Short Story: The Meaning Of Life?

Short Story: The Meaning Of Life?

The hymnbook was thrust in front of me by an officious old lady, who looked out of place in the church, mainly because she the reincarnation of Lucifer himself. Her face was a cross between a half eaten shoe and John Prescott’s left buttock, sagging noticeably lower on the right side from the other. Her teeth were nicotine stained stumps which had endured years of cigarettes, alcohol and Werthers Originals, slowly decaying away like everything else in her life. She had been playing the organ at the start of the service, belting out song after song of general Christian shite. I didn’t bother singing along. I felt cold within the stone walls and dreary surroundings. A shiver ran down my spine then all the way to my toes as I thought of the moment I would die. The hairs on my arms and neck were raised and prickly to touch. It simply wasn’t worth thinking about.

Looking around all I could see was a mixture of handkerchiefs and flamboyant hats. Devil woman soon detected the fact that I did not subscribe to her chirpy songs of death and malcontent, her eyes piercing into me with pure hatred, her eyebrows forming an aggressive V shape in the middle of her expansive forehead as her anger swelled. In a feeble attempt to avoid being the subject of her next voodoo doll, I scrambled to find the line which we had reached. It was no use; the words swam before my eyes like a whirlpool, swirling around the lyrics in a pool of tears. The hymns soon finished and we walked out to the burial. This meant I could partially escape devil woman’s blisteringly icy stare.

A chilling wind stung my face. I looked up to the sky and all I saw was monotonous grey, the rolling clouds droning on. The priest said his piece and Charlie was lowered down, down. I wondered how different my life would be if not for that ghastly, murderous cocktail sausage. If that terrible, hideous buffet had not taken place I would still have the one person I loved in this world. How on earth can you choke on a cocktail sausage anyway? I tried not to think of it, instead I thought of my fish, Fingers and how I wished I fed him that morning. I felt everything but nothing. Empty, like a room so full of people that you cannot as much as move your hand to your head without causing a wave of disruption. Everyone around me looked grey with sweet, sweet sorrow. I wondered if I looked this way. I still could not fathom how my brother could die in such hilarity. It was a paradoxical quagmire of delight and anguish.

I remember just a matter of days after Charlie’s funeral, when my Father sat me down in the kitchen, if the dejected tone of voice he used didn’t reveal something was wrong, the disheartened expression plastered to his face certainly did. I had never seen my Father look this way before, his great hazel eyes welled up with tears, though he never allowed one single drop to escape, it would be another great low-blow to his fragile pride.

Father’s furrowed brow emphasised the vast distress he was feeling, as I took my seat, already expecting the most unbearable of news, Father wasted no time in revealing the horrendous truth.

“Douglas, I’m sorry but unfortunately your Mother won’t be living with us here anymore," he began, somewhat hastily. “You see, she needs time to clear her head after Charlie. She’s having an affair with a Frenchman.”

Dad never was very good at letting you down gently with bad news.

I felt an overwhelming sense of compliance, rebellion and utter disorientation in matter of seconds. Who the bloody hell was this smooth-talking Frenchman who had prised my Mother from my relentless grasp. I imagined him to have long slimy hair, partially covering his inhuman features. I burst into an inconsolable wail. Tears streamed from my eyes, in a pool of distress.

“Jesus, Doug. You’re 39 for Christ’s sake. You can’t act like you are ten for your entire life. When are you going to get off your arse and do something with your life?” Dad didn’t even attempt to console me in my inconsolable state.

“Oh, thank god… I thought the gerbil was dead,” a relieved voice muttered, a voice that I recognized instantaneously, and one that I never, ever enjoyed hearing.

It belonged to a man I hated almost as much as the tarty French bloke. It was Guy, Dad’s younger brother, who also earned the ominous reputation of being a total cock wherever he went, the brown nosing, self indulgent, socialite prick that just happens to be the biggest knob in the world.

The two of us turned and stared at him in utter disbelief, as he leant in the doorway, looking sanctimonious as usual.

Realising his catastrophic misdemeanour he attempted to scramble out of the grave he had just dug himself. I wished he’d bloody dig himself a grave and stay there so I’d never have to see the oblong faced wuss again (his skull was of similar shape to an oblong).

“I was only trying to make the best of the situation,” he burbled, attempting another recovery which, as always seemed just to offend you to an impossibly extortionate level. “The bloody things on its last legs anyway…”

How could you possibly make the best of an immense catastrophe such as this? And the gerbil died three years before.

