Sadness

All posts tagged Sadness

On being random, dismantling and finally updating.

Published June 27, 2016 by mandileighbean

It’s been over two months since the last time I posted, and there’s nothing I want more than to tell you I’ve been doing wonderfully interesting things, that I’ve been really and truly living. But that would be a hyperbole. I’ve been alive, yes, and I’ve done some fun things, yes, but nothing that should keep me from writing.

So let’s catch up, shall we?

I haven’t lost any weight, but I have gained some. I haven’t really been trying, as I’ve felt mostly unmotivated and uninspired lately. Is this summertime sadness? Is this some looming emotional, existential crisis that has finally landed? Am I just melodramatic? Rather than answer these questions, I usually eat a bag of potato chips (the ones that say “Family Size”) and fall asleep on my couch.

I think I’ve identified one behavior that needs to change.

I wish I had a camera that could take quality pictures of the moon and do its beauty justice.

“A heart that hurts is heart that works.”

I don’t fantasize about sex. I fantasize about intimacy; how sad is that?

I think a duck must have a perfect life. They just float on, no matter if the water is calm or choppy. They can take off and fly whenever they want. If the only dunk their heads in the water, they have food. It’s simple and free, and I am envious.

I am done romanticizing broken men, as if loving them adds something noble to my character.

“I don’t hold grudges. I believe that’s the shit that leads to cancer.”

The school year ended on a high note. The senior events I was charged with helping to plan (Mr. Manchester, Senior Prom, graduation) all went off without a hitch. I am proud of the work I’ve done.

“Nothing is ever over.”

I really need to use my upstairs more. I don’t have central air though, so during the summer, the temperature is almost unbearable up there. So I’m in pretentiously self-proclaimed “office,” but it’s dark in here. It’s really dark in my house. I’ll say it’s to keep it cool, since I don’t have central air, but in all honesty, it’s because I’ve been too broke to afford light bulbs and now that I do have money, I’m simply too lazy to buy some and replaced the old ones.

“I know what I want, and I don’t mind being alone.”

It’s really dark in my house. I’ll say it’s to keep it cool, since I don’t have central air, but in all honesty, it’s because I’ve been too broke to afford light bulbs and now that I do have money, I’m simply too lazy to buy some and replaced the old ones.

This is what a successful adult looks like, no?

The literary agent who requested the first fifty pages rejected me, but my original publisher is still thinking about it. What’s that saying, when God closes a door, He opens a window? I’m feeling ambivalent to everything, mostly because I’m sunburned and it hurts so I’m cranky.

I like collecting little, seemingly unimportant details of the people in my life to better craft my characters.

When school was in session, I realized that the worst thing about leaving my house each weekday morning wasn’t having to bid adieu to my comfortable bed and its cozy covers, but that I miss the early sunlight streaming through the windows and lighting the wooden floors. It’s beautiful, and I was sad I could never just sit and admire it. But now I can. I think that’s how life is supposed to work.

I do this thing sometimes where I just sit in my car. I might leave the engine running, or I might shut it off, but either way, I sit in the driver’s seat, scrolling through the social media garbage on my phone or playing Tetris. It’s wasting time, one of the most precious gifts, and I hate it. I don’t know why I do it. Is it exhaustion? Is it moodiness? I abhor how lazy I am. I had an idea for a scene for my third novel, but the details have faded. I remember it had something to do with a modest, upstairs library and someone watching on anxiously as someone else carefully surveyed the titles. I wanted to throw in visiting a favorite author’s grave, but there was definitely more to it, like dancing or something? I need to write things down more often … obviously.

“Wanting it doesn’t make you the monster, taking it does.”

Some days, I just waste the hours until I can go back to sleep.

“You can fail at what you don’t want to do, so you might as well do what you love.”

I’ve been in a miserable sort of funk, so I’m endeavoring to change my life. My friend thinks I need to be comfortable alone before I can be comfortable with someone. She recommended hiking, picnicking, wine on the beach, seeing movies, and getting coffee. I also think I should leave the state. I’ve been dying to go to Key West in Florida. This summer, I’ve decided to dismantle myself from the inside out, rebuilding to be more carefree, more creative, more in love with myself and less dependent on others. Some days, I have to talk myself into getting out of the shower, and even then, I change into pajamas.

But I’m trying to be positive, I swear. I’ve begun keeping a running list of things that make me happy to be alive (in no particular order).

