I Love my Lonesome.

The tall stack of books swayed under the weight of each proceeding novel. It would have fallen if it wasn’t for the intricate nature in which they were piled up. Dust covered almost every aspect of the confining apartment.

The glass windows no longer were a two way sight.
You couldn’t read the titles on the library of reading materials.
You could just barely see the very still man crouching in the far corner.

A bony hand extended, reaching toward the charred socket. His gray eyes scanning each detail of the outlet as his broken fingernail plucked at the black burn mark on the white plastic.

“Damn it.”

He mumbled beneath his breath, voice hoarse from either the pipe smoking, or the heavy shield of dust that permeated the apartment’s air supply. Finally he’d allowed himself to stand, his thin knees extending to return the figure to his original six foot height. His attire was questionable. His jeans were modern-bought but worn. He lacked any shirt, and in some way it seemed as if he chose this to show-off his almost concave abdomen. It was as if his bone structure was eating away at itself.

Slowly crushing together till it became nothing.

He practically creaked along with the wood planks as he took each slow step. Ascertaining that there had in fact, been a knock to the door. The knock was gentle, he knew who it was. Using the familiar rhythm he’d become so used to.

The woman from across the hall.

The woman with the cherubic face, who always seemed as if she was readying to say something that might be of some importance; but she never did. Her voice was mousy, and although sharp it held a gentleness. A comfort to him every time she came around.

The only one left to make sure he hadn’t collapsed.

His gaunt fingers outstretched and wrapped around the rusted knob. It creaked and used what strength he had left. To pull it open was too much of a task, so in rhythm he moved from the doorway and the woman pushed the aperture ajar.

“Donovan?” she spoke up, he didn’t even hear her for a moment, till it became apparent that she was looking at him with question.

“Thank you.” he had the habit of keeping their conversation short, instantaneously knowing that the brown paper bag cradled in her arm was for him. Was it Sunday already?

“I picked up some things, you know, more vegetables like usual.” she paused, looking him over with concern. “I bought you some meat as well, really, you seem sick.”

“Do I?” Donovan questioned with a sarcastic nature. He knew how he looked, and he knew how he felt, but it was to be expected. He didn’t even see day light this week. “I’m fine.” he watched and waited for their exchange, she handing him the bag and turning on her way.

“Donnie, I’m going to cook for you.” her statement came matter-of-factly and surprised him in some way, but he hadn’t grasped what she said immediately. Before he could protest, she stepped inside the apartment, easily brushing past him as he was so narrow. Her dark eyes scanned the interior.

The tall white walls held bits and pieces of a sickly green wallpaper that had covered them in some past year. It would’ve been discerning if the dark oak bookcases didn’t cover most of it. The books were a sight within themselves. The worn spines, the dull colorings of each. It seemed as if the man’s character was encompassed within the vast array of literature. If he stood against them, she did not doubt that he would simply disappear.

“You don’t…please,” the soudn of the door closing broke the confused silence. Donovan turned on the balls of he feet. “I can’t…” he shook his head, his hand outstretching and for a moment touched her shoulder.

He quickly retracted the gesture and let his palm rest on the center of his chest. Feeling his heart beat through nonexistent muscle.

“It’s no problem Donovan.” she didn’t even bother to glance over her shoulder as the woman headed toward the kitchenette. The overall appearance of it contrasted starkly against the rest of the apartment. The man had neglected this room quite obviously. “and call me Bryn.” she brightened, letting a small grin brighten her features. Feminine fingers reached into the paper bag once it was set down on the counter, going to work on the meal.

Donovan had made the conscious decision to clothe himself fully, grabbing at a two-sizes-too-large white t-shirt that she had brought him a few months back. It had been too small then.

I Love my Lonesome.

Amber Kipp

Key West, United States

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Artist's Description

I need to write a short story for Creative Writing Class. This is the beginning.

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