Venom Adhamm
No one is ever going to want me
Criticism and feedback appreciated.
[SIZE=12pt]The bright yellow star and the expansive blue sky hid themselves behind a wall of oppressively grey clouds. Sunday. The morning forecast said that heavy rain would be coming and lingering for the next week. Those who chose this particular gloomy morning to venture out of their homes had already prepared themselves for the incoming inclement weather with raincoats or umbrellas. You could pick the poorer people out from the crowd because they carried no such protection against the precipitation that would soon pour down upon the rainforest of buildings. I was not one of these financially starved people, and yet, I carried with me no line of defense against the tears of God; I had greater fears plaguing me.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]I dragged my feet as I walked at a lagging pace behind the torrent of people trudging upon the sidewalk as they made their way to the various destinations located within the confines of this downtrodden city. Cars drove past me and the other pedestrians, headlights shining bright in the left side of my field of vision. A droplet of rain fell upon my head of white hair. In perfect unison, as though guided by a single sentient mind, everybody around me opened up their umbrellas. A second droplet fell on my head. Another landed on the side of my forehead and flowed like a river down the course created for it by my wrinkled and eroded skin. Before that drop reached the end of its journey, I became showered by a deluge of water from the clouds above. [/SIZE]Men and women from various walks of life passed me by, keeping dry beneath their umbrellas or raincoats. Some people were sitting against buildings, drowning in the rain and begging for money so they could escape poverty for one day, or so they could waste it all on cheap, bitter firewater. Whatever the case may have been, everybody ignored them as though they were just street decorations that had been there as long as the buildings they sat against. With no charity to spare in my frail heart, I too ignored those street-side bagatelles.
[SIZE=12pt]Cars drove on past us all, their masters shouting curses and throwing out profane signs to other drivers or to pedestrians passing early to the other side of the street. One old woman crossing the street almost had a heart attack when a man sounded his horn and flashed his headlights at her. Nobody went out to help her, but she managed to keep her heart beating normally until she escaped safely to the other side. Rain continued to fall on me, and I continued to walk. By the time I reached my destination, the sidewalks and roads were slick with the ocean that was currently being drained out of the grey wall that loomed overhead. Water from the puddles I stepped through penetrated my torn and weathered shoes and soaked my dirty grey socks. My reprieve from the weather took the form of a painfully white and painfully familiar building with a red cross outside. This was where I needed to be for today, but not where I wanted to be. Any other place would be better. When I entered the building, the eyes of all the dying or possibly dying patients turned to my soaked person that was currently drying and forming a puddle on the welcome mat. Those eyes turned away from me as they became more interested in reading the magazines available for their perusal in the building, magazines with colorful covers, decorated with photos of celebrities and bold yellow text that shouted “Celebrity Scandal!” or something similar. On some of these covers, there was a small section in a corner about an author or artist that had recently suffered an untimely death.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]I approached the reception desk, above which rested a red analog clock that went on day by day with its incessant and never-ceasing ticking. A young lady sat behind the desk, seeming to be more interested in everything in the room that wasn’t me. Her makeup and long blonde hair were done with care. She seemed like she’d be extremely friendly and kind to people who could look out towards the stars and see they had many years ahead of them. She couldn’t look me in the eyes.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Last name is Daniels.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]She turned her gaze away from the area just below my eyes to look at the computer and go through a list of people whose names she would never engrain into her mind.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Okay,” she said in a way that made it seem like the needless word was meant to interject an impolite sigh, “Dr. Pontius will see you soon. Please have a seat.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]Without another word, I took a seat out of sight of the receptionist and spent several long minutes staring at my feet or at another random point in space. I was all too aware of the smell of stress in the room that emanated from people worrying about the results of medical tests, as well as the smell of an air freshener with a fruit scent that was working fruitlessly towards trying to allay the dreadful atmosphere that permeated the microcosm of the hospital.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]“Mr. Daniels?” a nurse’s shrill voice called from behind a wooden door, opened slightly in a way that allowed onlookers to see only her head and her hand that was lightly gripping the its edge. She scanned the room, settling her blue-and-bored eyes on me when she saw I was rising from the dark wooden chair with dark grey cushions. That chair was exactly like all the others in the reception chair; they were all probably bought in bulk when they went on sale. My eyes briefly met those of the nurse. Before the longest hand moved on that red analog clock, she turned her gaze downwards, then turned her back to me as she started to escort me to a patient room.
