THE EVERYDAY-NIGHT

It was always the same. I woke up at the same hour of each night and puffed the smoke of a cigar in this murky, shadowy room. The cold wind seeping through the open windows made the curtains sway eerily, like ghosts dancing in the dim light. Smoke curled toward the single, grime-streaked window, where the remote city lights bled a sickly yellow into the dark. Another night, another impossible hour, the past a relentless echo, leaving a hollow ache in my stomach. The moonlight reached for my toes, a warmth embraced by my bones. A chill coursed through my veins as my shoulders stiffened, a creeping numbness seeping into my bones, as if the darkness was slowly crystallizing within me. Tick-tock. The clock on the nightstand mocked me with its relentless march. Just as I was about to drown my sorrow in another puff, a shrill ring shattered the fragile peace. It was an old receiver in the other room, the one I usually kept unplugged. I got off my bed, a single, unmade bed with a worn-out mattress, and my red, restless eyes wandered around the cluttered room, taking in the dirty clothes scattered on the floor and the empty bottles on the nightstand. The ashtray was filled with smoking cigars and butts. Nearby, a box of cigars lay open, the lighter almost out, next to the clock that read 00:06. A broken dresser leaned against the wall, its drawers hanging out like tongues, and a worn-out armchair sat in the corner, its upholstery torn and faded. I glanced around, taking in the familiar chaos, before heading to the other room. I went to the other room, struggling to turn on the lights, which flickered and hummed before steadying. The room was sparse, with only a few pieces of furniture, including a small, rickety table with the old receiver, an outdated phone that sat on it. On the wall above the table, a strange picture hung, one that I had found in the house when I moved in. It depicted a group of people in old-fashioned clothing, standing in a circle and staring up at something in the sky. Their faces were twisted in a mixture of fear and awe. I had never been able to figure out what the picture was supposed to be, but it had always unsettled me. I pushed the feeling aside and picked up the receiver, waiting. “Hello?” I rasped as I tossed the cigar aside and puffed the last breath of it, the sound of my voice unfamiliar. Static cracked for a moment, and the silence made the atmosphere intense. The lights started flickering, or was my mind playing tricks on me again with its cognitive distortions? Then, a voice, rough as gravel, sliced through the thickness of silence. “Jack,” it rasped, a name from a lifetime ago, a name I’d buried with the dead. The devil had called, and I’d answered. “Who is this?” I snapped, the receiver pressed tight against my ear. A puff of warm air tickled it, sending chills down my spine. “Strange you have forgotten me, and here I was thinking we were best pals,” the anonymous voice went on. This wasn't real, I told myself. Because the one who was speaking was a casualty, I recognized the voice. My breath hitched, and a tremor ran through me, making my teeth chatter. Sweat, born of fear or exertion, coursed down my cheek and fell to the ground. "It's been a while," the phantom rasped with a deep, intimidating voice. I felt my heart liquefying. Suddenly, the receiver's reception started to weaken. The sound was then replaced by the unpleasant hiss of static. I was just standing there, frosty still, with the receiver held high to my ear. Sweat slicked my palms as I slowly replaced the phone. Wide-eyed, clammy-skinned, my back was against the wall. A moment later, the lights flickered wildly before the bulb blew, plunging the room into darkness. I went back to my room, trying to calm my racing heart. I sat to light another cigar, but my shaky hands wouldn't let me. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, the adrenaline slowly subsiding as I closed my eyes. The shrill ring pierced the sudden quiet. My heart, which had just begun to calm, jolted awake. I lurched toward the receiver in the cimmerian room, heart hammering in my chest. I picked up the receiver. This time, the voice on the other end was infuriatingly familiar. “Hey Dave, it’s Tom. Thought I might check up. How about we grab a drink tomorrow? My treat, we have a lot to catch up on.” I nodded and agreed, and the conversation continued for a while. Knowing it was Tom behind the receiver, the atmosphere, once heavy and oppressive, now felt light and carefree. The air was unfrozen, as if the very molecules themselves were rejoicing in their newfound freedom. Our paths had crossed hitchhiking when I ventured into the countryside, and ever since then, I’d tried to keep people at arm’s length. Ironically, it seemed that got Tom and me closer together. Tom was the type of person who burned the candle at both ends, throwing himself into work with relentless energy. The richest man in town, despite my desire for solitude, Tom's boundless energy was strangely magnetic. He possessed a wealth I couldn't