“Guy, you really are one hell of a cock.” Dad spoke with a sincerity that was totally warranted by the one hell of a cock I had for an uncle.

I couldn’t resist grinning from ear to ear as Guy’s face contorted with severe parity to that of a castrated baboon. Then I remembered that Mum had ‘Buggered off’ my spirits immediately dampened.

“Look, I’m sorry…”

“Just save it Guy, and stop leaning there like you're bloody disabled.”

He stumbled into the room as I stared at him with rancid fury whilst he fell into a seat alongside us. He was dressed from head to toe in denim, a trampy-looking jacket that was ripped all over, intentionally or not you couldn’t be sure. The look was finished of with jeans, also ripped and cream slip-ons. His parted ginger hair and excessive facial hair made him look peculiar, even by the elephant man’s standards. Guy couldn’t have looked much worse dressed in a tutu with, ‘I Have Aids, Kiss ME’ branded onto his forehead.

Guy pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, carefully selected one, lit it and took a large puff on the poisonous stick. I think he only smoked to look ‘cool’ or ‘groovy’ at which he failed pathetically. After about a minute of silence, Guy spoke.

“What do you think about the Christmas decorations in town this year?” he wheezed in an Austin Powers type accent that made him sound evidently brainless, before attempting a sophisticated face that dissolved into a vicious coughing fit midway through the sentence.

We remained silent, venomously staring at him, willing him to shut his cake-hole, before we did something we might regret. But, typical Guy, not one for interpreting body language, had to continue.

“Personally, I think they’re crap, the council need to invest in some proper festive decoration. I may write to my friend Henry Moodus at the council, he knows how to throw a party or two I’ll say.”

Father jumped to his feet and connected his bludgeon of a fist with Guy’s petrified chubby face. Guy flew through the air like a bullet from a gun, gathering velocity by the millisecond as he tumbled back through the doorway and crashed into the fish tank in the hall, smashing the glass cube into thousands of insignificant shards. What seemed to be gallons and gallons of water flooded the hall. Guy’s nose was streaming with blood and a toy castle from the broken fish tank was perched bizarrely on his head, and Fingers was in his ear.

“Oh God, Guy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Hold your nose for God’s sake.” Dad realised his overreaction immediately. Guy slowly rose to his feet, holding pinching his nostrils together as instructed, though in a zombie-like manner.

“Take Fingers out of your ear, Guy!” I screamed, as the fish flailed relentlessly, its head firmly wedged inside Guy’s ear.

“My fingers aren’t in my ear, Yossarian” Guy spluttered, “I’m pinching my nose”

“He’ll suffocate!” I yelped feeling like my life was sinking into even deeper crisis; I couldn’t lose my Mother and my fish in the same day?

“How could I? All of the water is on the floor, Yoss,” Guy’s intended patronising tone gave the impression that he was born with some kind of mental retardation, as he had a toy castle on his head and a fish called Fingers jammed in his ear.

“No Guy! My fish! Fingers! Stuck in your ear!” I yelled, losing hope for the life of Fingers by the second.

“Who’s Fingers are in my ear? Stop being stupid Yossarian Douglas. I’m going. I’ve had enough of this dump.”

Guy walked briskly out of the front door leaving a sodden trail of water in his wake. Halfway across the road Guy stopped and removed the toy castle from his head. Suddenly a truck accelerated out of the blue from the corner at the end of the road, heading toward Guy at speed as he stood with Fingers in his ear in the middle of the road, staring quizzically at the toy castle. Before I could do anything to save him, Fingers had gone. He crashed through the windscreen at 70mph, killed on impact, along with Guy.

As Tony, my best friend drove me home from Guy’s funeral I began to wonder what the true meaning of life is. I would have asked Tony, but he would probably give me some useless old testament quote that I could gain absolutely no benefit from. He’s always down the bloody church. Him and his religious chums. He certainly looked the part of a regular church goer, he often wore black clothes and his withered, depressing face suggested hours of Bible ridden boredom. Having just lost Charlie, the only person in my life that I mildly appreciated, as well as Fingers and Guy, and my Mother abandoning me for a Frenchman, I decided that, from that moment onwards I would pursue that tantalizingly impossible question with all the determination I could muster. What is the meaning of life?