Thoughts
By Jack Bristow


Those incessant, goddamn horrible thoughts. Pounding away

in my brain. Never going away, never ever leaving me

alone. Reminding me, taunting me, making me sick to

my goddamn stomach. Distorting reality. False thoughts, false

memories. Sleep in the bathroom tonight. It's the

cleanest part of the house. You know. Like the dog's

mouth. The special palace. Where you won't be

seen. Where you can't be seen. Where you can

scrub your hands—your whole body, for that

matter—rawly.


knock—knock—knock—knock--knock


“Jared. It's me. Tim.”


“Hey.” I said real friendly-sounding over sounds

of the wash basin faucet.


“Oh shit Jared. Not now. Not again. For shit's

sake, man. I have an interview today. I need to

shower and shave and look presentable.”


“Can't you shower at Claudia's?”


“She's thirty miles away. Jared. I need that

goddamn bathroom.”


Any second now he will use those massive fists of his to

rip the door off its hinges. And I still have more

to scrub. It doesn't feel right. I scrubbed my feet

and hands harder. There's some blood. But it is

not finished. If I go out now the doubt will kill

positively kill me.


“Jared. Open the door or I am calling Dr.

Grossman.”


“Tim. I want to open the door. Really. I do,”

I said, scrubbing more leisurely and less

determinedly. “But I need more time. You

know—just until everything feels right. I

stopped scrubbing altogether a nanosecond

to think. “As I recall, Tim--”

“Goddamn it, man.” Tim shouted sad, not mad.

“You really need help. And now you're--”



“Before the move-in I ran things by you. I told you about me.”

I paused a second to make sure I made sense. “About my per-

fectionism, my eccentricities.”


“Eccentric. Hell. You are beyond eccentric. You're

flipped.”


“Yes. Well. It's me Tim. I'd apologize but I can't. It's me.”


“You're impossible,” he said. Almost it sounded like

he'd been laughing. I couldn't help smile at the silli-

ness of it either.


“Tell you what, Bub,” he yelled over the sounds

of the dueling water faucets in the shower and

wash basin. You've till tonight. Than after that

no more excess bathroom time. Got it?”


“I'll see what I can do,” I yelled politely.


He leaves.


I don't want to leave. I can't leave. It just is not

humanely possible to. Not now. This room is

my space, my oasis from everything going on

out there in the world. Every vile deed. From

every doublecross. Lie. Cheat. And back-stab. I have

it in here. All. TV. Blankets, sheets. My Manuscript.
Files. My desk. Ten cans of chicken soup. I

don't want to leave. I can't.


The room is filled with steam. Been a long time

since I've seen my self. I scrub the mirror and

look at my face. Pale. Hawk nose. Curly hair.

Pencil thin mustache. Lifeless green eyes. Look

into them. They dilate. They grow. Those scream.

Now those are eyes. Of no character, no personality.
I stare at my face long enough until I ask myself,

“What is this thing? Where'd it come from? Why

does he/she/it exist?


I yawn. I--I know! Tim will stay at Claudia's tonight. And

I can stay here. Yes. I must. I prefer to.


It is safe here.


- - -
Jack Bristow attended Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2008--under the tutelage of accomplished writers Dolph Lemoult and Mary Rosenbaum. A native Californian, but now currently residing somewhere in New Mexico, his next short story to be published--"Our Bus Driver, Fred"--can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.