PURE FICTION

The Bench

Part 1

1 There were few things to do in the quiet, hillside town of Manchester, New Hampshire — but to watch the seasons change or hike the hills and mountains in the spring and summer months. But what a spectacle to behold in the autumn, when the foliage yields bright auburn and mustard yellow colors.

When green and orange and sienna burn together — twisting, winding, interlacing. The sweet smells of rotting leaves, wood that had just been split for the evening fire, and fresh-cut grass invaded the nostrils in such a way that one could not bear but acquiesce to the powers that be — as if to smell the heavenly perfume of God.

A bench sat at the top of a rather steep hill on the east side of town. Its sturdy iron legs with their ornate details, bending and twisting with ease and yet unmovable beneath the hand, plant firmly into a slab of cement. The cold black iron legs spin and twirl elegantly until they reach a plateau where they selflessly embrace four sky blue planks. The iron climbs further beyond the planks to twist and bend upward and form a backing and armrests.

Three more sky blue planks run horizontally across the back of the bench. A fourth appeared to be missing from the bottom and to the left side; a stripped screw still lay half in, half out of an overstretched hole in the iron rung. It was unlikely that vandalism was the culprit. That some hooded heathen with a crowbar quietly and carefully pried at the board, stripping the screws that once held the wood so firmly against the iron bars.

No, it was more likely that time and weather and insects took their toll day by day and year by year. And one could hope that maybe some children played a little too hard a time or two. But those youthful days are gone, and the old bench has one lonely companion.

Matthew Timothy Novak III, or MTNT as he is known to his close group of internet friends -who spend their hours tirelessly fighting hordes of galactic terrorists or as elves, defeating terrible ogres with their magic spells. Though these boys may be brave, their courage is limited to MMORPG or Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games. This is where Matthew and his friends do the majority of their socializing.

If it weren’t for a promise to his mother, whom he loved dearly and still lived with, that he would go outside at least an hour a day, he would probably never leave his room. It so happens that Matthew’s promise is what leads him to discover the bench.

Ah, the bench. The day Matthew discovered the bench was a cool October morning. The sun hadn’t quite finished peaking its head over the horizon, and after taking the trash out to the curb, as he did every Thursday morning, Matthew decided to go for a walk.

The crisp air crept into Matthew’s lungs as he breathed a little heavier. He felt his tight calves stretch as his foot reached back towards his shin not to stub its toes on the escalating concrete sidewalk. The hill’s steepness was deceiving from the bottom where his house lay, but once you were on it, you could feel its harsh elevation and unforgiving angles.

Matthew could feel his cheeks getting cold and knew they would be bright red against his pale skin. His ears were warm though a bit itchy thanks to the Army green, wool-knit hat he wore that covered his ears and pushed his greasy black hair down onto his forehead and out from underneath the cap. His deep blue eyes glimmered with joy as he spotted the bench at the top of the hill. It was beautiful and unique but broken and run-down like him.

From the bench, you could see the entire town of Manchester. From its red-brick dominate downtown area, lined with black streetlights that were decorated with pumpkins and spiders and all manner of Halloween gimmicks; to its residential, cookie-cutter neighborhoods with their perfectly landscaped yards and perfectly landscaped families.

To their gigantic, obscenely overdone church, with its tall peaks, dozens of crosses, and giant statues of Christ and all twelve apostles placed throughout its property. There it was in all its beauty, ugliness, charm, and hypocrisy. There was Manchester.

Since Matthew found the bench, he has visited it daily. Bringing with him a black laptop that he carries in a green over-the-shoulder bag, the cover of which flips over the top and snaps closed via a latch sewn-in down near the bottom of the bag. His laptop has no stickers, no markings of bands, or colorful art. It is black and void and much like Matthews soul.

Matthew sat on the bench, his computer on his lap, a buffalo plaid thermos filled with fresh coffee sat next to him on the bench. Steam billowed from its spout and danced in the cool fall breeze.

A few years ago, Matthew had seen a therapist after a “mishap,” or so they called it, at school. The therapist had suggested keeping a journal. A record of your thoughts and hopes and dreams and fears. A place to get it all out without fear of judgment.

