Quiet Desperation
“I’m going to rap tonight,” Bro said, wringing his handkerchief.
“Do as you wish,” Doc Scratch said, lightly scrunching the newspaper. Was he actually reading it? Or was he just doing it to annoy him? Why would the omniscient read a newspaper? Bro boggled at the true unadulterated, passionate irony. The same irony that had once swept him off his feet.
But now that irony only came in a blue moon, a cruel trickle when he was thirsty in the desert. So parched and aching for love!
The man who sat in that seat read a paper he didn’t need, held a heart he didn’t want. Though they had become distant, marriage held them together like puppet strings. Bro would be dangling in this house for all entirety.
He remember when they were first married. When Scratch was so interested in him. You could often find him hanging off Bro’s shoulder, smiling lovingly. But now, Bro could scarcely remember the last time he saw his smile. Scratch despaired his old nickname, calling it childish sweet nothings, as if it was his way of telling Bro that he was not the man he used to be.
Scratch wasn’t cruel though, and if he was, his cruelness was his cheap imitation of a man Bro once loved. If Bro hadn’t found himself comparing Doc Scratch to his past self, he would have no pain. As people who have never held diamonds didn’t scorn cubic zirconia.
He left the room, discouraged and feeling like he had been swindled out of something he never had. He thought that an evening of rapping would take his mind off things, but his conscious only grew heavier.
When he returned home that evening, he knew something was off. The door to the flashing wolf was carelessly left open. He raced down the hall. He stepped into the sitting room and found a shocking scene. His beloved in the arms of another man!
But before Bro could even shout or throw a punch into his big lips, the man disappeared, dashing Scratch to the ground.
Bro ran to him. Scratch’s leg was broken and leaking stuffing. He lay on the floor helpless as he had been the day Bro first met him. It’s with a heavy heart and a pang of nostalgia that Bro collected the needle and thread and knelt at his feet.
“I guess, you could say,” Scratch croaked. Bro looked up in anticipation, his cheeks coloring.
“I guess, you could say, this is ironic,” he finished. He barely had time to react before Bro gathered him to his chest.
“Oh, Cal, I knew you’d come back to me,” Bro said through tears. He ran his hands over the top of Scratch’s head.
“I knew you’d come back.”
“Do as you wish,” Doc Scratch said, lightly scrunching the newspaper. Was he actually reading it? Or was he just doing it to annoy him? Why would the omniscient read a newspaper? Bro boggled at the true unadulterated, passionate irony. The same irony that had once swept him off his feet.
But now that irony only came in a blue moon, a cruel trickle when he was thirsty in the desert. So parched and aching for love!
The man who sat in that seat read a paper he didn’t need, held a heart he didn’t want. Though they had become distant, marriage held them together like puppet strings. Bro would be dangling in this house for all entirety.
He remember when they were first married. When Scratch was so interested in him. You could often find him hanging off Bro’s shoulder, smiling lovingly. But now, Bro could scarcely remember the last time he saw his smile. Scratch despaired his old nickname, calling it childish sweet nothings, as if it was his way of telling Bro that he was not the man he used to be.
Scratch wasn’t cruel though, and if he was, his cruelness was his cheap imitation of a man Bro once loved. If Bro hadn’t found himself comparing Doc Scratch to his past self, he would have no pain. As people who have never held diamonds didn’t scorn cubic zirconia.
He left the room, discouraged and feeling like he had been swindled out of something he never had. He thought that an evening of rapping would take his mind off things, but his conscious only grew heavier.
When he returned home that evening, he knew something was off. The door to the flashing wolf was carelessly left open. He raced down the hall. He stepped into the sitting room and found a shocking scene. His beloved in the arms of another man!
But before Bro could even shout or throw a punch into his big lips, the man disappeared, dashing Scratch to the ground.
Bro ran to him. Scratch’s leg was broken and leaking stuffing. He lay on the floor helpless as he had been the day Bro first met him. It’s with a heavy heart and a pang of nostalgia that Bro collected the needle and thread and knelt at his feet.
“I guess, you could say,” Scratch croaked. Bro looked up in anticipation, his cheeks coloring.
“I guess, you could say, this is ironic,” he finished. He barely had time to react before Bro gathered him to his chest.
“Oh, Cal, I knew you’d come back to me,” Bro said through tears. He ran his hands over the top of Scratch’s head.
“I knew you’d come back.”