Prologue in A Life Unlived

Butch pushes himself away from the mahogany desk in which he was sitting. His eyes burn with sleep, but he knows he must power through. Pages from the manuscript that he’s been feverishly typing over the last couple of days, sits on the edge of his desk waiting to be finished. Taunting him with his own cowardice. This is where you stop, it sneers. He’s down to the last of it; the telling, the confession, the shame.

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger and squeezes his eyes shut hoping the pain that’s started behind them dissipates. With no such luck, he eases out of his chair and hobbles over to the small round table by the window which holds a crystal decanter filled with fine aged brandy and a matching glass. Pouring himself just enough for a quick gulp, he shoots it back and then eases his red velvet drapes back just enough to glimpse outside.

The sun’s coming up, he thought to himself, I’m running out of time.

He lets the drape fall shut and hurries as fast as his arthritic joints will let him back to his typewriter. The only wing-back desk chair squeaks as he lowers his weight into it. Sliding his chair back up to the desk, hands poised over the keys, he starts typing the beginning of the end.

Last updated October 05, 2018