his death neat?" He thought. Messy, gory, a real shocker for people to get sick over and shake their heads wondering the "why" of it all and the expanded thought seemed to satisfy Leachim and his smile widened.
Leachim's eyes wandered his body, taking in his frail body. He wasn't muscular. Average might accurately describe him but, Leachim felt otherwise. As often happened during these times, Leachim got sexually excited, really never knowing why. His eyes looked over his nudity, as his hands lightly trailed his skin leaving goose bumps everywhere they touched. His erection was no surprise either, nor the strength and hardness of it; to Leachim it was right and proper and he only wished it would last after his death. He recalled past thoughts of taping a suicide note to his erect penis, like a flag on a pole; and his grin widened, as he imagined the note fluttering in front of those viewing him in death. What the note would say never occurred to him, it was just the act, the final vision for those who found him dead – and still hard!
The intensity of his erection called out to him and Leachim walked off to the shower, forgetting his desire to be hard after death. There was a more urgent need and he satisfied it while the hot water beat down on him. Leachim cried out the names of the few women he had ever known, and been with during his short life, as he stroked his manhood furiously in the shower. His legs weakened, his body started to shake with the pending climax and just as the first thick stream of cum shot from his cock, he reared back his head and cried out his sister's name – Rosemary!
Two
Oblivious to Leachim's newest resolve, Rose was starting her day on the other side of town. Rosemary, at first glance, seemed a plain looking woman, 5 years Leachim's junior. Like her brother she too had experience at the down side of life. She may have seemed plain but, a second glance told another story. She chose to keep her considerable feminine attributes hidden. The black, long haired, tangle of curls sweeping down along either side of her face, made her look as if she'd just gotten out of bed most days. Her eyes were a deep, intense, blue shade and she'd never show cased them with make-up. Her large, black framed, glasses were a way to diminish their beauty, which satisfied her. Nor, had she bothered calling attention to her pouting, full, lips by using lipstick or gloss of any kind. Rose chose simple and often baggy clothing, hiding her taught up-turned 34 C cupped breasts; breasts that gave way to the soft, sensuous, mound of her belly. If not for her fair, pale skin, Rose could have easily been of another race, as her perfectly rounded and tight buttocks might attest to. That is, had anyone been able to see the delicious way they bounced and wiggled. Rose was her mother's daughter, a beauty unwilling to show it.
Without knowing, Rose shared the morning with Leachim in one respect, she was thinking and none of it was good. She'd quit her job at the department store the day before. It wasn't much of a job anyway, she mused pouring herself a second cup of coffee. It was pure denial on her part as she was, mentally, unwilling to acknowledge the sexual abuse she'd endured over her time there. "Better to just leave – yup better." She thought out loud.
Rose stood to raise the kitchenette window shade and shivered. The thought of the manager's thick, groping, fingers came to mind. The shade opened to a world of dark, overcast skies, filled with a cold drizzling rain and she closed her eyes, cursing silently. Another uninvited thought entered her mind, causing her to wince and near vomit as the thought brought to mind the manager's foul smelling breath – breath laced with the odor of cigar smoke and the rotting smell of undigested food between his teeth. A single tear pooled in her right eye and oozed over her eye lid, running down her cheek. Rose remained staring out the window, unconscious of the fact she was clutching her vulva, tightly, trying to erase his touch.
Rosemary was one of, perhaps, thousands of thousands of women that endured such workplace cruelty. She had been predisposed, you could say. Leachim had been gone from the family home nearly five years when life slammed down hard on Rose. Rose started school late, the fate of those born at the wrong time of year. Approaching her nineteenth birthday and graduation, she arrived home to her very drunk father, one day. Enduring his crude remarks and leering stares for all as she dared, she'd run into her room in tears. She wouldn't be safe – not this day.
Nothing prepared her for the ultimate cruelty by her father, not the obscene gestures of the other girls at school; not the groping feels of the boys; not the hurtful comments or the way nearly everyone shunned her. In screams of agony and pain, Rosemary felt her father take away her virginity; and the hideous onslaughts would not end until the night she slipped away, scared, ashamed and worse of all pregnant. She'd run to Leachim that night. Their mother had died years back, the victim of an accident but, not if you questioned their father. He had other ideas and freely shared them with his children, who he blamed the most, and often, in his drunken stupors.
She felt safe only in her brother's company. Leachim had taken care of her that night. She agreed to the abortion, enduring it as only a woman can. What happened after that is what frightened her the most. Leachim disappeared two weeks later and never discussed where he'd gone when he returned. Rosemary's only hint was a news report involving a man found dead, an apparent accident victim. Officials were searching for anyone knowing the man, as no identification was found on his person. Rosemary nearly fainted when the artist's rendering was shown on TV, along with a number to call – all calls were confidential they noted.
The only satisfaction Rose received from Leachim was a knowing smile. Nothing more was ever said about the man's passing, and Leachim made Rose promise she wouldn't call. "He can rot in hell Rose." Leachim had said, before walking off.
