22

He had a small inkling, that when he turned twenty two, he would have to prove that his life meant something. He needed some small symbol of purpose, but, up until that point, nothing signified him above other average human beings. Not one thing. His birthday passed without significance.

His name was Sean, but no one called him that. Seen, they pronounced it. The thought of it made a chuckle emit from his throat. It was a wonder he had any friends at all, what with the ideas that ran through his head. He met his only friend, Lucy, one day by an unordinary string of events at the local grocery store. To put it simply, she found him being pushed around in a cart by his mother. The then eighteen year old, was sitting cross legged lost in some alternate reality---tapping away at the laptop that sat between his legs. Lucy spotted him coming around the corner near the eggs. She had been curious before when she saw him get into the kart, and had decided to approach him, on the off chance that her services were needed. She read over his shoulder for about a minute before he even noticed she was watching.

"What do you want?"

"To be your editor." She replied in a voice that made his heart sing.

The precarious situation enhanced their friendship, and was often a lingering memory in Sean’s mind whenever he spoke to her.

He was extremely odd, which Lucy pointed out every time they talked. His reply had been simplistic, "I am a writer." Anything beyond that didn’t make sense.

Perhaps this is why, by the time he was twenty, he spend his whole life in front of the computer aspiring, to the only profession that made sense in his mind, writing. Writing is the only thing he knew. He breathed it, bathed in it, and yet couldn’t wrap his mind around it whatsoever. It yanked him in like a gravitational pull. It wasn’t just the numerous tedious minutes in front of the keyboard, or the outweighing number of times he ended up in the E.R. for this obsession, (never eating, never sleeping) it was something much more ominous then that. He felt it in his soul. It kept him typing, typing until his mouth crusted over with cotton, typing until his eyes screamed for him to blink, typing until the carpel tunnel set in his wrists, typing into the endless hours of eternity.

He had not published anything. Lucy said his pieces were great to read, but too crazy for normal humans to understand. She clicked with his brain that way. She lay on the same frequency accepting both his A.M. and F.M. tendencies.

She pushed his limits because she knew she could. It gave her satisfaction, and in a way it did the same to him. Some of his best pieces only came through her tireless nagging questions. She forced him to look at his books critically, and in the end it made his ideas intuitive and inventive.

To this day he couldn’t figure out why she was so kind to him, but he always remembered the look on her face that first day at the grocery store. Her half smile spreading across his memory. It was like she knew, without a doubt, that he was indeed a writer. To have someone else acknowledge that, was all he ever wanted.

He looked down at the piece of cake dismissing any thought he had just suffered through. In an absent nature he looked up at the ciggs now sitting on the kitchen counter. A red bow covered them.

What was the point of this weak gesture? He could have bought them himself; he was twenty two after all. He didn’t smoke though. Who had sent them? His first thought was Lucy, but it was beyond what he thought she was capable of. Then again. . . Her mind was sick that way. This was one of their huge jokes that only the two of them would get. They talked about second hand smoke and lung cancer. Only, this time, Sean really didn’t get it. He thought this sick joke of hers, however much he didn’t understand, was even more amusing then the last one she had attempted, and he broke out in another laugh.

He picked up the pack of cigarettes off the counter, holding it between his gangly fingers. Well, he thought, Why not start?

Someone, if it wasn’t Lucy, had sent the cigarettes for a reason. If indeed it was Lucy, he wanted her to know that it was she that had forced him into addiction. She would deny it of course, but in the end she would say it was part of the joke all along. Causing him to go through seven months of aggravation, and attempt to quit, but never ridding himself of the habit. this was how she got her kicks (the silly rabbit). This thought gave him a quiet satisfaction.

All of his previous assumptions were based on the idea that it was Lucy who had sent him the ciggs in the first place. It could have been anyone. Someone was pushing his limits.

He pulled a small lighter out of his back pocket. There was no card. Whoever sent them obviously didn’t want a thank you (not that he would have given one anyway).

He walked out back, hearing the crunch of the brittle grass as his shoes crushed over it. He stared at the pack for a while, not wanting to destroy the shiny plastic. He turned it in his hand once, and noticed an inscription in black sharpie on the back just over the warning label.

Baby, Here’s to you. One last smile.

So it was from her. One last smile? He wondered what it meant. Without thinking He ripped the plastic casing off, and threw it on the grass. Whatever her point was she wasn’t getting to it. These circles were a characteristic of the sporadic side of her personality, and He often wondered where she would disappear to when she would leave for weeks at a time. She was an odd one too, just not as much as him.

He pulled a ciggi from the case, and held it between his lips letting his spit encase it a few moments. The wind blew in fierce motions at his face, and it took several attempts to light the cigarette. It caught after a long moment. He inhaled long and slow, letting the smoke settle into his lungs. Little spores caught in his throat when he exhaled. He didn’t caugh, it would only make him look weak, (not that there was anyone around to see him anyway).