[SIZE=12pt]“He’ll be here soon,” she said before swiftly leaving the room and closing shut the windowless door behind her. The room was like the rest of the place in its subdued color palette: a white floor, a white ceiling, and four white walls. Paintings of mountain vistas and forests with the sun shining through the leaves and breathing life into the day were hung up on the wall, accompanied by charts and graphs regarding the statistics of how many people die from different dangerous diseases. A grey table, with glass jars and endless sheets of paper on top of it, was pushed up against a wall, shielded from the lights on the ceiling by a similarly grey cabinet pinned to the wall just above it. I sat down in a chair just like those in the reception area, this one resting against the wall adjacent to the door. Across from me was a grey examination bed with a roll of white paper draped over it, and next to me was a short brown-wheeled stool with a red cushion. I could hear rain drumming on the roof and the lights humming along to the rhythm. Loud footsteps and the door swinging open broke the melody.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]“Good morning,” the doctor lied as he strode in. He must’ve been in his forties. His light brown hair was combed to the side and out of the way of his forehead decorated with a few stress lines. The rest of his face was ornamented with a wrinkle here, a wrinkle there, a bit of stubble, and a pair of grey eyes. He held a clipboard in his left hand. I could see his veins in that hand, along with a tan line that stretched around his vacant ring finger.
[SIZE=12pt]“How have you been?” Dr. Pontius asked as he pulled the stool in the room in front of me and took a seat. He looked me in the eyes. His time in this occupation must have desensitized him to people like me. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Fine.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Have you been attending the group sessions?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“No.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Why not?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Other things on my mind.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“I see,” the doctor said, likely referencing the futility in trying to encourage me to go to those sessions. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Have you at least tried to get in touch with old friends?” he inquired.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Yes.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“And?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“All dead or angry.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]The doctor nodded with a movement of the head that offered no comfort to me whatsoever. He went on to ask other questions regarding my physical health. How many times have you vomited into a bowl of porcelain and water over the past month? Do your muscles feel stiff or weak in the morning? Do you feel like your senses are still acute? After blankly hearing my one-word responses to each question, he scribbled something in illegible handwriting on a slip of paper, then handed me the piece of defiled parchment.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“I’ve upped your dosage. Take this to the pharmacy and call me if you feel any side-effects. Take care, okay?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Okay.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]I strode out of death row as fast as my weary body permitted, with the slip of paper tucked safely away in my pocket. The rain was still falling from the grey wall of clouds above. More cars than before were parked outside now, most of them in a bland black, grey, or silver. One vibrantly red sports car stood out to me amidst the monochrome sea. I looked towards it, and my eyes flicked towards the side-view mirror. A dead man with white hair was reflected, the words “objects in mirror are closer than they appear” in a black font below the poor fellow. I was like that receptionist: I couldn’t even look at my own eyes. Feeling sorry for myself, I turned away from the expensive vehicle and went on my way. I stopped by the local pharmacy, a horribly bland place, as instructed by my doctor. Thankfully, I wasn’t forced to spend very much time there, and before I knew it, the white ceiling was replaced by that grey wall. I was no longer showered by advertisements for various medications meant to try to recapture the vitality of my youth or help with the common cold, but by simple rain. I walked through this rain and soon arrived at my house. For a moment, I fumbled in my pockets for my key, then fumbled with the lock, then finally fumbled with the doorknob. With each fumble, my eyes drew themselves to my old, wrinkled, and pale hands with stark blue veins. I stepped foot in my house and out of the rain, out of the view of the grey sky. With my first step, the floorboards lamented their old age. I drowned out that painful creaking noise by slamming the door shut behind me.
