I am writing a novel. I thought I would share it on here. Thanks for any feedback, criticism or praise! :)
"When I was three or four, there was a thunderstorm that made the walls quake every time the lightning cracked. And every time I ran to my mother's room who was sleeping soundly, and woke her up. By the time my fifth attempt to get into bed with her happened, she grabbed a yellow rope and affixed that cursed yellow rope to my hands and feet, tying it to the bed. I screamed myself to sleep that night."
"And how did that make you feel?," Andrew's therapist, Nathan asked.
Andrew rolled his eyes. Behind his tinted sunglasses, his therapist couldn't see.
"Well, doc, I learned that love is hate and hate is love," Andrew quipped.
"Please explain," His therapist asked.
"Well, she needed to work and needed a good night's sleep to do her job as she was a single mother," Andrew replied.
"I see," His therapist responded while yawning obnoxiously; failing to cover his yawn.
"What a useless slug, what the hell am I paying him for?" Andrew thought.
Andrew only attended these therapy sessions because he knew his therapist wouldn't ask too many probing questions. His therapist had the lowest rating online, a meagre 1.5 stars.
Andrew liked it this way, ever since the incident when he was 13 that followed him everywhere he went, he believed that the past should stay buried; especially in this day and age.
Time was almost up, 5 minutes to go but his therapist wasn't looking at the clock.
"Well doc, time's up, maybe I'll see you next week, eh?" Andrew asked.
Andrew knew he had planted a seed with his therapist, being the narcissist that he was, he knew how to manipulate people. His therapist knew Andrew was suicidal and Andrew knew that saying that would keep him up at night. Maybe it wouldn't hit right away, but in the dead of night, or perhaps within a dream. Andrew hated his therapist and couldn't believe how lazy he was in his responses. So, he believed that his therapist deserved it.
Besides, he would take his life soon enough, he was just waiting for the hitman that he ordered off the dark web, then, he would kiss this world goodbye. Or give it two middle fingers at least because that would be his last post on social media.
"Yes, next week, Andrew," His therapist replied.
Andrew quickly got out of the chair that was hurting his butt and stretched. He exited the room, took the silver, claustrophobic elevator down to the main lobby and exited the building.
It was 6 PM. The sun cast a beautiful golden glow at this time.
It was the golden hour. He called it that because of his days photographing wildlife when he was a traveller, when he was with his ex.
She could only stomach so much of him before they were split like fire and ice. The 2 hours of sunset and sunrise each day is called the golden hour because it provides the best natural light and makes everything glow majestically.
Where were we…
On Andrew's walk home, he caught himself staring at his breath as the smoke from his cigarette combined with the cold air to create a thick plume that reminded him of an old steam train. He loved steam engines, the whistle, the sound they made going down the tracks, but most, he loved their power.
After his cigarette, he lowered his gaze to the pavement so he could forget about how much time he had left to walk home. It would take about 20 minutes but he didn't really mind the cold. There was no one else walking in these temperatures and he used to feel that if he could survive the cold, it would build character. Old habits died hard with Andrew.
His father called, and Andrew answered with two snaps of his fingers.
A hologram flickered to life, projecting his father's tired, frail face.
"How was therapy today, son?" his father asked.
"It was great, we covered a lot of ground," Andrew lied.
"That's good, son. Keep at it. Do you need any money for anything?" His father's voice was hesitant, almost sheepish.
Andrew knew his father was sitting on a fortune, but every time he brought up his inheritance, his father squirmed like a worm on a hook. Instead, Andrew Sr. would dole out small amounts here and there, as if playing the hero.
"Sure, I need money for groceries. I'm out of bread and milk," Andrew lied again.
Bread and milk were the priciest things he could think of, thanks to rapid climate change. They had become luxury items, imported from the United States, which had built massive sun domes over their farming operations. The Canadian government, lacking such foresight, had left its northern farms struggling to feed the population.
"I'll send it right over," his father said.
"Thanks, Dad. Love you lots," Andrew lied for the third time.
He despised his father—especially the way he handled money, always so shrewd, like a snake. Sure, his father tried to spend time with him, but only on his terms, always trying to fix Andrew or meddle in ways Andrew had no patience for.
He hung up and immediately ordered 1.14 liters of vodka.