  • fireworks on a summer night
  • driving my Jeep without its roof and doors
  • sunburn (as long as it turns tan)
  • books (even the shitty ones because they’re non-examples for my career)
  • clean sheets
  • hot showers
  • food, glorious food!
  • running and being sweaty after a run because it helps me to love my body
  • good movies
  • laughing
  • the national pride fearlessly displayed by soccer fans

“The effect you have on others is the greatest currency you’ll ever have.”

I recently lost a banana for 24 hours.

“I’m ripe with things to say. The words rot and fall away.”

So, here’s an excerpt from the novel I’m working on. You should hit “play” on the video that follows now, so you can have a soundtrack. Ironically, the song playing is not the one I quote in the paragraph that follows. I wish I knew why I do the things that I do.

“The thing about things is that they can start meaning things nobody actually said, and if he couldn’t make something mean something for me, I had to make up what it meant.”
– Amanda Palmer

Kelly dropped the box filled with odds and ends concerning the kitchen with an exaggerated, dramatic sigh of relief. The box landed on Charlotte’s tiny, cheaply and poorly made kitchen table, a piece of furniture she had salvaged from her grandmother’s home, a piece that had likely been in the home for forty years – a horrible blend of Formica and putrid pastels. For a moment, Charlotte had been hopeful the weight of the box would crush the table and put the ugly thing out of its misery, but she had no such luck. She watched Kelly similarly drop herself into a chair, sweaty and tired from a day spent moving, a day of manual labor. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” she whined.

Charlotte offered a grin of commiseration. “I know, me neither.” She moved a few steps closer, resting against the back of a chair.

“Then let’s call it quits and do something better.”

“Like what? As you can tell, I haven’t got much of anything.”

Kelly thought for a moment. “You got playing cards?”

“I think so,” Charlotte said. She knew damn well that she did, but she was playing it cool for no other reason than it was a habit turned instinct. It was irrational – there was no way Kelly would give a shit about how those cards came to be in Charlotte’s possession, or how seeing those cards made Charlotte’s dumb heart skip a beat even now, even though she was nearly 1,000 miles away.

Kelly’s face of thoughtful concentration broke into a youthful smile of excitement. “Well, shoot – I’ve got beer and some of them crisps. How’s ’bout you and me play us a few rounds of cards?”

“Sure,” Charlotte smiled. Kelly scurried back to her neighboring apartment to scrounge up some beer and some snacks, and Charlotte headed to her bedroom. At the foot of her bed, upon the creaky floor, sat a box labeled, “PERSONAL.” It had been the only box Charlotte had personally moved, had tucked discreetly in her car and carried hurriedly across the threshold of her new apartment, lest anyone should see and ask about the contents, most of which meant absolutely nothing to anyone except Charlotte (hence the label). It wasn’t filled with lingerie or vibrators or dirty pictures or anything like that. The contents only embarrassed Charlotte because of their innocence, because only a prude would cling to a random assortment of objects that reminded her of people who had long since removed themselves from her life, or had been removed for any number of offenses. The items in the box would mean nothing to a passerby and that embarrassed Charlotte, like there was something shameful and almost juvenile about being anything but obvious.

She squatted somewhat uncomfortably to delicately open the box, lovingly unfold the flaps so that she had complete access to some of her memories, so that the majority of the contents were visible. Charlotte only needed to scan the contents for a few seconds before she found the deck of cards, quaintly contained in cardboard, beaten up from a few years of handling. A smile splayed itself unabashedly upon her lips as she reached into the box the same way a heart surgeon would reach into her patient’s chest cavity. With the same kind of epic patience, she removed the playing cards from the box and began walking back to the kitchen. The youthful, exuberant smile quickly became nostalgic and sad.

The playing cards were white with silver, loopy hearts decorating their backs. The hearts were cute, sure, but there was nothing remarkable about their appearance. They were a treasured item for Charlotte only because of the way the cards came to be in her possession. A few years ago, Charlotte had fallen in love with a beautiful, brilliant, and broken man. As a result, she had developed a constant need to be around him, to be close to him, and so, she invited him everywhere.