[SIZE=12pt]“I’m home,” I told the ghost that lived with me. I lit a candle for her; a drop of rain dripped down from my eye. A picture of her, framed, captured, and preserved in wood, was beside the burning candle. I gazed into her quiet eyes, and she gazed back at the widower. The room smelled of apples, cinnamon, and sanctity. I set my bottle of medication beside the picture, then turned away and sank into a torn velvet couch. My phone was on the table just in front of the couch; I’d left it behind when I went out. I picked it up and looked at my contacts list. Two names stuck out to me. Only one name was attached to a person still living. Thomas. Two syllables. Two strange syllables. They once offered me glee. Now all they have for me is regret. My beloved left me one year, ten months, and sixteen days ago. Thomas left me five months and two days ago. They were the only two people I had in my life. My beloved grew sick, but Thomas just grew tired: tired of me. I think I reminded him of his own aging, his own wrinkles, and his own eyes. He was finished with me. One day, he told me he was done. I never heard from him again. I apologized to him for existing. He never responded. I typed up another text message to him with my cold, wet hands, another in a string of likely-unread apologies and requests for him to talk to me again. He left when he was all I had left. I guess he was only with me when things were easy, when it was all dollar days. I still miss him. I turned my eyes to the rest of my house and its old peeling walls and creaking floorboards. The ambient noise of this dying house soon ceased – all dark and all quiet, except for the solitary candle that burned brightly beside the portrait of my lost beloved. My head and eyes turned to the window, the other side of it slick with rain. A reflection stared back at me, looking through my eyes into my very being. I saw a drop of salty rain trickle down the reflection in the window; I felt it glide achingly down my cheek. I wondered what would become of the possessions belonging to the white-haired, weak-willed widower wailing in the window. I hadn’t written a will, I had nobody in my world to give my wretched house to.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]And yet, that day would come soon. The day that I’d have to lie down, close my eyes, and lose everything that makes up who I am. My body would stop working, and my mind would follow. I’d lose everything. For seventy years, I trod quietly on the soil of the Earth that hid beneath it the rotted bodies of those who came before me. [/SIZE]Now, I’d be beneath there too. Eighteen months and nine days ago, Dr. Pontius handed me a death sentence. He told me to seek emotional help in group sessions. I attended one. It was a house of mirrors, looking at all those dying people. That was the last one I attended. For seventy years, I lived on this planet, and I’ve left nothing behind to prove my existence – except for this crudely written, near-illegible rambling-on-paper. This is all I’ve left behind.
[SIZE=12pt]The ink is starting to run out now. I’m afraid to close my quiet, neglected eyes. I’m afraid if I do, they’ll never take in the glow of life ever again. I’m in pure, merciless silence, scrawling letters in the light of a luminous candle, now growing faint. My body and eyes are giving up and taking in the crumbling house for one final vexing moment. Soon, there’ll be nothing left of me except that which will be spared decomposition and remain fossilized beneath the people still existing. People will continue to struggle and wrestle with life beneath the great grey wall, but I’ve finished with that. Rain crashes violently against the roof of my house, and soon, I’ll be equally as violent in my final fall to the floor.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]The bright yellow star and the expansive blue sky hid themselves behind a wall of oppressively grey clouds. Sunday. The morning forecast said that heavy rain would be coming and lingering for the next week. Those who chose this particular gloomy morning to venture out of their homes had already prepared themselves for the incoming inclement weather with raincoats or umbrellas. You could pick the poorer people out from the crowd because they carried no such protection against the precipitation that would soon pour down upon the rainforest of buildings. I was not one of these financially starved people, and yet, I carried with me no line of defense against the tears of God; I had greater fears plaguing me.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]I dragged my feet as I walked at a lagging pace behind the torrent of people trudging upon the sidewalk as they made their way to the various destinations located within the confines of this downtrodden city. Cars drove past me and the other pedestrians, headlights shining bright in the left side of my field of vision. A droplet of rain fell upon my head of white hair. In perfect unison, as though guided by a single sentient mind, everybody around me opened up their umbrellas. A second droplet fell on my head. Another landed on the side of my forehead and flowed like a river down the course created for it by my wrinkled and eroded skin. Before that drop reached the end of its journey, I became showered by a deluge of water from the clouds above. [/SIZE]Men and women from various walks of life passed me by, keeping dry beneath their umbrellas or raincoats. Some people were sitting against buildings, drowning in the rain and begging for money so they could escape poverty for one day, or so they could waste it all on cheap, bitter firewater. Whatever the case may have been, everybody ignored them as though they were just street decorations that had been there as long as the buildings they sat against. With no charity to spare in my frail heart, I too ignored those street-side bagatelles.
