PAT LYNCH

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Leslie

“I hope you die. I hope you die a slow death. A slow death of Cancer, with a large C. You used to smoke, what happened? Now you smoke everything but, like a child, with that silly stupid machine, hiding it. You can’t smell it in the air, it doesn’t linger in your breath like a cigarette does. But you’re such a pretentious prick. You’re so full of yourself and so far up your own ass it’s the only reason your hair is still the color it is.

You’re such a terrible person. You, with your wine glass in your hand constantly! My god. What is wrong with you? I cheated on you because you were so boring. Ben was just so much more than you’ll ever be. Sure he was in the army and he seems legally retarded now, but he kisses me in the hallway at work and I love it, it excites me. You have not excited me in years. I can’t even remember when the last time was. You just sit there, your hand through your hair. Sure I laugh too hard, perhaps too much and too loud, but I laugh. You don’t, ever it seems. What the fuck is wrong with you?

You just sit there with your bottles and your writing. Why didn’t we ever have children? Charlie, you’re pathetic. Drinking, writing, drinking, chamber music, pipes, machines, books. We live downtown purely for the activity of it all around us. But you were barely part of it. Living vicariously through your writing from the scenes out the window of your office, your walks to the liquor store and the two nights a week at the bar downstairs. You told me once I had a big mouth, but perhaps yours is simply too small? Hmm? I think so.

Days you left me alone, to my own devices. I’ve had to entertain myself for years now. You did this to yourself Charlie. My god, look at you. It’s been a month, I can’t believe I’m writing, but to move on, I’ve got to do this. I’m not sorry. Ben and I are content in Minnesota. It’s not perfect. Yes, I do love him. Despite the fact he thinks the Earth is Flat, and he supports a steadfast nationalist view, and despite the fact that he has widely advertised that he was a contracted murderer for the government for two years, but now rails against the government he once defended.

Yes he uses the garage for stockpiling dry goods and forces me to carry a backpack in the car in case of emergencies or government takeover or “EMP” as he calls it. Yes he believes the government is trying to take his guns, the same government which gave him one in the first place. Sure, he can not form a full sentence most days beyond a 6th grade reading level, or speak above a whispered tone, and has anger problems and has children of his own he doesn’t speak too, but he’s exciting.

Ben is the product of a failed marriage, like me. He’s still married, technically, the paperwork has taken a long time to work itself out. His wife was abusive, she wanted the world. She was so needy. Her and her ugly kids, I’m glad she’s gone. I’m glad I ruined it. She wasn’t good for him. She drained him of his soul. I feed his soul, ten times over. More than she ever did for him and more than you ever did for me. You drained me. Perhaps this was all meant to be. I had to endure you in order to be where I am today. Charlie, I am so happy now. I hate you.

I’m so sad I’m just over the threshold to bear Ben’s children. I’m too old now. I wasted those years on you, I will forever hate you for that. What could have been, god what could have been. I could have been here in Minnesota years ago. Are you angry about it? I hope you are. This started five years ago. Five! I can’t believe I didn’t decide to leave you sooner. Perhaps I was waiting for something, something else, something more. Perhaps I was trying to understand you. The only things I regret are staying too long, and not fully understanding you. I never quite got to the bottom of you. So mysterious. It was intriguing at first, then I began to resent you for it. I gave up. It still nags my mind at night. NO, I do not think of you in any other way if you must know. Only in the way that you are so fucking inside yourself and never let anyone in, it angers me. I suppose it started there first, then the resentment of how you were so content alone, writing, drinking. You never needed me.

Is this angering you? All of this? I hope it is, I sincerely hope you’re fuming at reading this. Here’s some more. Three years ago, Ben got me pregnant. Yes, we were having sex almost from the very start. I have never felt sorry about it either. Some days I would come home and come so close to tell you, but I didn’t, it felt better not telling you. It took us three years and I found out. It was fairly late in the process too, we were told by a doctor I was three months along. I was showing Charlie. I was about to tell you I was going to have the baby, but the doctor told us on our second visit it would be severely mangled. Retarded, down syndrome, Autistic, deformed, so we decided to abort. We traveled up north to do it. My work trip to Ontario was in fact, a trip to a cabin where we had copious amounts of sex before getting the procedure done. It was actually quite lovely. I hope this pains you to hear Charlie. I hate you.

What’s more, his wife found out two years in. She accepted it at first, before resenting him for it and getting a divorce. Once she confronted us, at work. She made quite a scene. I thought we’d both be fired for it, but nothing happened. More interesting, she again, confronted us at a bar on the outskirts of town and eventually she sat with us, we all got drunk and we all slept together that night, it was quite lovely actually. She was a beautiful woman. I almost felt bad in that moment, but we were all too intoxicated and out of our minds to be thinking of how this would affect anything.

