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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Dark · #1966483
Can keeping a journal really help keep emotions from getting out of control?
Perry's Last Journal Entry
By: Irwin Hart

I held Carol’s coat as she slid out of our Lexus. I sucked in a gallon of cold air as I was confronted with the near nakedness of her breasts and thighs. Her pout. Her arrogant look. It was all a reminder to keep hands off. The glow in her eyes, once love and devotion for me, now was anticipation of stirring up male heat and flirting with my boss, Steve Giles. I had already noted this night in my journal. Prophetically.
I knew she would look hot. No affection. No marital union, kissing or touching. She wasn’t hostile. Just bored and repulsed by my lust and loneliness. Our bedrooms had been separate for three years. I was resigned that divorce was inevitable. After $24,000 spent on marriage counseling, therapy and workshops, we now took solace in our friends and casual flirtations. I knew she was hoping I would have an affair. She would get everything and plunge headlong into living the life she hungered for.
My journal was my therapy. It was designed to keep my anxiety and depression at bay: visualizing, positive self-talk, journeling. It worked most of the time. But the self-talk had taken on a different voice several months ago. It talked and I journaled. It would be about what was going to happen. Two hundred and seventy-five entries on how Carol was going to dress up her sensuous body and reveal the forbidden fruit. I would write afterwords: “You stupid ignorant pansy. You let her get to you again. But I’m going to save you Perry, you poor balding, impotent slob. Keep on listening to me and I will help you fix it up.”
This afternoon my new buddy spoke these words into my journal: “Carol is going to act more sluttish than usual. She will have several drinks before the party. Dance with your boss Steve. He will lure her into his drawing room for more drinking and some heavy petting. You will catch them in the act and I will help you come to peace.”
Inside the party, Steve had immediately swooped in just as my voice buddy had foretold. His hands pressed around as much flesh as his greedy hands could grab. Carol laughed and sneered at me. They flashed across his ball room dance floor in vulgar gyrations that made my groin tighten. At one point during their vigorous dance Carol’s breasts and thighs nearly pranced out of the thin fabric that concealed nothing. The ball room that shimmered around us was a gaudy, gilded appendage of Steve’s mansion and it was a shrine to his power and money. Every company party was held at “Ole Steve’s” and it was always a highlight for all of my peers to see who he was going to purposefully humiliate. “Sucker-“ my voice buddy said, “tonight it is you.”
My extremities were hot. The tuxedo that began the night loose and no shield against the weather was suddenly tight and sweltering. “Every eye is on you sucker,” my voice buddy said. I bit down on my lip and limped towards the bar, my extremities almost paralyzed with the venom that was coursing through my veins. I ripped at the buttons on my coat and undid my bow tie.
“Give me a double vodka,” I hissed at the bar tender.
“Sure buddy,” he said, his eyes riveted on the dance floor. “Have you ever seen any chic dance like that before?” he said with a smirk. “Somebody’s gonna get something good tonight.”
The vodka sloshed over the rim of the glass as I tried to steady my grip on it. I grabbed it with both hands and limped to the drawing room. I pulled the drink close to my chest and steadied my hands and feet as I sat down in the semi-dark room on the arm of an overstuffed, leather chair. I waited.
“He’s humiliated you buddy,” the voice said, with much more sympathy than cynicism this time. You know there is only one way to set it right. He has stolen your woman.” I was going to confront. I was going to tell them both what I thought of them. But the words were stuck in the slow methodical self-talk I had been practicing for months.
“You ever play the game Clue – Sucker? Look behind you, on the mantel.” In the dim light coming in from the windows, I spied the two foot long golden candlestick . “That’s it. Now if you were Colonel Mustard with a candlestick in the drawing room, what would you do?”
“No,” I said. The sound through my throat was a snarl, not a voice at all, but a revelation of an animal taking over my soul. My numbness was clearing up and my hands were no longer shaking.
“No? Really?” said my buddy, ”Then let me give you a glimpse of what you are going to see in just a few seconds. The song ends. Big crowd- lecherous cheers and jeers…Steve carrying Carol into this room his mouth and hands full of her…”
“No!” I screamed as Carol and Steve stumbled into the room so full of their own carnal cravings that they did not hear my cry. I grabbed the candle stick with bull elephant rage and swung it with the force of ten men. The gold and steel met bone and flesh. It sliced the top of Steve’s head off. His eyes rolled up inside his head as his bludgeoned skull broke apart. Carol’s scream was muffled by the weight of my dead boss’s body pinning her against a library table.
She whimpered like a wounded dog, wild eyed and as ugly as the black soulless void in her heart. I dropped my bloody weapon at her feet. I could hear my voice buddy shuffling off into the darkest parts of my soul. “Looks like your final journal entry, buddy."
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