After waiting outside his apartment building's lobby for about five minutes, the EZ-Liquor delivery drone arrived. It scanned his face and dropped the bottle inside a biodegradable bounce ball. He caught it and hurried up the three flights of stairs to his flat, ignoring the discolored brown carpet and the puke-green paint in the hallways—both of which he loathed.
He scanned his retina, and the three magnetic locks on his door clicked open.
Andrew paused at the door, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight. The door creaked as it slowly swung open. When he finally opened his striking blue eyes, he half-expected to see a hitman lounging on his couch, a black balaclava covering his face. But no one was there.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath.
"What's taking them so damn long?"
A month had passed since Andrew hired the hitman. The reason was simple: he needed someone to end his life. Suicide had been outlawed in Canada six years ago, and the penalty was harsh—anyone caught attempting it would have their entire family exiled to the wastelands where brutalism, cannibalism, and rape was rampant - to survive on their own. As much as Andrew resented his family, he couldn't bring himself to let them suffer because of his choices.
His cat, Frank (short for Frankenstein), was waiting by the door. She rubbed against his pant leg.
"Hey, knock it off. These are my good pants—you'll get hair all over them," he said, though his voice remained soft.
She ignored him.
He had named her Frank because she was a calico. She looked like a patchwork of different cats stitched together, so he named her after Frankenstein. Andrew knew that in the original novel, Frankenstein was the name of the scientist, not the monster, but the name still fit. It suited her.
Andrew glanced up from Frank and noticed a bright crimson box sitting atop his stove, about 12 inches tall and just as wide. He stared at it in disbelief. How someone had managed to bypass his security was a mystery, but his excitement quickly overshadowed his paranoia.
Cradling Frank in his arms, he approached the box. On top of it lay a neatly folded note.
It read: Contained inside this box is everything you need to end your life.
As soon as he set the note down, it ignited, crumbling into tiny ashes before his eyes.
Andrew stood frozen, barely able to comprehend that his miserable existence might finally be coming to an end. A wave of relief washed over him, leaving him feeling weightless and almost euphoric.
With trembling hands, he opened the box. A thick plume of green smoke billowed out, swirling around him and Frank.
His knees buckled as unconsciousness swiftly overtook him. Startled, Frank leapt from his arms. The last thing Andrew saw was the world fading to black as he collapsed to the floor.
"When I was three or four, there was a thunderstorm that made the walls quake every time the lightning cracked. And every time I ran to my mother's room who was sleeping soundly, and woke her up. By the time my fifth attempt to get into bed with her happened, she grabbed a yellow rope and affixed that cursed yellow rope to my hands and feet, tying it to the bed. I screamed myself to sleep that night."
"And how did that make you feel?," Andrew's therapist, Nathan asked.
Andrew rolled his eyes. Behind his tinted sunglasses, his therapist couldn't see.
"Well, doc, I learned that love is hate and hate is love," Andrew quipped.
"Please explain," His therapist asked.
"Well, she needed to work and needed a good night's sleep to do her job as she was a single mother," Andrew replied.
"I see," His therapist responded while yawning obnoxiously; failing to cover his yawn.
"What a useless slug, what the hell am I paying him for?" Andrew thought.
Andrew only attended these therapy sessions because he knew his therapist wouldn't ask too many probing questions. His therapist had the lowest rating online, a meagre 1.5 stars.
Andrew liked it this way, ever since the incident when he was 13 that followed him everywhere he went, he believed that the past should stay buried; especially in this day and age.
Time was almost up, 5 minutes to go but his therapist wasn't looking at the clock.
"Well doc, time's up, maybe I'll see you next week, eh?" Andrew asked.
Andrew knew he had planted a seed with his therapist, being the narcissist that he was, he knew how to manipulate people. His therapist knew Andrew was suicidal and Andrew knew that saying that would keep him up at night. Maybe it wouldn't hit right away, but in the dead of night, or perhaps within a dream. Andrew hated his therapist and couldn't believe how lazy he was in his responses. So, he believed that his therapist deserved it.
Besides, he would take his life soon enough, he was just waiting for the hitman that he ordered off the dark web, then, he would kiss this world goodbye. Or give it two middle fingers at least because that would be his last post on social media.
"Yes, next week, Andrew," His therapist replied.
Andrew quickly got out of the chair that was hurting his butt and stretched. He exited the room, took the silver, claustrophobic elevator down to the main lobby and exited the building.
It was 6 PM. The sun cast a beautiful golden glow at this time.
