Dust in The Wind

Charlie was a downer. Laura and I detested him. Like the needy ex that Laura already had, his shadow was ever looming over the future of our relationship. I hated Charlie.

It was raining. The light pitter-patter of the raindrops on the tempered glass of the attic window lulled me into a nostalgic blankness. It was one of those days, the kind of day that summons regrets of years past and the emptiness that followed. The billowing curtains from the window to the far right flapped and snapped in the wind. I pressed my hand onto the window. It was cold, and the coldness was welcoming in a bone-chilling way. I stared out of the window in front of me while trying to absorb the cold nostalgia for a moment before making my way over to close the other window. A stony winter chill blew into my face as I reached out with my thumb to the side of the window. There was a touch-sensitive little knob on the side of the window: everything was automated these days. Everything felt colder.
As the window slid back into place, I chuckled and traced the lines on my marred face. The cold always reminded me of my age. Warmth is a delusion of youth — everything fades. I used to fantasize about the kind of conveniences that we take for granted these days; I used to fantasize about all the possibilities and the money that was now laid at my feet, so to speak. I told myself that through it all I would be happy no matter what. It’s funny how plans fall through — I guess I forgot that happiness was a mode of transport and not a destination; I guess I forgot to stop and smell the roses at some point. Decades of toil and dreaming later and I was there, mirthful youth and naivety were things of a past long gone. Now financial freedom, tall stone walls, and a human deficiency toward empathy seemed to be all I was left with. Everybody comes with hands outstretched these days. Everybody wants a meal ticket. Fuck them. Who would have thought that building financial freedom followed the same steps as building a fortress, a cage? Life is a funny thing.
“Faiz? Are you up there?” came a voice from somewhere downstairs.
I wasn’t bothered to yell back until I heard the voice come closer, I was having a moment with myself and I really wasn’t in the mood to cut that short just yet.
Through the window, I looked over my ‘small’ estate. Small is a relative term in regards to the social circles I was in. Small in our circles, was not very small at all. Small was, in the vernacular of the plebs that were the butt of our jokes, huge. I had my own coat of arms engraved into my front gate too: yeah, I was that kind of gentleman. People would tell you that I was pretentious and self-serving, but I didn’t care. I rarely did after a while. I can’t even remember when it was that I stopped caring. The opinions of others lost their flattery to me; when I was poor, I was unwanted, when I became wealthy, I was of interest. It all felt very juvenile and… insignificant. The irony of being such a self-serving individual is that, as the subject of much loathing, you begin to start to find humour in it. I’d find it fascinating what scathing commentary on my life was to be the subject of interest for the directionless masses today.
“Faiz? What are we doing tonight?” the disembodied voice called again; it was further away than before.
I made my way to the door and closed it shut, it was rainy and I wanted to be alone with my own thoughts for a while. A lifetime of discontent, hard work, and climbing the corporate ladder warranted some time for thoughts to stew. Glancing over to the wall adjacent to the window, my eyes momentarily brushed over a faded poster from college. It was yellowing at the edges and the aged print paint was almost colourless. It was a ‘Scarface’ poster; I guess you could say it personified a silly and faded ambition of a lost teenager.
There was a lot of junk that was stored in the attic, a lot of white tarps, dust, and faded memories. Money and an irrationally spontaneous personality can do that to your attic. I pulled out a beaten-up blue lazy boy recliner from under a white tarp. As I was shoving it over to the window I noticed a small box nuzzled in between the armrest and the seat of the recliner. It was very small and I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t so downtrodden on this particular day, even if I had sat down right on top of it. I fell into the chair at the same time as retrieving the box from between the folds of the chair in one swift motion, inherent muscle memory of older technology allowed me to even pull out the footrest without so much as a second thought. In that little moment, I almost felt young again.

