The Last Nukyi: Fear Cosmic Annihilation

  Chapter 2: CARRAVECKY & SONS

  The alarm clock struck 5:50 a.m. and rang with the sound of another dreadful Monday. Tom’s hands were clasped tight around the pillow; and without realizing his undiscovered strength, he separated the cloth, and a sack of feathers floated in the unsettled air.

  He finally reactivated from a dull state of consciousness and lifted a weary eye, which strained looking at the clock, resting dial up, and calling on the floor. He sat up, brushed the chalky ceiling dust off the chard sheets, and balanced his infected body weight on the edge of the bed. He mumbled lethargically, “It’s going to be another brutal week digesting my unflavoured employment obligations.”

  Cool breezes bleed in through the wound in the roof. He surveyed the circular damage and questioned, “What the hell went through here last night?” His sense of perception was blank. He reached over and slipped his robe from beneath an unnaturally formed jumble of clothes, and proceeded from the bedroom down the stairs into the living room.

  The front picture window, which seemed wider than standard builder’s dimensions, captured the light of the morning sun. He paused to feel the warm rays on his unshaved face. “Five days of cold rain--at least it’s bright, dry, and warm today,” he whined, as he seriously debated whether to go to work or call in sick, however, he continued toward the kitchen.

  Fresh coffee dripped from the automatic dispenser and filled the room with an aroma of strong hazelnut. He poured a hefty cup of brew, a simple chore he found difficult each morning, thanks to his constant state of over exhaustion and negative financial position.

  He returned to the living room and eased into his housebroken recliner, like an 80-year-old man. His aching finger stretched for the remote. The television flashed on, another typical morning of news, weather, and sports. He clicked through the available channels with every morning news broadcaster reporting the same globe bleakness in different, phony smiles. Bored, he switched them off.

  A peaceful sensation cleansed his mind with a feeling of profound serenity. Strangely, it felt foreign to him. He sighted to his right and sipped the hot drink. His wife and two young children posed in the colourful photograph. They gleamed so happily. It was a joyful picture of better times. A year ago, she left with the girls. He knew they were healthy, living with her folks up north, but he was afraid to call. He was drowning in regret, mental pain killing him. He regretted not spending more quality time with them, but his noble accounting career got in his way. He couldn’t change his past although he wished he could. There were too many useless excuses handcuffing his stubbornness, and due time would determine if their untied marriage arrangement was best for the family.

  A fond memory splashed in his teary eye. It was the day of the firm’s annual summer picnic that she told him she was leaving. That was a bad time in his life--a day he’d never forget, even if he lived a thousand years.

  He levered forward in his worn-in recliner and gulped the remaining mouthful of warm fluid and retired the mug next to the family picture as he did every weekday morning.