It was the golden hour. He called it that because of his days photographing wildlife when he was a traveller, when he was with his ex.
She could only stomach so much of him before they were split like fire and ice. The 2 hours of sunset and sunrise each day is called the golden hour because it provides the best natural light and makes everything glow majestically.
Where were we…
On Andrew's walk home, he caught himself staring at his breath as the smoke from his cigarette combined with the cold air to create a thick plume that reminded him of an old steam train. He loved steam engines, the whistle, the sound they made going down the tracks, but most, he loved their power.
After his cigarette, he lowered his gaze to the pavement so he could forget about how much time he had left to walk home. It would take about 20 minutes but he didn't really mind the cold. There was no one else walking in these temperatures and he used to feel that if he could survive the cold, it would build character. Old habits died hard with Andrew.
His father called, and Andrew answered with two snaps of his fingers.
A hologram flickered to life, projecting his father's tired, frail face.
"How was therapy today, son?" his father asked.
"It was great, we covered a lot of ground," Andrew lied.
"That's good, son. Keep at it. Do you need any money for anything?" His father's voice was hesitant, almost sheepish.
Andrew knew his father was sitting on a fortune, but every time he brought up his inheritance, his father squirmed like a worm on a hook. Instead, Andrew Sr. would dole out small amounts here and there, as if playing the hero.
"Sure, I need money for groceries. I'm out of bread and milk," Andrew lied again.
Bread and milk were the priciest things he could think of, thanks to rapid climate change. They had become luxury items, imported from the United States, which had built massive sun domes over their farming operations. The Canadian government, lacking such foresight, had left its northern farms struggling to feed the population.
"I'll send it right over," his father said.
"Thanks, Dad. Love you lots," Andrew lied for the third time.
He despised his father—especially the way he handled money, always so shrewd, like a snake. Sure, his father tried to spend time with him, but only on his terms, always trying to fix Andrew or meddle in ways Andrew had no patience for.
He hung up and immediately ordered 1.14 liters of vodka.
After waiting outside his apartment building's lobby for about five minutes, the EZ-Liquor delivery drone arrived. It scanned his face and dropped the bottle inside a biodegradable bounce ball. He caught it and hurried up the three flights of stairs to his flat, ignoring the discolored brown carpet and the puke-green paint in the hallways—both of which he loathed.
He scanned his retina, and the three magnetic locks on his door clicked open.
Andrew paused at the door, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight. The door creaked as it slowly swung open. When he finally opened his striking blue eyes, he half-expected to see a hitman lounging on his couch, a black balaclava covering his face. But no one was there.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath.
"What's taking them so damn long?"
A month had passed since Andrew hired the hitman. The reason was simple: he needed someone to end his life. Suicide had been outlawed in Canada six years ago, and the penalty was harsh—anyone caught attempting it would have their entire family exiled to the wastelands where brutalism, cannibalism, and rape was rampant - to survive on their own. As much as Andrew resented his family, he couldn't bring himself to let them suffer because of his choices.
His cat, Frank (short for Frankenstein), was waiting by the door. She rubbed against his pant leg.
"Hey, knock it off. These are my good pants—you'll get hair all over them," he said, though his voice remained soft.
She ignored him.
He had named her Frank because she was a calico. She looked like a patchwork of different cats stitched together, so he named her after Frankenstein. Andrew knew that in the original novel, Frankenstein was the name of the scientist, not the monster, but the name still fit. It suited her.
Andrew glanced up from Frank and noticed a bright crimson box sitting atop his stove, about 12 inches tall and just as wide. He stared at it in disbelief. How someone had managed to bypass his security was a mystery, but his excitement quickly overshadowed his paranoia.
Cradling Frank in his arms, he approached the box. On top of it lay a neatly folded note.
It read: Contained inside this box is everything you need to end your life.
As soon as he set the note down, it ignited, crumbling into tiny ashes before his eyes.
Andrew stood frozen, barely able to comprehend that his miserable existence might finally be coming to an end. A wave of relief washed over him, leaving him feeling weightless and almost euphoric.
With trembling hands, he opened the box. A thick plume of green smoke billowed out, swirling around him and Frank.
His knees buckled as unconsciousness swiftly overtook him. Startled, Frank leapt from his arms. The last thing Andrew saw was the world fading to black as he collapsed to the floor.
Last edited:
