Or at least some parts of it? To be honest, I have never felt that way, but I have definitely known, or rather, seen someone who went through a range of emotions that confirmed that he no longer trusted the events of his life.
Okay, okay, I will not bother you by beating around the bush. Let me take you to when it all began.
I woke up yesterday, like every other day, sharp at 7.18 AM. Yes, I know, that’s an oddly specific time. But people have been calling me odd and weird all my life, so I don’t think the time when I wake up in the morning is even an “odd” concern. Like clockwork, I brushed my teeth, brewed some coffee, flipped on the TV and set it to the news channel, while making myself some steak for breakfast. Yes, I know, “Who eats steak for breakfast?” Well, I do. The news reporter wasn’t talking about anything interesting – the sunny weather, nasty politics, some junkie being arrested – just the usual mainstream shit. Not the kind of news that would make me turn around and watch in awe. But then, good things come to those who wait.
I walked to the small dining table just outside the kitchen and placed the plate of piping hot steak on it. The smell of perfectly cooked meat first thing in the morning hits different. With the news still serving as a background noise to fade out everything else, I made a cut into the soft and juicy piece of meat lying on the pearly white place. The dark sauce flowing onto the plate kind of made it look like a painting. The TV was playing some advertisement about a sedan that’s just the best for your family. Family, yeah, right! After my love affair with my breakfast, I washed my plate and then went ahead to wash myself. Showering is hands down the best part of my day, not just from a physical standpoint, but from a mental perspective too - it lets me plan my day ahead, lets me strategize stuff, lets me stay sane.
The rest of the day was, well, the usual. You know, calm and ordinary, at least, for most parts of it. I work from home. No, not because of the pandemic. I have always been a homebody, so my choice of work has been odd like everything else as well. I work as a carver - I carve out statue busts for an elite list of clientele who have – how do I put it? - unusual tastes when it comes to interior decoration. But it pays me well, plus I can eat good food, or good meat, rather. So what have I got to complain? Anyway, working at home really gives me the peace and the concentration that I need for my work.
Like I was mentioning, the day was pretty much ordinary. Until around 6.30 PM, when a guy came up to the door and rang the bell. I was pretty focused on the statue that I was working on for my latest client, so the bell kind of pissed me off. But I answered the door eventually. “Hey, Arnold, what took you so lo… Wait, you’re not Arnold. Who are you? Are you one of his nieces that he talks about every so often?” “Ummm… You are at my doorstep, I should be the one asking for your identity. And no, this isn’t Arnold’s place.” The man looked skeptical, as if trying to find a hint of prank in this conversation. “Oh, come on, really? I have been coming here every single day, I think I very well know where Arnold lives. We have been neighbors since the last 6 months” “Look, I don’t know if you are a creep or someone, you don’t look like one, nor do I want to believe that you are one. I am in the middle of something important, and it would be great if you could please leave.”
But he didn’t pay heed to any of my words. This man, who must have been 40-ish by the looks of it, with mild salt and pepper hair, brushed past me inside the house, asking where Arnold is, almost in a fit of rage. But then, he suddenly stopped shouting, and retreated his steps towards the front door, where I was standing. “The living room…it…it looks different. These aren’t Arnold’s stuff. There, right by the window, he had those hunting rifles of his. And…and the couch, he didn’t have a couch, he just had a couple of recliners. He…” “Sir, I might have to call the police, if you don’t leave immediately. I have told you already, no Arnold, no Schwarzenegger lives here. I have been here since the last 7 years, and I have never seen you around.“ I could see the man rapidly blinking his eyes in confusion. “But…Arnold…We met last evening too…This…This can’t be true…You are hiding him somewhere, aren’t you?” The rage returned to his voice. He stormed inside the house trying to make sense, but it didn’t. So, he was back to square one. “This can’t be true! I couldn’t have been imagining all of this for so long!” He spoke with a quiver. Might as well have cried. “I don’t know if you have been hallucinating or not, but please leave the house. I really don’t want to call the police and create a fuss.” The man took one last look at the dimly lit house and walked out. I shut the door immediately.
That was close. Thank God he did not venture into the basement. I don’t think he could have handled the sight of Arnold’s terrified face. Oh, the beautiful expression of absolute horror, forever stuck on his face now.
Arnold hadn’t noticed me slipping into his house after his dear friend had left at 8 PM the previous day. What could I say, he was a clumsy man, he had left the door unlocked. It wasn’t until an hour or so later when he spotted me in the darkness of his kitchen. He panicked at first, then came running at me, shouting all the while. “How did you get in? Who are you? I’ll call the…” Too bad, he hadn’t noticed the knife in my hand. His voice faded into oblivion after the 9th stab, a happy occurrence because Arnold was a noisy man. Everything else was breezy after that. The best part was that it was just Arnold and his neighbor who lived in the neighborhood. There were a couple of other houses farther down the street, but one had been turned into an office of sorts, and the other didn’t look like it housed any residents.
I had parked my RV a little away from the neighborhood, I brought it in a little after midnight and shuffled the entire place’s décor. It didn’t take long because Arnold lived quite minimally – recliners, a bed, some rifles like his friend had said, and a few other random shit. I’ll probably clean them off this week and sell them. Who doesn’t love some extra cash?
But I’ll have to thank Arnold. No, not for this temporary residence, but for that beautiful, twisted expression on his face. My client will certainly be head over heels in love with Arnold’s bust statue. I can already see how magnificent it looks with the wet plaster of Paris, it’ll be a pure work of art once it dries off. Oh, I can visualize Arnold, or rather his bust, sitting on the mantel above the fireplace at my client’s new house!
The rest of his body, you ask? Didn’t I tell you that I love myself a perfectly cooked steak for breakfast?
And, yes, remember to lock your doors, you don’t want to be a décor piece, do you?