One night, she invited him back to her hotel room after a work conference. She and her colleagues had all been drinking for quite some time, right up until the lights came up for last call. The beautiful, broken man had joined them at the bar, at Charlotte’s request, of course. Charlotte had always envied the sort of effortless grace that surrounded him, the way he could suddenly appear anywhere at anytime and be welcomed and accepted. When he strolled into the bar without fanfare or pomp and circumstance, without having attended any of the conference because of a prior commitment, Charlotte was breathless with awe. It was like something of a horribly cheesy and romantic movie made for network television; he could have been walking in slow motion beneath a burning spotlight towards a strategically placed wind machine. The fact that he was walking towards Charlotte smiling was wonderful and she was so happy she could burst apart. She never ever wanted her time with him to end, and her colleagues and friends didn’t want to stop drinking, so a select few decided to buy some beer and return to Charlotte’s room. She turned to her beautiful, broken man and invited him. He played it cool – he was always so goddamn cool – and didn’t really answer one way of the other. Even when they were walking back to the hotel, just across the street, he wouldn’t accept or outright reject the invitation. When he climbed into his car, a lump formed in Charlotte’s throat. She would let him go and hide her disappointment, try and play it cool, so her parting words asked that if he did come, to bring playing cards. He waved somewhat dismissively and drove away. The copious amounts of alcohol she had consumed kept Charlotte’s mood from dipping too low and she scampered back to the hotel among friends, arm in arm, with high spirits.

He sent her a text later saying he couldn’t find playing cards and was just going home. Charlotte sighed heavily and thought her best recourse was to just keep drinking.

About twenty minutes later, there was a booming knock at the hotel room door. It sounded particularly authoritative and Charlotte was worried it was the cops. Were they being too loud? Her one friend raced to the bathroom to hide while the other pressed herself further into the bed, as if the mattress could swallow her whole and conceal her. They had left Charlotte to answer the door and so she did, despite feeling suddenly and incredibly nauseous. She opened it and saw no one. No one was there.

She whipped her head to the right and gazed down an empty hallway.

Looking to the left revealed her beautiful, broken man. He was leaning against the hallway wall like some leading man from Hollywood. His arm was bent at the elbow so he had one hand behind his head and rested his weight against the wall through the point of that bent elbow. His right leg was crossed behind the left one and the toes were pointed down at the plush carpet. In his other hand, he twirled a pack of playing cards. He was smiling, quite pleased with himself and the effect it all had on Charlotte. There was certainly something gorgeous about him, something more than his appearance. His demeanor drove her wild – she would never able to pull off such an entrance, but he had.

And it had been for her. What more could a girl possibly ask for?

But nothing had come of it. He was with some woman with a checkered past and too much makeup. Charlotte’s grandma was worsening, and so she had left it all, run away. But she kept the playing cards to remind herself that for one night, she had gotten exactly what she had wanted, that she had been perfectly happy. The cards symbolized possibility – if it happened once, couldn’t it happen again?

 

On Biscuit.

Published April 10, 2016 by mandileighbean

I am by no means an “animal lover.” I have never owned an animal poster, not even the psychedelic ones by Lisa Frank that featured crazy colors and tigers. I’m not particularly saddened or offended when animals die in movies; I can move on quickly. I bypass the viral cat videos, and just smile and nod politely when someone insists on showing me one of these videos. I suffer patiently when people talk about their pets like children. I would not be fulfilled in a career that entailed cuddling with pandas.

That being said, I really and truly loved my dog Biscuit, and am surprised by how depressed and devastated I am that we had to put him down on Thursday.

We all knew he was dying, and I thought realizing it would make accepting it and then dealing with it easier. I was wrong. We knew he was not doing well because Biscuit was 16 years old, which is pretty old for any dog. Also, he had a vascular growth near his rectum that had become infected and bled continuously at a slow drip. The day of his death, Biscuit wasn’t moving, wasn’t eating, was constipated and simply didn’t look healthy. Dad and I convinced Mom to take him to the vet (Dad was at work, though), so we had a 6:00pm appointment. The prognosis was bad, and the vet gave us three options: surgery, which could cause incontinence and greatly affect Biscuit’s quality of life; steroids, antibiotics and stool softener, which might work but was more of just a band aid; and euthanasia. Mom and I talked about it, and we decided to put Biscuit down. It broke our hearts, devastated us, but it was best for Biscuit, the best dog I’ve ever owned.

When he got older, he’d sometimes sleep with his tongue sticking out. It was adorable.

When I first met Biscuit, he jumped up to say hello, but scratched my leg pretty badly. I still have the scar.

When I was suffering from a terrible, severe complicated migraine, Biscuit climbed up onto the couch and cuddled with me. He knew I was in miserable pain and wanted me to feel better.

