Lone Man
Tick, tick, tick, the clock keeps rolling, a constant reminder that I am slowly wasting away. With my habits not making it any better. 1 A.M. is what it reads with the sound of the fireplace now making itself heard with its soft and prolonged crackles batting the loud and sudden ticks.
But I continue to stare at my blank roof with eyes that are slowly losing their strength and their wetness as they begin to go against blinking. My body then jolts itself awake as the sensation of falling took hold of me, though it is brief, it was alarming to my body’s system, so my heart began to beat quickly and my breaths became short but sharp and I hurried to sit up. “Christ!” was all I thought, as if I was angry at myself—mostly my brain.
But the ticks of the room and the crackles of the fire soon brought my mind to ease as the brain registered that no predator was near. So I lay back onto my thin pillow and her thin sheets, snuggling into my sweater as I rest.
Tap, Tap, Tap, Tap, is what I heard causing me to thrash around my bed, and soon those knocks turned into pounds with a notable voice yelling out something, but my groggy mind was not up to the challenge of interpreting. Tick, tick, tick, it was 1:47 A.M. not too long after I managed to fall into slumber. I sat up and simply stared at the fire across the room listening to the crackles. Then the pounding reintroduced itself. My eyes went wide, and my body entered a flight or fight response due to the shock, but then my more modern response kicked in as I yelled out “Fuck! Hold ON!“.
I quickly dashed to the wooden door and unlocked it and swung the door open, uncaring of what lay beyond its shield. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a nice fur coat with a large puffy collar, with a beard that marked his face as dangerous yet kind. His eyes were teary yet were voids to fear. But my drunk self said, “May I help you?” As if the man wasn’t standing in a snowstorm.
“Yes, you may. Can I please lay here till the storm blows over?”
“Why, of course! You are kind Sir!”
He seemed confused beyond belief as so am I in retrospect. He walked over to the fireplace with each step causing a floorboard to moan, while I kept the door open staring into the snowy inferno.
“One hell of a storm, right?” His voice was groggy and full of cracks, “Yeah, my God look at it! You can’t even see green in sight! While we live in the forest!”
“My brother, you may want to rest. You have the voice of a drunkard. Also, mind closing the door sooner? It is still quite cold.”
For some reason or another, whether that be me wearing full cotton with multiple layers, or my biological tendency to project heat like a jet engine. I simply didn’t feel the cold until he pointed it out to me. The coldness sent shivers up my spine, raising almost all hairs on my body and I shut the door.
I look at the hunched-over man, he stares at the fire, kneeling on his toes ever so carefully hovering close to the fire. Perhaps he admired its color and warmth, perhaps it was simply a placeholder for thoughts and memories I can’t comprehend. Whatever it was it captivated him fully, to the point where I asked him if he would like a coffee and he seemingly didn’t acknowledge it even occurred. Continuing his gaze, till I asked him again this time I raised the volume and stood closer to him. He shuddered and quickly turned around “Yes, please.”
I walked over to my small stove which stood next to a window that faced a tree so almost nothing could be seen out of it, other than the reflection of the person, I filled the kettle with a water bottle and placed it on the stove, flicking the dial while I walked to the man.
“Coffee can be set in a minute or two. Strong or weak?”
“Strong, as strong as you can make it. Bitter. Make it bitter.”
He continued to search in the fire, pondering something. He always scratched his chin when he dove too deep into thought or leaned too close to the fire. But I never asked questions about his mentality, I mustn’t pick a wound too fresh, is what I’ll say to myself. The kettle soon screamed and I poured the water into a mug with a reindeer on it with it written above it, “Happy Holidays!“, and I only put the coffee grains into it.
“Here.” I walked over to him and handed it to him.
“Oh, thank you.” He grabbed the warm mug and observed it. “A reindeer! How cute. Thank you.”
Tick, tick, tick. Time marches on. 2:30 A.M. He simply sits there near the fire, saying much of nothing. I asked him some questions, all of which were met with thin and cold air. His mind still processes whatever it is that needs it. So I simply lay at a nearby table sitting on a thin wooden bench, with an open notebook and pencil laying on it with some words already scribbled down.
“I should’ve made a coffee” is what I keep regretting my face having the sensation of melting and drooping down.
Then the man spoke suddenly, breaking the air that took over, “Sir? May I have another coffee?"
Me being once again drugged up by the confusion of sleep, simply didn’t respond and had my cheeks lay in my hands. Then he did another action that broke sensible order. He stood and walked over. He tapped my head a couple of times, each repetition being followed with, sir?