deny, yet his lack of attachments made his riches seem hollow to me somehow. He ran this huge company in the city a few miles east while he managed a farm here in this little town of ours. “You know, it wouldn't hurt if you could just put on the uniform I brought you and join us in the fields,” he always said. He’d been trying his best to persuade me to work ever since we became pals, but as usual, I preferred to stay cooped up in my room or drown my sorrow in alcohol down at the local bar. I replaced the receiver. I shuffled into the dark room, my hands outstretched in front of me like a blind man, fumbling for the fridge. The door creaked open, and a faint light spilled out, barely illuminating the space. I rummaged through the nearly empty shelves, my eyes scanning for something, anything, to quench my thirst. A lone beer sat on the middle rack, probably a leftover from who-knows-when. The expiration date had long passed, but desperation doesn't discriminate. As I grabbed it, the fridge light cast an eerie glow on the floor, revealing a discarded coin, probably lost in the chaos of forgotten struggles. The creaky floorboards beneath my feet seemed to echo the state of my finances, worn and broken in places, with loose boards that threatened to trip me up at every step. I picked up the coin, dusted off the dirt, and tucked the beer under my arm. As I walked back to my room, the floorboards groaned and swayed. Back in my room, I set the coin on the nightstand next to my bed, the beer clinking softly as I placed it beside it. I took a cigar and lay back on the bed. The cigar dangled between my fingers. My eyes felt heavy, but I refused to give in to sleep. The wind whispered its serene blows to my ears while drying my eyes and soothing my lonely soul. I could feel my body subsiding and my thoughts abating. My body relaxed, letting go of the tension that had been coiled in my muscles for what felt like an eternity. My breathing slowed, and my mind, though still racing with fragments of thoughts, gradually surrendered to the weight of exhaustion. The world outside receded, its problems and worries fading into the distance as my eyelids grew heavy. In the quiet darkness, my thoughts untangled, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of my debts, the emptiness of my fridge, and the uncertainty of my future all dissolved, leaving only the gentle rhythm of my heartbeat and the soft whisper of my breath. A morning stroke of sunlight sliced through the grimy windowpane, followed by a raw, ripping sound—a chainsaw biting clean through the skull of the world—that slammed into my ears. It wasn't just noise; it was a bright light tearing into my eyes after a lifetime spent wrestling shadows. My head plunged into a dizzying tinnitus, a high-pitched shriek that felt less like sound and more like my very brain frying, its delicate veins stretching and expanding as if trying to escape the confines of my skull. Each tooth of the saw was a scream, carving not just wood but splinters of sanity from my skull. I opened my eyes, bleeding and immaculate, leaving me feeling like a drowning cat, my vision stained crimson. I pushed the blankets aside, and I sat upright for a moment. I stepped out of the house, and a sound like a fresh, oozing wound assaulted me. A timber truck sat packed just meters away, and I spotted four lumberjacks. A man burst from the woods, yelling furiously at one of them. As I narrowed the gap, I saw it was Orson. When he spotted me, his rigid frustration seemed to melt, and a gleam of recognition softened his hard face. The lumberjacks went into the forest, and Orson approached me. "By the beard of Paul Bunyan, it's been a coon's age since we last crossed paths!" he boomed. A boisterous belly laugh burst from him, making his whole frame jiggle as he reached out for a firm handshake. His rough, big hands swallowed mine. "What's the word from your neck of the woods?" he inquired. "Ah, you know, the usual ups and downs," I replied, glancing at the loaded truck, then added, "What about you? You seem to be keeping your own. It looks like Cora must be feeding you well." He let out a throaty chuckle. "You can say that with no doubt in your mind; that woman plays her role like a goddess." He turned to face the truck, now standing opposite me. "On the other hand, a man's supposed to work tirelessly to provide. It almost seems like we are slaves to our own happiness, wouldn't you agree?" He looked at me, waiting for an answer. "I can't say, my life is not full of cherry blossoms and beautiful long legs you left back home," I responded. For some reason, we started walking. "I don't know what that means, but I'll take it as a compliment," he said. Then, with an almost explosive burst, he added, "So, I heard you found yourself a birdy." I gawked at him, my eyes wide and bubbled. I chuckled lowly, "Nothing passes anyone in this town, ha?" I paused. "It's a small town, Dave. You breathe the same air the person next to you exhaled, and I heard from Hank." "That rumormonger. Always waiting for a