He let the smoke linger in the air as he took another drag. He admitted to himself that he liked the way it felt in his lungs, and the way it circled on the air. As he exhaled, he was startled by a loud ringing coming from inside the house. He never received phone calls. It aggravated him when people called; one time was enough to let them know that they would never want to call again. With one last breathe, he inhaled then, letting the small bud fall to the ground, he stomped on it as he made his way back inside. The phone was on it’s forth ring before he grabbed it off the hook.

"Hello? "Hello?" he said it twice, but still no one answered. He was about to set the phone down, when a small female voice came over the fuzz.

"Sean? Is that you? You sound different. What happened to you. . .? Wait, don’t tell me, let me guess. It‘s so much fun when you let me guess."

"Whatever you want, Lucy." he wanted her to confess.

"Oh, I don’t know---You found the cigarettes I left for you! I knew I could persuade you into sucking a few down."

"You would be right in your assumption."

"You know, Sean, you should have never started. It will be impossible for you to quit. I know you."

"Why did you give them to me then?"

"To prove a point. Want to know what it is?"

"You know I do."

"Alright, it’s to prove that I control you."

"Really, because the last time I checked, I was the one writing all the brilliant pieces you‘ve been editing. Doesn‘t that mean I am controlling you?" He wanted to let her know that she meant something to him, but not as much as his writing. She would never add up to anything compared to his writing.

"Perhaps. . . But I think that the tables are about to turn. Besides, you are too easy. I wasn‘t even in the room with you, and you managed to smoke them on your own." He knew she was right.

This wasn’t, however, what he was suspecting of her. He figured it was all part of the sick joke that she wanted to keep playing.

"What do you want? Get to your point, you know I don’t like the phone." his abrupt voice countered his thoughts.

‘I want you, precious. Only You." What did that mean. He voiced this in his own words.

"What’s going on. What are you saying?"

"I think you know. . ." she trialed off, making him assume the worst. He racked his brain, but really hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about. He couldn’t get far before his brain was interrupted, again, by her brash shrill voice that made his ears cringe.

"Your brilliant, but you know that already. If I had a tenth of your talent I wouldn’t be wasting it the way you do. That’s why I’m taking it from you."

"Lucy. . ." what was wrong with her. He paused, listening her hard breathing on the other end of the line. He wanted her to say something else. He wanted her to say one thing that made sense. He was losing his mind.

"You know what I don’t understand?" she said after a few short moments.

"What?" he wanted her to humor him.

"Why everyone praised your writing, and why no one said a word about mine. All you had to do was scribble some meaningless crap on a scrap piece of paper and people would praise it. Yet, when I tried so hard to write something with signifigance, no one seemed to notice it. Funny how that works out, isn’t it?"

"I don’t understand." he didn’t either. She had always just wanted to be his editor. What was she on about, (what was she on, would be a better question).

"You, and your brilliant mind, I just couldn’t leave you alone. Not after what you made me do!"

"What did I make you do?" a huff emanated on the other line.

"Don’t make me play false pretences with you, Sean. You evil bastard! You know what you made me do!"

He didn’t. . . He couldn’t have. . . Not anything.

"I didn’t do anything, bitch!" the words were not his own. He didn’t know where they were coming from. They came at him as if he knew what he was talking about. Like he had had this conversation before.

"The story, Sean, the story."

"Ah, yes, the story. I remember, you and your pathetic attempts at writing. You above all people should know that what I say is final, and crap is never anything else then crap."

"That is why I wanted to prove you wrong. Don’t you see? You thought you could have it all; me as your editor, the world as your stage, your books published."

"I can have it all." it sounded like a selfish prideful statement. But, wasn’t it true? He would have it all, minus the psycho he had on the phone now.

"I’m taking it from you, Sean. I’m taking it all." she spoke just as he had, as if she knew it already in her mind. The sick joke stretching out in front of her. "If only to prove a point."

"You could try." he stated.

"No, It is already done. It was in the ciggs you idiot. Aheaheahe, she started to laugh.

"You evil Psycho!"

"Don‘t you see, this is the best gift I could have ever given you! I‘m releasing you from your prison, and I‘m releasing myself from mine!"

He thought she was a crazy bitch, he just didn’t think it would take him this long to figure it out. She was dead wrong if she thought he was in a prison.

"Your stories are going to be the highlight of the year, too bad you won’t be around long enough to get my autograph. I know how much you were looking forward to it, but killing you was so much more rewarding, don’t you think?"

He couldn’t comprehend any of this. Only when he felt a sting erupt from his chest had he accepted the truth of it.

"Happy Birthday, you genius you."

But, he didn’t hear the last statement . The phone fell from his hand as he plunged into the hard linoleum. He clutched the frail fabric that clung to his chest, gasping for air. None came. And with the still moments came a soft dial tone.

All that was left was a whispering in the air.

If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. . .