Unquiet Desperation
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Author Topic: The only difference between the madman and me is I’m not the doctor  (Read 3020 times)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Posts: 176

« on: June 11, 2010, 02:02:59 PM »

My doctor is insane. His beard has been growing over his face for decades now. With time he stopped noticing it. Just as he had stopped noticing his daughter was no longer a little girl. Suddenly; right about the time only he could notice the virgin gray hairs on his face. She started to carry a tiny leather briefcase in her hands and smelt of those perfumes you get with the cosmopolitan women’s magazines. She started fucking an older man who had a beard just like her father. The dad saw them once in a dark corner of some bar whose name he later tried to forget. The old man with the beard like his was way too old he thought; and the tits of his daughter were beautiful and white and he wanted to touch them for a moment. Instead he snuck out and drank all night.
He drank two bottles of whisky and a glass of Caribbean rum and he remembered that night till the day he died. Not because the old man who had hands on his daughter’s breasts or his daughters excited horny face but because that was the only night of his life when he couldn’t get drunk. He went home in the morning and masturbated all day. The following balmy summer night he felt exhausted like he only felt almost three decades before when he went to work for a Russian gas company. He was digging holes for a month and during the night he was drinking vodka till the morning bell that called for the beginning of the shift. The shifts exhausted him and he ran away to an old village where he could drink all night and sit undisturbed by any other morning sounds. With the songs of the roosters he would continue drinking into the day.

His phone rang just as I was half naked in his office with my half grown chest hair getting stiff from the cold winter that was reigning outside. It was his daughter.

- “Hallo Dad, there is this gathering at my firm tonight, maybe you could drop by, I haven’t seen you for so long now. We’ll have drinks and food”.

He was mumbling something in his half grey beard. He was struggling for breath and for a moment I thought that he too was suffering an anxiety attack. His eyes widened and he stopped listening to everything but her voice. My coughing made no sound and the shadow of his assistant nurse that was holding my shirt in the air over his face didn’t exist at all. We were all frozen in the moment. Everything was frozen, the trees we saw trough the window, the moving streetcars on the wide uninterrupted street. Everything was frozen but the old man’s dick in his blue woolen pants. It was as wild as it was 15 years ago when he first saw her tits in that bar whose name he never forgot. He was 58 and she was 30 now and I was still 23 I remember.
He mumbled something how he is busy and how he’s got patients booked out for the next 2 weeks. He hung up and lit up a cigarette of Marlboro reds in his office. For a moment all we could hear was the sound of his breath exhaling nicotine. The cloud of smoke filled the room with the view on the wide snowy street and then we could see nothing.

Somewhere between the first and second cloud of smoke I saw naked breasts of his assistant and her fingers on her big rounded nipples. They were stiff and hard and she was touching them like it would only be this moment. I took her hands and pulled her towards my chest. Her body was warmer then mine and her breasts were sensual and young. She was 26. I took her hand and placed it on my dick. Seconds later while I was holding her nipple with my lips she had already found the back of my underpants. It was cold so there was no time for losing. She bent and put her hands on the bottom of the window overlooking the winter outside.

The doctor calmly finished his cigarette like there was nothing else in the world except his daughter’s tits, his cigarette and the smoke around him in that room. He again saw something that had been making him masturbate for decades. He turned around, got up and walked outside. Five minutes later he came back pale and exhausted. His hands were wet and he was swearing after the plumber who hadn’t fixed the drier on time.

Prayers and church bells outside announced that it is time for something. The winter made everything seem more quiet than usual. The moving cars and a hundred lighters that lit a hundred cigarettes throughout the city, the sound of the a little gipsy boy’s harmonica on a crowded street, the talking women in love, everything was quiet and somber…

The doctor was anyway mostly silent. Even in the spring and summer when he was drinking in bars he would rarely talk to anybody. He would come in and nod at the waiter and he would bring him a glass of Red Label and wouldn’t ask him any questions. The doctor would drink whisky till about midnight and then he would start on the beer. The light sound of piano jazz would stay on for ours in his head. It was the perfect soundtrack for drinking he thought.

Almost four decades earlier, in the little village called Blot, he had escaped to from the mining company he learned to drink with a soundtrack. The soundtracks changed with the time. The new music came into fashion and he listened and he drank. He spent most of his salary in Blot and he decided to move on to the south. He had enough of cold weather and his throat was burning.

But where could he go?

His mother he never met. The father came in once and spoke to the principal of the poor-house. He knew that because the principal came into his room with a small block of dark chocolate wrapped in the shinny paper from the inside of the cigarette pack. He saw small pieces of tobacco on the top of the chocolate and he ate it in a rush while the principal was telling him that some man that use to be his father had come in and said that he was leaving somewhere. One other time a guy dressed in the clothes they give to mental patients came in and claimed to be his father. He somehow sneaked into his room and grabbed him from the neck hysterically screaming some other name than the would be doctor’s.

The whole poor-house jumped to its feet and minutes later the police rushed in and took the man away. The doctor especially at times when he was clinically drunk missed that man. He would climb from out of his bed or stagger out of a bar and walk to the closest police station and throw small marble like rocks. He was usually way too drunk to hit his target but once he hit the window and smashed it to pieces. The police woke up half of the street looking for some suspect local kids but the doctor was already in his bed with some other thoughts on his mind.

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