In the middle of it all, he made drinks and she began crying about her children, right there on the bed. It was incredible. Ben came back a few minutes later and she had snapped out of it just like that, and we went on with it all. It must of lasted all night. The sun came up and stayed, we were still going at it. Eventually I got tired and they kept going. I woke up hours later and she was gone, we never talked about it. Amazing. How does this make you feel?

Fuck you Charlie, fuck you. I despise you. I hope you rot. You ruined me. I wasted my best years on you. I have provided a false address so don’t bother writing. You stupid silly sad old man. You always did look fifteen years older than you were. I hope you rot alone, alone in that room with your writing and your wine. I hope you think of me every time you close your eyes before bed and it keeps you up every single night. Thinking about us sleeping with each other. Fuck you Charlie, rot in hell.”

- Leslie

He smirked and took a swig of his glass off the coaster and crumpled up the letter.

“What a bitch!” He announced as the dog looked back, he broke out laughing as he tossed the letter in the bin. He picked up his pipe and a match, he lit it, lit the cigar, and tossed it in the bin, inadvertently lighting the letter on fire. There was no remorse to starting the fire in his home. It burned up and petered out. It was all over fairly quickly.

He shook his head, still smiling. He went back to writing.

The phone rang not soon afterwards. He picked it up.

“Hello?”
“Charlie?”
“Leslie?”
“Did you get my letter?”
“What letter?”

She sighed, sounding annoyed.
“I sent a letter to you. Weeks ago!
“I never got a letter.”
“Check your mail!”
I do, every day.”
“AGH.” She yelled out. “I can’t believe you didn’t get it.”

He looked down at the bin, smiling. He couldn’t help it. She could nearly hear it through the phone.

“Is there anything else?” He asked.
“What?”
“Why did you call Leslie, was that all? This letter?”
“No, but considering you didn’t receive it, I’ll just tell you now-”
“Hold that thought, I need to grab another drink, do you mind?”
“Fine, I’ll wait.”

Charlie hung up the phone. He grabbed the bottle and poured himself a hefty refill. He went back to writing, still smiling. The phone rang again.

He picked up.

“Leslie?”
“Did you hang up on me?!”
“Yes. Get used to it. I’m writing now.”

He hung up a second time. He reached around and unplugged the receiver.

“Finally, peace and quiet old girl.” He said, looking down at the dog.

She was content, there on the floor, and so was he. He was never lonely, simply alone.

He continued writing, smiling, drinking and smoking. Eventually as the night went on, he stretched, and took a break walking down three flights to the liquor store before it closed, came back and continued. Sometimes staring out the window, looking for inspiration. He certainly found it.

A woman he had noticed frequently, he decided she was a prostitute, it was the only reason she’d be out this late, constantly. She met various men, many men and left with them. Up the street, down alleyways, into their cars. What else? She wrote a story about her and wondered where she came from. Why this part of town? She must live close.

He decided to make her a sympathetic character, a very sad character. Her first time she contracts very invasive STDs. But decides she needs to have many men to sustain a life. She gets pregnant with a retarded, down syndrome’d, autistic, deaf child and cannot afford to abort, so she has it. She leaves him alone far too young. She keeps tricking on the streets, addicted to drugs, sucking and fucking and becoming incredibly dirty and worn. She never tells any men she's passing around her various diseases. She spreads it around like free jam at a farmer’s market. One of them comes back and beats her senseless.

He laughs his way through this sad story. Things get worse and worse for her. He finished for the night, becoming incredibly drunk and managed to reconnect his phone. He was awakened by the dog barking and his phone. He stumbled over and picked it up.

“Hello?”
“Heather?”
“Yes, did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. Do you have anything good these days? We’re looking for your next one.”

He looked down at the several chapters he’d written the night before.

“Actually yes, yes I do.”
“What’s it about?”
“A prostitute, things go bad to worse.”
“Hmm. How’s it end?” She asked.
“She dies. In the gutter.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Lots of sex?”
“Drugs and rock and roll too, if you want.”
“Okay, how much do you have?”
“Six chapters.”
“Jesus, how long have you been holding on to this?”
“What time is it?”
“Christ Charlie, you’re a martyr.”
“I don’t know if that’s the correct use of that term.”
“Send us a copy?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, prostitute story. What’s her name?”

He took a deep breath, using the time to think.

“Leslie.”
“Any significance?”
“Not at all, sounded like a prostitute’s name.”
“Perfect, sounds like our Christmas time release.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Charlie you wrote six chapters in a night. It’s April.”
“That’s true. Christmas it is. A real stocking stuffer.”
“Thanks Charlie, this is great news, I’ll share it with the office. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait, what about-”
“Check’s in the mail Charlie, you know that.”
“Thanks Heather.”

He hung up. Leslie was his ticket out this go around.

She would most definitely find a copy eventually, she couldn’t help herself.