Matthew liked this idea, though he never put it to use. “What better time than now?” He reluctantly yet audibly asked himself under his breath and sighed. He opened the journal log in his computer that he had set up years prior and typed his first words: Hi… I guess…I mean, who am I talking to? Is it me? Is it someone I’m supposed to show this to? Jesus, it feels like something someone will read when I’m dead. I don’t really know. It feels like I don’t know much of anything anymore. The one thing I do know…..is that I hate this fucking town, and it’s hypocritical bullshit! Until next time, MTNT

Without saving the entry, he closed his computer and placed it on the bench next to him. Matthew crossed his right leg over his left as he picked up his coffee; playfully, he blew the steam away from the opening, took a sip, and smiled. The sun now hung over the horizon like a swimmer hanging on the side of a pool. Its bright rays caught between clouds, making the appearance of heaven on Earth. Matthew looked out upon this natural phenomenon with verve in his eyes. A gleeful imagining, make-believe — of a God — of heaven -of a purpose.

2 In his early years, Matthew was always a little shy. Always a little awkward but also always very handsome. His dark black hair contrasted his pale skin and piercing blue eyes in a way that made you notice. His strong-cut jaw and pouty bottom lip were enough to make a teenage girl drool — and yet, Matthew never had a girlfriend.

Matthew barely had a friend besides Kevin Dorowitz and Bradley Evergreen. Both of whom would slowly recede into the shadows of the internet alongside Matthew, their mutant best friend.

Matthew tried a few times to be accepted by various groups in school. There was the time he tried out for the school play only to be laughed off the stage. Or the time his unique singing voice didn’t land him a top spot in the school choir. Tried though he may, Matthew eventually gave up trying. He gave up trying to be a friend to people who didn’t care. He gave up trying to have talents for people to be amused. Eventually, he gave up trying to be a part of society.

After high school Matthew went to community college, an idea vigorously championed by his mother. He took computer science, philosophy, criminal justice, and a prerequisite class for a major he never intended to declare. His mother was happy he was still keeping mentally active though she hoped he’d find some purpose.

Matthew daydreamed his way through his first two semesters until the harsh reality of failing grades came crashing down with the weight of a house collapsing around him. As he looked at the paper detailing his marks, a pit grew in his stomach. His throat seemed to grow more narrow. His palms began to sweat, and goosebumps rose on his forearms, making every little black hair stand on end.

He swallowed deeply, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again — as if trying to look with a fresh pair of eyes. Matthew’s quick assessment of his grades gave him an idea of what he needed to do to bring them up to an acceptable level. Something worth showing to his mother.

A few weeks into his Templar-like quest to find the holy grail of his good grades, he lost motivation and ultimately dropped out of community college. The blow to his self-esteem was devastating, and Matthew slithered further into his hole, rarely to be heard from again.

3 Matthew could be seen lurking from his cave in the early hours of dawn. With his back hunched — a stiffness he got from sitting in his computer chair too long — his hair a greasy mess from not showering for days, and dark circles under his eyes. He wore his exhaustion on his face like a mask though he smiled through it to keep up appearances.

He pulled the beige strap of his green over-the-shoulder computer bag around his neck and headed out the door. On his way out, he shot a half-smile to his mom, and she shouted after him, “I love you…” A second later, the loud crash of the screen door slamming into its rightful place sat her back in her chair. She gasped; the bang startled her but only for a moment.

She regained her composure as she saw her darling boy, her pride and joy trudging his way up the hill. She smiled at him and watched, his head down — as if in his shoelaces were weaved the words humanity has been searching for. Her smile slowly leveled out. Her lips flat, her eye showing no emotion as she watched her only son climb the hill.

With laptop open and steam billowing, Matthew reread his last entry: Hi again, I don’t know what to do anymore! This feeling is no longer a silly fantasy. It’s beyond a delusion….every day; I crave…..every day I get closer to revealing my true self to the world! I don’t know who to turn to, and I’m afraid it’s too late! Help! MTNT

Matthews’ fingers gently rested on the keys of his laptop as he read these words over and over again. He took a sip of coffee and lifted his gaze to behold the beauty that is Manchester. Not hypocritically or ironically, but in a way that recognizes what the town was designed to be; a utopian. And a utopian it could be. But at the end of the day, the only thing that keeps a utopian from being is the people who reside within its walls. And Manchester? Well, Manchester had Matthew.

