Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
I kept on pacing, but slowed down as the adrenaline burst died off, slow and steady as reality kicked back in. My hero dash downstairs had been a welcome interlude in the events I’d perceived unfolding tonight, but that was all. A few minutes of saving grace before I paid my final dues.
The snakes of self-loathing were still hissing in the shadows, ready to close in and take me. I was hoping I’d finally succumb to them, after several failed attempts on my suicide resume. One would hope I’d have a little more resolve this time around.
I dropped myself back down on my scuffed chesterfield sofa – a second-hand shop throwaway, worth less than the pen in my hand. It was as jaded as I was. A dejected version of the piece it would have been in its prime. Fitting.
I downed a shot of whisky before I resumed my writing with shaking fingers. The paper was lined, which should help me keep the words legible. Should. It hadn’t been working all that well so far. I’d written a variety over the months, some begging forgiveness, some trying to help my wife understand my filth, some practically blank as my sullied brain struggled for reason.
Katreya, this letter began.
But no combination of words would ever cut it.
My pill bottles were already lined up. I’d been stockpiling them for five months, which was more than enough to see me through to the other side. I hoped my anonymity in Worcester meant it would take days if not weeks for someone to find me, by which time I’d be long gone. Nothing but a blue tinged corpse, worthy of my destination.
That’s where I wanted to be. In the ground, not floating around like an outcast in this shitty life.
Katreya,
I looked at the empty page below her name. It should be a confessional booth to regurgitate my soul into, but my words had dried up – a pitiful excuse from a professor of English. Sorry, a former professor, now nothing more than a disgraced man requested to resign his post rather than taint the college’s good name. I still remembered the shock and disgust in my colleagues’ eyes. And now I was nothing more than a minimum wage insurance clerk, filing paperwork and restocking the stationery cupboard for a firm downtown. What a life success.
I downed another whisky and rethought my farewell. Why go into the minutia? What I hadn’t admitted in person would have soon been uncovered in the aftermath.
I forced my pen to move, opting to spell out the obvious.
Katreya,
Sorry I was a sick cunt.
I deserved this.
Yours, Julian.
What a hypocritical sentiment. I hadn’t been Katreya’s in heart for well over a decade. She’d known it, too. Both me and her were lost to each other, regardless of the public façade. What did that matter, though? I was still perverse enough that she despised the very sight of me and always would.
I ripped the sheet of paper off and tossed it aside along with the others. Half written letters to Grace and Ryan, my daughter and son. An attempt for Michael, asking him to manage my probate affairs and arrange a barren funeral. My parents were both dead, which was a small mercy. They hadn’t had to live through my disgrace.
I recalled the hurt in Katreya’s eyes as she spat her hate at me, jabbing a finger towards the laptop that had finally seen me exposed. She’d been pointing at a full screen camera shot of one of Grace’s best friends with her legs spread wide and a thick dildo stretching her open, gazing up at the camera like a whore. She had the word slut scrawled above her pussy in marker pen, which was another piece of damning evidence. Katreya recognised my handwriting from a mile off. That’s what twenty-six years of marriage does for you. She knew me inside out. Or so she thought…
Funny how such a great therapist as her couldn’t see the madness in her own husband’s eyes.
I couldn’t even plead it was a moment of insanity. That photo was one of hundreds. They showed at least three of the girls from Grace’s college circle, seven years previous.
The hurt in Katreya’s eyes had stabbed me far less than the hurt and rage in Grace’s when she found out, so thank the Lord I’d tossed my laptop into my suitcase along with my clothes so that she didn’t have the option of viewing the pictures for herself.
Fuck off and die, Dad, she’d told me through raw tears. I can’t believe you’ve done this. I can’t. I just can’t! It’s sick. It’s absolutely fucking sick!
Pain, heartbreak, disbelief, embarrassment. I wondered how many of her friends had admitted they’d fucked me after Madeline blew the first whistle. Most likely a lot of them.
The other girls on my laptop were more recent examples. Students from my own classroom. Some as recent as last September.