[SIZE=12pt]Cars drove on past us all, their masters shouting curses and throwing out profane signs to other drivers or to pedestrians passing early to the other side of the street. One old woman crossing the street almost had a heart attack when a man sounded his horn and flashed his headlights at her. Nobody went out to help her, but she managed to keep her heart beating normally until she escaped safely to the other side. Rain continued to fall on me, and I continued to walk. By the time I reached my destination, the sidewalks and roads were slick with the ocean that was currently being drained out of the grey wall that loomed overhead. Water from the puddles I stepped through penetrated my torn and weathered shoes and soaked my dirty grey socks. My reprieve from the weather took the form of a painfully white and painfully familiar building with a red cross outside. This was where I needed to be for today, but not where I wanted to be. Any other place would be better. When I entered the building, the eyes of all the dying or possibly dying patients turned to my soaked person that was currently drying and forming a puddle on the welcome mat. Those eyes turned away from me as they became more interested in reading the magazines available for their perusal in the building, magazines with colorful covers, decorated with photos of celebrities and bold yellow text that shouted “Celebrity Scandal!” or something similar. On some of these covers, there was a small section in a corner about an author or artist that had recently suffered an untimely death.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]I approached the reception desk, above which rested a red analog clock that went on day by day with its incessant and never-ceasing ticking. A young lady sat behind the desk, seeming to be more interested in everything in the room that wasn’t me. Her makeup and long blonde hair were done with care. She seemed like she’d be extremely friendly and kind to people who could look out towards the stars and see they had many years ahead of them. She couldn’t look me in the eyes.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Last name is Daniels.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]She turned her gaze away from the area just below my eyes to look at the computer and go through a list of people whose names she would never engrain into her mind.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Okay,” she said in a way that made it seem like the needless word was meant to interject an impolite sigh, “Dr. Pontius will see you soon. Please have a seat.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]Without another word, I took a seat out of sight of the receptionist and spent several long minutes staring at my feet or at another random point in space. I was all too aware of the smell of stress in the room that emanated from people worrying about the results of medical tests, as well as the smell of an air freshener with a fruit scent that was working fruitlessly towards trying to allay the dreadful atmosphere that permeated the microcosm of the hospital.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]“Mr. Daniels?” a nurse’s shrill voice called from behind a wooden door, opened slightly in a way that allowed onlookers to see only her head and her hand that was lightly gripping the its edge. She scanned the room, settling her blue-and-bored eyes on me when she saw I was rising from the dark wooden chair with dark grey cushions. That chair was exactly like all the others in the reception chair; they were all probably bought in bulk when they went on sale. My eyes briefly met those of the nurse. Before the longest hand moved on that red analog clock, she turned her gaze downwards, then turned her back to me as she started to escort me to a patient room.
[SIZE=12pt]“He’ll be here soon,” she said before swiftly leaving the room and closing shut the windowless door behind her. The room was like the rest of the place in its subdued color palette: a white floor, a white ceiling, and four white walls. Paintings of mountain vistas and forests with the sun shining through the leaves and breathing life into the day were hung up on the wall, accompanied by charts and graphs regarding the statistics of how many people die from different dangerous diseases. A grey table, with glass jars and endless sheets of paper on top of it, was pushed up against a wall, shielded from the lights on the ceiling by a similarly grey cabinet pinned to the wall just above it. I sat down in a chair just like those in the reception area, this one resting against the wall adjacent to the door. Across from me was a grey examination bed with a roll of white paper draped over it, and next to me was a short brown-wheeled stool with a red cushion. I could hear rain drumming on the roof and the lights humming along to the rhythm. Loud footsteps and the door swinging open broke the melody.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]“Good morning,” the doctor lied as he strode in. He must’ve been in his forties. His light brown hair was combed to the side and out of the way of his forehead decorated with a few stress lines. The rest of his face was ornamented with a wrinkle here, a wrinkle there, a bit of stubble, and a pair of grey eyes. He held a clipboard in his left hand. I could see his veins in that hand, along with a tan line that stretched around his vacant ring finger.