Biscuit had big, googly eyes and one over sized, yellow, wonky tooth. He was still the cutest dog ever.

Biscuit cuddled with Sam on her bed and as he left her room later, he looked right at her and peed on her doorjamb. It was liked he knew she’d be trouble and was showing his support for the family. Sammy likes Teddy better anyway.

Biscuit would wait for my mom outside of the bathroom. It was like he was in love with her. We called them Brian and Lois, a nod to the similar, inter-species couple from “Family Guy.”

Biscuit would lay on Dad’s chest and they would share ice pops. Dad loved Biscuit.

Biscuit only ever bit my dad, and it was totally my dad’s fault. He kept pulling a bone from Biscuit’s mouth, and we all heard Biscuit growl, warning Dad to knock it off. Dad wouldn’t – he never does – and we told him Biscuit was going to bite him. Dad just wouldn’t listen – he never does. He said, “Biscuit would never bite the hand that feeds him,” and went to take the bone again, but Biscuit did bite him. Dad called him a motherfucker.

Once I moved out, Biscuit would always sleep with me if I spent the night at my parents’ house. He did the same when he spent a week at my house while my family was on vacation in Florida. He was perfect gentleman – he never peed anywhere.

Biscuit’s last meal was sharing chips with me. The only time he left his bed on the last day of his life was to say hello to me.

I walked Biscuit for the last time at the animal hospital.

Mom and I kissed Biscuit. We told him he was a good boy, told him that we’d miss him. Mom held him as he took his last breath.

They gave us locks of Biscuit’s hair and angel pins to remember him by. I get to keep the fur. Mikey gets the collar.

The veterinary assistants called Biscuit a “perfect gentleman.” He was the best dog.

Mom was a mess. I’ve only seen her cry four times in my life; after a bad, bad fight with Dad, when her father died, and the two times Sammy has left for rehab. She technically cried when Bijou (our other dog) was out down, but she swears that doesn’t count because it was only out of guilt – she hated that dog and to be fair, he was a pain in the ass.

We left Biscuit on the cold, steel table with a towel over his precious, little face. I was surprised by how hard the loss hit me. I really fucking loved that dog. I knew the end was near – he was at least 16 years old, just to reiterate the point – but I was so very sad.

I made a colleague make the middle name of her new puppy Biscuit. When I get a dog, no matter the sex, I will name it Biscuit.

My parents’ house is weird without Biscuit. He had such a personality. I think even Teddy misses him, too (the morbidly obese chihuahua we also own). He’s been laying in Biscuit’s spot by the door, but it’s not the same.

Dad’s using Biscuit’s bowl to keep change in.

Biscuit loved to be outside. He’d lay on the front porch for hours, basking in the sunlight and surveying his kingdom like Mufasa from “The Lion King.” He was totally Transcendental.

I miss him. I almost cried writing this, and I don’t even like animals all that much.

On the point being to keep trying.

Published March 21, 2016 by mandileighbean

nevergiveup

“In the stories, though, it’s worth it. Always worth it to have tried, even if you fail, even if you fall like a meteor forever. Better to have flamed in the darkness, to have inspired others, to have lived, than to have sat in the darkness, cursing the people who borrowed, but did not return, your candle.”
– Neil Gaiman, The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a terrible adult. It seems that I never fold laundry, I owe everyone money, I always forgot to check the mail, and I’m constantly drinking spoiled milk. On good days, I am able to convince myself that these minor defeats give me character and make me interesting; they give me something to write about.

And I keep trying, because that’s the point, right? The point is to keep trying.

My author page on Facebook has been experiencing more activity than usual, and I want to capitalize by composing a riveting, engaging blog post, but I’ve been lacking inspiration. I’ve also been lacking motivation. I haven’t written anything. I haven’t graded anything.

Last week was rough.

My twin sister returned to rehab a week ago today. I try to remind myself that relapse, whether or not anyone likes it, is a part of recovery. I force myself to consider the alternative, about where else she’d be if she wasn’t trying to get help. Neither scenario does much to lessen the disappointment, the frustration, the anger, or the sadness. It’s a gross, turbulent mess of emotions that I’m trying to compartmentalize and shrink so that they can be better processed and dealt with appropriately. But it’s hard; it’s so hard.

But I keep trying, because that’s the point, right? The point is to keep trying.

