Charlie Died

The weight of his unjustified life, sitting on his shoulders all day every day, slowed him down and killed his options.

Charlie loved grapenuts. You can't eat grapenuts quickly - you gotta chew, you gotta crunch, you gotta make sure they don't slip down your throat and cause mayhem. They do not delight the tastebuds the way frosted flakes do, but there is something satisfying about eating grapenuts. A utilitarian breakfast that suited Charlie's lifestyle and mentality.

Grapenuts allowed Charlie to think. And think he did. As he stared at the wall through the steam from a cup of coffee.

He thought about his life, about what life is. It starts out as this hopeful thing, filled with possibilities. A promise of satisfaction and pride and peace at some point down the road. But quietly, slowly, slyly, it degenerates into a low level hum. Background noise to routine. Turns out the hopeful part originates from naivete.

At least that's the way it went for Charlie.

Sitting in his run down house in rural America, eating grapenuts and sipping coffee, nursing no unrealisitc hope of redemption. Nursing nothing at all but a sense of emptiness.

Charlie thought about dying. He could never kill himself, he did not have the guts to do that. But if the Grim Reaper came calling he would not run. If rancid breath offended his sense of smell, accompanying the words "I'm coming for you, Charlie" echoing in his ears, Charlie would limply respond "OK."

He finished his grapenuts, swallowed the last mouthful of coffee - thankfully still warm - and wondered what to do. He sighed. Deeply. There was just nothing there, nothing to inspire him or even interest him. Everything had become predictable. Repetitive. Charlie's life was unoriginal.

It was Saturday. Charlie did not have to work. That was the only thing that set Saturdays and Sundays apart from the rest of the week. Otherwise, emotionally, intellectually, weekends were exactly the same as weekdays. A low level hum.

He was tired. He was always tired. Even right out of bed. Worn down, the way a drill bit gets worn from continously biting into granite. It happens gradually, imperceptively, but relentlessly. Life did that to Charlie.

He decided to lie down on the couch. He had just washed the slipcover and fitted it back over the sofa. It was clean and bright. Red. Charlie's only indulgence with a nod to cheerfulness.

His head hit the fat pillow he kept on the couch. Impulsively, he decided he would will himself to put an end to all this. To get the peace that eluded him his entire life. And half an hour later he succeeded.

Charlie died.