[SIZE=12pt]“How have you been?” Dr. Pontius asked as he pulled the stool in the room in front of me and took a seat. He looked me in the eyes. His time in this occupation must have desensitized him to people like me. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Fine.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Have you been attending the group sessions?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“No.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Why not?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Other things on my mind.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“I see,” the doctor said, likely referencing the futility in trying to encourage me to go to those sessions. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Have you at least tried to get in touch with old friends?” he inquired.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Yes.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“And?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“All dead or angry.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]The doctor nodded with a movement of the head that offered no comfort to me whatsoever. He went on to ask other questions regarding my physical health. How many times have you vomited into a bowl of porcelain and water over the past month? Do your muscles feel stiff or weak in the morning? Do you feel like your senses are still acute? After blankly hearing my one-word responses to each question, he scribbled something in illegible handwriting on a slip of paper, then handed me the piece of defiled parchment.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“I’ve upped your dosage. Take this to the pharmacy and call me if you feel any side-effects. Take care, okay?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]“Okay.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt] [/SIZE]I strode out of death row as fast as my weary body permitted, with the slip of paper tucked safely away in my pocket. The rain was still falling from the grey wall of clouds above. More cars than before were parked outside now, most of them in a bland black, grey, or silver. One vibrantly red sports car stood out to me amidst the monochrome sea. I looked towards it, and my eyes flicked towards the side-view mirror. A dead man with white hair was reflected, the words “objects in mirror are closer than they appear” in a black font below the poor fellow. I was like that receptionist: I couldn’t even look at my own eyes. Feeling sorry for myself, I turned away from the expensive vehicle and went on my way. I stopped by the local pharmacy, a horribly bland place, as instructed by my doctor. Thankfully, I wasn’t forced to spend very much time there, and before I knew it, the white ceiling was replaced by that grey wall. I was no longer showered by advertisements for various medications meant to try to recapture the vitality of my youth or help with the common cold, but by simple rain. I walked through this rain and soon arrived at my house. For a moment, I fumbled in my pockets for my key, then fumbled with the lock, then finally fumbled with the doorknob. With each fumble, my eyes drew themselves to my old, wrinkled, and pale hands with stark blue veins. I stepped foot in my house and out of the rain, out of the view of the grey sky. With my first step, the floorboards lamented their old age. I drowned out that painful creaking noise by slamming the door shut behind me.
[SIZE=12pt]“I’m home,” I told the ghost that lived with me. I lit a candle for her; a drop of rain dripped down from my eye. A picture of her, framed, captured, and preserved in wood, was beside the burning candle. I gazed into her quiet eyes, and she gazed back at the widower. The room smelled of apples, cinnamon, and sanctity. I set my bottle of medication beside the picture, then turned away and sank into a torn velvet couch. My phone was on the table just in front of the couch; I’d left it behind when I went out. I picked it up and looked at my contacts list. Two names stuck out to me. Only one name was attached to a person still living. Thomas. Two syllables. Two strange syllables. They once offered me glee. Now all they have for me is regret. My beloved left me one year, ten months, and sixteen days ago. Thomas left me five months and two days ago. They were the only two people I had in my life. My beloved grew sick, but Thomas just grew tired: tired of me. I think I reminded him of his own aging, his own wrinkles, and his own eyes. He was finished with me. One day, he told me he was done. I never heard from him again. I apologized to him for existing. He never responded. I typed up another text message to him with my cold, wet hands, another in a string of likely-unread apologies and requests for him to talk to me again. He left when he was all I had left. I guess he was only with me when things were easy, when it was all dollar days. I still miss him. I turned my eyes to the rest of my house and its old peeling walls and creaking floorboards. The ambient noise of this dying house soon ceased – all dark and all quiet, except for the solitary candle that burned brightly beside the portrait of my lost beloved. My head and eyes turned to the window, the other side of it slick with rain. A reflection stared back at me, looking through my eyes into my very being. I saw a drop of salty rain trickle down the reflection in the window; I felt it glide achingly down my cheek. I wondered what would become of the possessions belonging to the white-haired, weak-willed widower wailing in the window. I hadn’t written a will, I had nobody in my world to give my wretched house to.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=12pt]And yet, that day would come soon. The day that I’d have to lie down, close my eyes, and lose everything that makes up who I am. My body would stop working, and my mind would follow. I’d lose everything. For seventy years, I trod quietly on the soil of the Earth that hid beneath it the rotted bodies of those who came before me. [/SIZE]Now, I’d be beneath there too. Eighteen months and nine days ago, Dr. Pontius handed me a death sentence. He told me to seek emotional help in group sessions. I attended one. It was a house of mirrors, looking at all those dying people. That was the last one I attended. For seventy years, I lived on this planet, and I’ve left nothing behind to prove my existence – except for this crudely written, near-illegible rambling-on-paper. This is all I’ve left behind.
[SIZE=12pt]The ink is starting to run out now. I’m afraid to close my quiet, neglected eyes. I’m afraid if I do, they’ll never take in the glow of life ever again. I’m in pure, merciless silence, scrawling letters in the light of a luminous candle, now growing faint. My body and eyes are giving up and taking in the crumbling house for one final vexing moment. Soon, there’ll be nothing left of me except that which will be spared decomposition and remain fossilized beneath the people still existing. People will continue to struggle and wrestle with life beneath the great grey wall, but I’ve finished with that. Rain crashes violently against the roof of my house, and soon, I’ll be equally as violent in my final fall to the floor.[/SIZE]