juicy bit," I said, sighing. He chuckled, "He's our ears and eyes, nothing passes that fellow." He glanced at me and added, "So, is it true? You finally found yourself the one and only, or was it just a one-night-stand thingy that you boys do nowadays?" I sighed, "I can't really say if I'm willing to commit yet. Taking care of myself is already a burden. Adding someone else to the mix seems overwhelming." He gave me a knowing look, one that suggested he'd expected my response. "Sooner or later, you'll have to settle down. You are not getting any younger, you know. Marriage is not such a bad thing as it seems." He laughed, "Take it from me, I've been married for five years, and I'm still happy." I shook my head, feeling a pang of despondency, "Even if I wanted to get married, life can never give me what you have, Orson," I said. He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, "It doesn't matter what life gives you. What matters is that it gives you something, and you've got to be brave enough to embrace it." Orson had always been the most jovial person, a right guy to talk to. A few minutes passed, and the lumberjacks emerged from the forest, carrying wood and loading it onto the truck. We exchanged goodbyes, and as the truck drove away, Orson honked the horn loudly as it disappeared down the hill. The sound of the horn faded into the stillness, and my gaze drifted out over my house and the town below. My house, a weathered old wreck that seemed to cling precariously to the hillside, offered a panoramic view of the quaint settlement. The forest loomed behind me, its dense canopy stretching out into the unknown, a mystery that had never been fully explored. Below, the town unfolded like a patchwork quilt, its buildings a mix of old and worn, yet charming. The town hall stood out with its clock tower, the church with its simple yet elegant spire, and the mayor's house, a grand old mansion that dominated the landscape. My eyes lingered on the bar, a humble building with a swinging sign that creaked in the gentle breeze, a place where I often found solace in the company of strangers and the bottom of a glass. The town was a haven of peace, its beauty unmarred by the hustle and bustle of city life. Despite the tranquility, my house stood in stark contrast, its peeling paint and creaking floorboards a testament to my own state of disrepair. It seemed to lean drunkenly against the hill, as if it might slide into the forest at any moment, taking me and my troubles with it, which I wouldn't have minded. As I walked back to the house, I heard the receiver ringing. I opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind me, just as the voicemail beeped. “Dave, Tom here. Something unexpected came up, and I won't be able to make it today. How about tomorrow evening? Call me back and let me know, okay.” The message ended, and I stared at the receiver for a moment. Just as I turned to walk away, the receiver beeped again. “I know you're probably just going to ignore my message. I'll just be there tomorrow evening. We're going out for drinks, and we're getting drunk. Don't even think about making excuses, I'll pick you up tomorrow. See you then.” The message ended with a beep. I let out a deep sigh as I stared at the receiver, Tom's message still echoing in my mind. I decided I'd had enough of the day's drama, and what I really needed was a good scrub. It had been a couple of days since I'd last bothered to wash, and the grime was starting to feel like a second skin. The lukewarm water beckoned, promising a temporary escape from my thoughts. After my bath, I felt somewhat revitalized, the warmth seeping into my bones. As I was getting dressed, I lifted up my worn-out mattress, and a crumpled note caught my eye—a $5 bill. I smiled wryly, feeling like I'd stumbled upon a small treasure. The prospect of a drink suddenly became more appealing. I grabbed the note and headed out into the bustling town, where the streets were a whirlwind of color and sound, like a painter's canvas come to life. People swirled around me, a kaleidoscope of faces and laughter, as vibrant streamers danced in the breeze like rainbow-hued serpents. Children chased each other, their shouts and giggles weaving in and out of the sounds of car horns and chatter, creating a symphony of joy. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the bakery, enticing me with its sweet aroma, like a siren's call. As I walked, a boy whizzed by on his bicycle, his tires screeching like a bird in flight, narrowly avoiding a collision with the flower shop's doorframe. The owner shouted, his voice like thunder on a summer day, "Watch where you're going, kid! You're gonna break your neck or someone else's!" The sound of the bicycle faded into the distance, replaced by the murmur of the crowd and the clinking of glasses from the bar. I pushed open the creaky door, the sign above it reading "Mae's Tavern" in faded letters that seemed to whisper stories of countless nights. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spilled out onto the sidewalk, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. Inside, the bar was a warm, golden cave, filled with the smell of beer and worn leather. Patrons laughed and chatted, their faces lit by the soft glow of neon signs that cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the walls. The bartender polished a mug with a dirty rag, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, a gesture that seemed to welcome me home. I slid onto a stool, the worn leather creaking beneath me like an old fart. The bartender looked up, his expression welcoming, “The usual, Dave?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that felt like a gentle nudge. I nodded, my eyes scanning the room, taking in the familiar faces and the sense of community that came with being in a place like this. The jukebox played a lively tune, and a group of patrons sang along, their voices off-key but enthusiastic, adding to the charm of the moment. I smiled, feeling a sense of belonging, however fleeting, as I settled into the rhythm of the bar. The bartender, a gruff but kind-eyed man with a thick beard, made his way back to me, a whiskey on the rocks glinting in the dim light. He placed it in front of me with a practiced flourish, the ice clinking softly against the sides of the glass as it settled on the worn, wooden bar top, its surface etched with countless rings and scars from years of use. The glass itself seemed to glow with a warm, amber light, as if infused with the spirit of the liquor it held. I wrapped my fingers around it, feeling the cool condensation bead up and trickle down my hand, and raised it to my nose, inhaling the smoky aroma of the whiskey. The first sip was like a warm hug, spreading a comforting glow through my chest. A tall, slender man strode toward the counter, his voice echoing as he bantered with some old-geezers seated next to the jukebox. He settled onto the stool beside me, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the polished wood as he placed his order: a simple vodka with a single juice. His gaze met mine, and his eyes were a shocking crimson. They were so bloodshot and raw they seemed to be two open wounds. “This can't be, Dave?” he said. My eyes widened, and a jolt of recognition shot through me. It was an uncanny feeling; I had never seen this man before, yet his face felt profoundly familiar. “And who might you be?” I asked. He threw his head back and bellowed a laugh, his tall frame bouncing up and down like a comically large yo-yo. “Have I gotten that old?” he said. My gaze lingered on his features, trying to make sense of the man standing before me. Then, as if a blurry photograph had suddenly been developed, the face of a younger man came into stark focus behind the lines of age. “Walter?” I said. "Ugh!!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if unveiling a grand spectacle. His grin stretched ear to ear, flashing teeth that gleamed like polished ivory under the dim bar lights—part triumphant, part mischievous—as if he’d just pulled off the greatest trick in the world. A stunned silence wrapped around me as the weight of recognition crashed over me in one dazzling, impossible moment. "What brings you here?" I asked, keeping a straight face, though inside, my mind raced. He laughed softly, eyes gleaming with that familiar spark."Ahh!! You know, jumping from place to place like a rabbit." He shrugged, grinning. "Actually, I was here to see a friend. Didn't expect to bump into an old one. How are you still kicking after all these years?" “What can I say? There’s no time to die,” I said. “Spoken like a true veteran,” he murmured, the words carrying a wryness that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His drink arrived — a simple vodka with a splash of juice. He looked at it for just a second too long, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips before fading. His fingers traced the rim in slow, absent circles, as if expecting the glass to be warm the way it once had been. His shoulders eased back a fraction, the way one does when letting an old weight settle. A shallow breath slipped out through his nose, quiet but deliberate, as though the act itself was part of holding something in. Whatever memory it pulled up lingered behind his eyes — quiet, unsharable, and softened by the years, yet still capable of cutting if held too long. I watched, pretending not to notice, though the air between us had shifted. It wasn’t the drink that had silenced him — it was the place it had taken him, somewhere I could never follow. Not yet… and maybe, when the time came, I wouldn’t want to. I lifted my glass slowly, meeting Walter’s gaze. “To meeting again,” I said, my voice steady despite the churn inside. He nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As our glasses clinked softly, the shadows in the corner of the bar seemed to stretch longer, folding into the dim light like something breathing just beyond sight. I caught a flicker—too quick to be anything real, yet too deliberate to ignore. Some ghosts, it seems, never stay buried.