“Mmmm, yes.” is what my drunk self responded with.
“I wish no harm, nor interruption. But may I have another coffee?”
“Why of course you may, my kind-hearted giant. Here, hand me the mug.” I held my hand out and he gave. And the process from earlier repeated itself, except another was made, with 2 spoons full of sugar. Except when I handed it to him he sighed.
“You know?” He paused causing the utmost drama and tension.
“What is it you wish to say?”
“It’s just, ugh. You see how late it is, and how, or what situation I was in.”
“I know nothing of your position. Since I never got a response, I won’t hold that against you.”
“Ah, yes, I am sorry for such rudeness. I was simply, umm-”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand. Sort of. But I don’t know what happened.”
“Nothing much, 2 days ago we were on a hike, and snow built up because of snowfall the other night. Apparently, it was a strong blow the other night. The whole thing came toppling down. Why? Can’t tell ya, but by God’s Will I managed, Jack almost did too, but avalanches throw stuff sometimes. He was unlucky.”
“Lord, but that was 2 days ago, what happened next?”
“Well. We parked at the base of the mountain, the snow, and snow bikes got buried deep. The only reason why I wasn’t, well, couldn’t tell ya. It still puzzles me. Survivors’ guilt maybe. Or something. But spent the day trying to make it back to our rental, was a couple of miles away about 7 not too far, but shit, snow didn’t make it easy, and by then it was mid-day, so I was for sure going to be consumed by the dark. So I made camp Somewhere and slept on some branches. Long story short, the storm hit mid-day, had to bunker down and traveled slowly, say a cabin, and knocked. Last, here we are.”
“Sounds like you have had a tiring journey, one far from grace and hopefulness. Huh?”
“Sums it up, yeah, but I’m still here, though I know the memories shall haunt me, I can still walk, and will continue to do so.”
“No time to process?”
“I already have, he is gone, through time the wound shall heal, despite how it seems it never will. When one cuts and bleeds he always thinks the blood never stops rushing, at last, it does. So I shall trust myself.”
“There’s no doubt about that, time always heals some wounds.”
“Some?”
“Yeah, time can’t really cure cancer now can it?”
We both laughed despite how grim it was.
He stopped and spoke first, “Perhaps some other stuff, but. We shall always try to beat it either way, what’s the point of a fight if one is the only one punching? One shouldn’t go down without a struggle. Doesn’t make sense if they do.”
“True, the human spirit simply won’t allow that, unless it has been gouged out through some mental war, but that is many battles. Plus the only reason the spirit is lost is when it’s fighting itself. Right?”
“Indeed, but again, never go down without a struggle, always fight. If the world were against me, then fuck it, I shall kill the world.”
Little after that both of us fell asleep, he slept on the floor with some left-over blankets and pillows. “Fight despite the struggle? I agree with it, but how come I’ve never thought of it before? Perhaps I simply try to compromise. Maybe, maybe not. Ugh, I just hate myself don’t I? This ugly paradox of our self-awareness. I know to fight, yet shant. Perhaps I haven’t struggled enough? Perhaps pain is the last food my soul needs to feel full. But my mind feels in revolt against it. “No it hurts too much, pain is pain, must we wish for it for what it teaches?!′ ’It teaches what it should! What all should know! We shouldn’t be blinded by the day in order to do so we must breathe in the night! We learn life through the struggle and learn to love it despite it being the root of all pain, for it too is the root of all good. Don’t blame life for it simply is. Blame man for making it worse. The world is bad, why do we make it worse? We must strive for virtue!” Perhaps extreme, or probably just poorly worded. I don’t know. All I know is that I haven’t hurt enough to know to love what I have.
Tick, tick, tick, chirp, chirp. 10 A.M. I woke up first before the man, he folded his blankets for more layers and was surrounded by blankets and small pillows, then I drank a cold coffee and ate some slices of bread with jam. Soon after I finished my toast he awoke and I turned around from the open notebook towards him. “Ello” and he repeated.
Nothing happened soon after that, other than some brotherly banter about various topics and things. Talked about deer, models of snow bikes, books we’ve read, and perhaps their meaning, but we usually couldn’t remember their subject matter, leading to half-baked answers. But we rode on my snowmobile and traveled around 4 miles, apparently, he was misdirected by the storm. If he hadn’t found me, then my, my he would’ve died. I dropped him off and he gave me a seldom look, told me he would mail me someday, gave me his address and I, mine.