“Because, perhaps, if this works, they will remember him. All of them will remember him. His name will … become synonymous with … love. And my name will be forgotten. I am willing to pay that price ….”
– Neil Gaiman, The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury

That wasn’t entirely true, what I said earlier, about not having written anything. I’ve written some things, but nothing I’ve been thrilled with or necessarily proud of. I worry my writing – the themes, the characters, the dialogue – is repetitive. I worry I’ve written all of this before, and that might be because the object of my affection is every character I’ve ever written, is the epitome of every romantic fantasy I’ve ever had, and so it all comes back to him in one way or another. What’s especially troubling, and simultaneously amazing about being a writer, is that I invented this man before he appeared before me in the flesh (talk about a god complex, huh?). In college, before I had ever met this man, I started a novel and wrote, “He couldn’t watch her fawn over another man, couldn’t tell her how he felt because it was too late and he’d ruin it for her.” Swap the genders of the pronouns and I am my own prophet. It’s crazy; I said everything I should have said to him years before I met him. How depressing.

I wrote a poem, too.

I put the kettle on for tea
and pulled my leggings from the dryer
I hope there’s time for breakfast
before I go about setting the world on fire

Burning devastation – turn it all to heat and ash
There’s something freeing about going mad
To face the world with wild, reckless abandon
To give in, to be selfish, to be ignorant and bad

Consequences will come swift and sure
Rolling quickly like so many rocks downhill
But it could absolutely all be worth it
For the liberation that accompanies the kill

What does being so reserved get you,
maybe a curtsy and a smile?
None of the mystery, intrigue and danger
that can go along with being vile

But I don’t think I’d really go so dark. It’s easy to not consider anyone or anything else other than my own wants and desires, but that doesn’t make it right. It’s difficult to do what is right, at least sometimes.

But I keep trying, because that’s the point, right? The point is to keep trying.

On being a bag of bones, and nothing more.

Published September 3, 2012 by mandileighbean

“Sometimes I wonder what I’m a-gonna do.  There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues.”

–      “Summertime Blues,” The Who

“I got that summertime, summertime sadness.”

–      “Summertime Sadness,” Lana Del Rey

Well, well, well; we finally meet again.

            I’d like to sincerely apologize for my prolonged absence and offer an explanation.  I am afraid I was battling a severe case of Summertime Blues.  I felt extremely lethargic and did nothing of consequence.  All my dreams, all my expectations of living were surrendered to an ultimate kind of laziness that robbed me of my health (I can’t even begin to estimate how much weight I’ve gained back, and how much hard work has been all for naught), my inspiration (I only wrote – really wrote – for a two week stretch and its value is debatable) and my passions (I stopped reading).  I could have and should have been out with friends, but I picked loneliness instead.  I would have rather been at home, alone, stuffing my face and watching mindless television instead of engaging fully in love, and laughter, and life.  It was terribly depressing and altogether frightening.  I was the exact opposite of the person I had planned on beginning to become.  I wasn’t living; I was just slowly dying, merely existing and nothing more.

            Stephen King, a personal hero of mine which I am sure has been mentioned, says that all writers drink from the same pool, meaning that all writers are inspired by the same pantheon, so to speak.  Therefore, it should come as no surprise that King quotes Thomas Hardy in his novel Bag of Bones: “Compared to the dullest human being actually walking about on the face of the earth and casting his shadow there, the most brilliantly drawn character in a novel is but a bag of bones.”  In the television adaptation of King’s novel, the main character named Mike Noonan goes on to explain how he fears that is what he has become; nothing more than a bag of bones.  I totally understand that.  I could have said that quote myself this past month, this last month of summer.

But now it’s the beginning of September and it’s time to cut the pity party and do what I am supposed to do, and to do what I want to do.  I want to lose weight, so I will.  I want to be a writer, so I will.  I want to be a good and an effective teacher, so I will.  I am going to turn twenty-four in sixteen days.  I’ve never been good with numbers, but these numbers seem manageable as long as I am always striving to be the woman I want to be.

Happy September, everyone; the year is coming to a close, but the academic year is just beginning.  My wish for all who read this is that they learn something about themselves from now until June; that they discover a truth about themselves that gives them comfort and hope in tomorrow.

“I plan to crawl outside these walls,
Close my eyes and see.
And fall into the heart and arms,
Of those who wait for me.
I cannot move a mountain now;
I can no longer run.
I cannot be who I was then:
In a way, I never was.