The small brown box was a very old cigar box. The sides were sanded round and the brand logo of the cigar had been worn away decades ago. I’d almost forgotten what was inside until I flipped it open. The waft of ink and tobacco curled up into my nose. Inside the box were letters, pictures, and a locket; at a stage in my life, these were the most important things in the world to me. The value of handwritten articles is lost in the new world. I was in a whirlwind of mixed emotions as I rifled through the small cigar box. It felt so archaic to be so fascinated by paper and wood in the most child-like and nostalgic sense of the word.
The attic felt more familiar and warmth spread into my fingers, I fingered at the box absent-mindedly with one hand and I was pouring through the letters with the other. Love letters.
I fell into even more of a nostalgic slump, closing my eyes I tried to imagine the days in those letters as hard as I could. I tried hard, too hard. White static enclosed every corner of my vision and before I knew it I was asleep.

I woke up with my feet planted firmly on my fuzzy green carpet, sat at an angle almost rigidly upright on my living room couch. Laura was on her side with her head in my lap, she was snoring pretty loudly. She was sleeping a lot as of late, with only work to keep her busy she was quite free to do otherwise, but Charlie always tired her out. It was raining quite lightly and the balcony door was being slammed into its frame quite repetitively, I gently pushed her head onto a cushion as I made my way over to close the door. It was off its hinge so I had to lean into it as I pushed it shut. The loud bang that it made startled Laura from her slumber.
“ba-aaby… whatcha doin’?” she mumbled almost incoherently with her face comfortably planted into the pillow.
“Mmm just finishing up a creative writing piece in a bit… are you cold?” I idly responded, with a yawn.
“Yeah, a little bit.”
I glided over into my cluttered little room in the little city domicile I kept, grabbed a duvet, and laid it over Laura.
“Mmm thanks, gorgeous.”
The evening grew darker and the rain got a little heavier. I rested my gaze at the wall behind the TV that sat in front of me, a fresh’ Scarface’ poster gleamed back. I sat over her on the armrest of the couch and nudged her quite lightly, I didn’t bother to check if she was still listening or not, I knew she was awake.
“Babe… you’re sleeping so much these days. Is this all because of Charlie or what?”
“Yeah… the more time goes by, the more tired I’ll get. He’s unrelenting. You remember what Solis said the other night.”
I kept a personal vendetta against Charlie, not many people knew about him but he was the bane of Laura’s existence as well as mine.
“Yeah, I fucking hate Charlie.”
“Me too, babe. Me too.”
She nuzzled her face into the pillow and glanced up with one eye at me in the most endearing, adorable way possible.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetie,” I responded almost automatically.
She nestled her head back into her pillow again, eventually falling asleep to the sound of rain tapping against our window. I sat by the glass door, staring out contemplating my life problems as a student and a young adult. Laura was pregnant, we were in the hey-day of our youth and despite it all, I could really only think of one thing amidst all of the disorder in my head. We had a life laid out for us and only one thing was stopping us: fucking Charlie.
Wait. I’ve been here before. Something was gnawing at the confines of my inner peace. It made me feel very cold and detached. The room began to quake and I collapsed to the ground, peculiarly enough, Laura seemed undisturbed. In fact, she didn’t even respond. My vision began to shake, I felt high, like I was on drugs. A weighty sort of energy coursed through my veins, up to my head, and into my eyes. It was too much to handle: I passed out.

I awoke sprawled out on the beaten-up blue lazy boy, Laura was sat straddling on top of me.
“Hey, baby.” She replied. She sounded different.
I blinked twice. It wasn’t Laura. It was Rachel. I was almost disgusted in myself that even in such a state of delirium that I had mistaken Laura for Rachel. Laura was gone now; Charlie had taken her with him a long time ago.
I casually pushed her to the side as I began packing everything I had fallen asleep with back into the cigar box. Rachel watched in silence, she never really knew what to say if ever I was feeling down. I made my way to the door without a word. She sat there looking slightly puzzled for a while. When puzzlement left her soft round face, she scratched her head and cocked it to the side, allowing for her light brown hair to brush her shoulders ever so slightly.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Rachel asked, she looked like a worried meerkat with her neck craned the way it was.
“Fucking Charlie.” I was almost muttering to myself.
“Who’s Charlie?”
I turned around, looked her dead in the eye, and sighed to myself.
“Charlie was a metaphor, a vampire. Charlie was a tumor that stole two of my girls from me.”