Back at his journal Matthew began to type: Hi again, This is my 200th journal entry. I know that because I’ve been keeping count in a notebook. I was not too fond of the idea of maintaining an entry number on the pages. Too…Star Trek-y “Captains Log,” you know? Of course, you know, you’re me, and it’s my thoughts. Moving on….yesterday was rough. The feelings were strong, and I felt really weak in my thoughts. Today’s a little better, but there’s no telling what kind of deafening thoughts the sleep deprivation will bring. I am my insomnia. I feel it in my bones. In my blood. Sleeplessness is my curse, and I don’t know how to break the spell. Fingers crossed, MTNT

Matthew did not write in his journal for another 27 days. As he sits on the bench and looks out over the city, he typed: Hi again, A bus at 4:00 every Sunday morning stops at the bus stop three blocks from my home. I’ve only ever seen one homeless guy get off, and he isn’t there every time. I could do it then. I mean, if I were going to do it……I could do it then. Ugh, MTNT

4 Fuck! Fuck! I can’t stop it any longer! It’s calling to me! I crave it! I ache for it! Please, sweet rapture, answer my calls! Death surrounds me! All I hear are blood-curdling screams! When I close my eyes, I see blood. I see blood oozing from gaping wounds! Gaping wounds on necks and arms and chests! I see death! I crave death! Give me peace. MTNT

It was 3:30 on Sunday morning, Matthew, still awake, eyes red and heavy. His chapped lips gave away his mild dehydration, and his bony hand trembled frequently. Sitting on the edge of his bed, face in his palms, Matthew lifted his head. Quietly but quickly, he went through a mental checklist and collected his things.

“Black Jeans? Check Black t-shirt? Check Black boots? Check Green bag? No, too easily noticed. Fuck the bag.” He grabs a folding knife from his dresser drawer and puts it in his pocket. “Knife. Check.”

The window creaked as he tried to slide it open gently. He paused for a second to make sure there was no stirring in the house and then proceeded to open the window. Matthew’s long, slender body quickly slipped through the window and onto the flower bed below.

Careful not to crush any flowers, he tiptoed through the garden and onto the soft grass, still wet from the sprinklers that had recently stopped. When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he wiped his boots on the concrete as if he needed clean boots for what he was about to do.

Three blocks felt like it took two and a half hours. Or maybe he wished it had. His stomach churned as he approached the bus stop. He stopped walking, his eyes still glued to his shoelaces, and slowly lifted his head. The soft yellow light from the street lamp lay like a blanket on top of the black asphalt, and somehow the cheap bench with the advertisement for the cheap lawyer looked even cheaper in its glow.

The stop was empty. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat but to no avail. “What time is it?” He blurted with desperation in his voice as he quickly drew his watch to his face. 3:57, the green light blinked mockingly at him. At exactly 4:00, the bus chugged along from around the bend, huffing and puffing along the way. Its old frame ready to give out at any moment; the drivers as well.

As the bus screeched to a slow stop and the doors popped open with a shake and a squeal, Matthew could see the curly white hair of the bus driver; her frail body tossed from side to side by the vibrations of the idling bus. “It’s amazing that old bitch is still driving that bus.” He whispered to himself as he admired her profile.

Soon enough, the bus doors closed again, the stoplight stopped blinking, and the bus made its way back on course. The homeless man was left standing in the yellow light as the bus pulled away.

“God Damn it!” Matthew shouted as he dropped to the ground hoping the man didn’t see him or, better yet, didn’t hear him. “Hey, what are you doing over there?” The homeless man asked eagerly, ready to score some sympathy cash.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” Matthew repeated, hyperventilating as he pulled the knife out of his pocket and opened it carefully, making sure it didn’t make a noise. He doubled over in a fetal position as the homeless man approached him. The man’s dark brown eyes popped under his unkempt eyebrows as he saw the thin young man crippled in pain.

“Hey man, are you alright?” The homeless man begged as he rushed down to one knee placing a hand on Matthew’s back. Matthew slowly rolled onto his hands and knees. His right hand, fingers wide, laid palm down on top of the handle of the knife. His outstretched fingers dug into the dirt surrounding the blade, but he didn’t grab it yet.

The man’s hand was now on Matthew’s shoulder, and Matthew placed his left hand in the crook of the man’s elbow. He planted his right foot down on the ground, and as he began to straighten his back, the moonlight shone off of the stainless steel blade.

“What is that?” The man asked, but it was too late when he realized what it was. Matthew gripped the man’s arm with his left hand, and with his right hand, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of the knife, squeezing it so tight he began losing circulation in his hand.

Violently, Matthew threw his clenched fist, the impenetrable shell around the black carbon-fiber handle of the knife, into the man’s stomach. Again and again, he plunged the knife into the man. Until he stopped, and he sat, and he watched his breath come out of his mouth in thick clouds as he panted in the cold morning air. And he noticed that no clouds were coming from the man.