I watch the clouds go sailing;
I watch the clock and sun.
Oh, I watch myself, depending on,
September when it comes.”

– “September (When It Comes),” Roseanne Cash featuring Johnny Cash

PROMPT: An architect is informed that his current project bears an uncanny resemblance to a “haunted” hotel destroyed decades earlier.

PIECE: Reggie was genuinely beaming, and his eyes were actually smiling, when he unrolled his blueprints across Mr. Field’s desk.  He grabbed the nearest paperweight (clearly engineered by one of Mr. Field’s many grandchildren), a stapler, a cup filled with pens and a legal pad to weigh down the four corners.  The white lines popped against the blue background of the paper and Reggie wasn’t sure if he had seen anything as beautiful as physical evidence of perseverance and a job well-done.  He was nearly breathless, thinking about all the cups of coffee and sleepless nights, hunched over at the desk in his studio apartment.  He thought about the sunrises he had watched, weary from a severe lack of sleep but alive enough to still appreciate the beauty and wonder of the rising sun and the shadows it cast, aided by the taller points of the cityscape viewed from the only window in his apartment.  Thankfully, that window was ceiling to floor and the only thing in the apartment that he cleaned regularly.  Percolating with enthusiasm, Reggie eagerly turned to Mr. Field.

Mr. Field looked less than pleased.  As a matter of fact, if Reggie was willing to put aside his ego which seemed to be ever-bruising, he would have to admit that Mr. Field looked downright terrified.  His face was ashen, and the lines all constricted so that his countenance was an uncomfortable mixture of horror and concentration.  Some awful, irrational truth was settling over Mr. Field, like a man on death row who was just denied his last appeal.  As Reggie’s smile understandably and considerably dimmed, he wondered if it could be as serious as all that, as life and death.  He cleared his throat and called out Mr. Field’s name.  He did so softly, so as not to disturb a clearly already rattled man.

Mr. Field turned to Reggie absent-mindedly, like he had forgotten the young man existed, let alone was still in the room.  He collected himself and offered a phony smile, but the jig was up; Reggie had seen his initial reaction to the plans.  Mr. Field watched Reggie’s smile completely disappear, now replaced with dread anticipation.  Mr. Field cleared his throat, swallowed hard and said, “You’ve done a good job, Reg.  I’m impressed.”

“Tell me what’s wrong, Mr. Field.  We’ve known each other too long to play this game.  Just give it to me straight, please.”

Mr. Field let his eyes take all of the young man in, the young man who was going to be so damn successful it seemed ludicrous; the young man who had no idea how talented he was; the young man Mr. Field had taken under his wing once Reggie had graduated.  He loved Reggie and wanted nothing for the best for him, and that desire directly conflicted with the answer Reggie had asked for.  Mr. Field sighed and walked to a filing cabinet in the far corner of the room.  It looked dusty and had dents all over the visible side.  Despite its neglected appearance, the filing cabinet was locked and it took some minutes before Mr. Field located the key, which was taped to the wall behind an extravagant kind of painting.  Filing cabinet unlocked, Mr. Field doubled over to rifle through folders in the very bottom drawer, mercilessly shoving all of the papers forward.  In the back, rolled up and folded over time and time again, was another set of blueprints.

Mr. Field brought the blueprints and unrolled them right on top of Reggie’s creation.  Paperweights weren’t needed as the papers had been folded for so many years that the paper did not curl up.  “These are the blueprints of the King Hotel downtown.”

Reggie looked at the blueprints.  “I never ….”  His voice trailed off as realization dawned.  He couldn’t talk; if he opened his mouth at all, even to breathe, he’d vomit all down his front and he’d rather not be so childish in front of his boss.

“You’ve never heard of it because it was torn down before you were even born,” Mr. Field explained, observing Reggie hunching over and growing quite still.  He tried to keep his tone as even as possible.  If he remained logical, he remained rational, and that kept the fear at bay.  “Twenty-seven people were killed inside the hotel over a span of six months back in 1935, its inception.  The hotel closed for thirty years before some asshole thought if it was restored and reopened, it’d be a point of interest for macabre tourists the world over.  It was; people flocked to the King.  The only problem was that not a single guest could last the night.  It was haunted.  There was talk of demons and poltergeists and hallucinations that were terrifying enough to drive men to suicide.”  Mr. Field took a deep breath.  “It was torn down five years later, deemed inhabitable.”

“You, Reg, have just recreated it, angle by angle.”

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