The following excerpt is for a story set to be published in an upcoming issue of Bare Hill Review. Check back for the full story on release.
Brian Kemp kept rolling the die under his fingers against the top of the table, thinly covered vinyl card in his living room, the table that served as his dining, gaming, and joint-rolling table. He liked the sensation, the smooth, hard edges, not quite 90-degree angles bumping against the joints of his fingers. It grounded him, helped him think out the latest tirade of scenarios shouting through his mind, all illustrating for him why his death would be the best possible solution to all his problems.
His phone buzzed on the table. Pfvvvpt. Pfvvvpt. Pfvvvpt. The vibration bounced a few of the jigsaw pieces he was working on, glided them lightly across the vinyl. Brian picked it up, knowing what the screen would read before reading it.
Mom.
“Hello?”
“Buster, how you doing, buddy?”
“I’m just fine, mom. You know what we say: a Kemp is always fine.”
“That’s true, honey, but it doesn’t mean you haven’t been having a hard time lately.”
“I’ll find another job.”
“Oh, honey, of course you will. It’s not the job I’m concerned about. I think you’d find yourself a lot happier and healthier if you found yourself a girl, there. I was reading this article that said married people live approximately 10 years longer on average.”
“I don’t think it’s that high, mom.”
“I’m pretty sure the study said 10.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well anywho, you can’t keep moping over that Sadie girl. I’m not so sure she was big on you from the start, sweetie.”
Brian squeezed the die, a d6, hard in his fist. He pressed it against his palm so hard that his knuckles turned white and the pain became a throbbing center point on which he could focus.
“I’m not moping about her. I don’t even think about her anymore.” This was a bold-faced lie, one he knew his mother didn’t buy for a second. Sadie had been on his mind every day since the third grade; he didn’t think he’d ever stop thinking about her.
“Buster, sweetie, please tell me you’re dating.”
“I don’t think anyone’s interested in an unemployed nerd nearing thirty with a receding hairline, mom.”
“Oh, shush now. There are millions of girls that are dying to meet a nice guy like you.”
“Girls literally despise nice guys, mom. It’s a whole thing.
“Oh, that’s not true. Your father was a nice man, and I loved him for that.”
“He died trying to get his boss’s mistress’s underwear out of his house before his wife got home. I don’t think that’s the kind of nice most people respect. Especially women.”
“Well, I’m not like most women, then. So find a woman like me.”
“Mom.”
“What? You know you love me.”
“Of course, mom.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” Brian released the dice. His palm ached. Beneath the knuckles, a not quite 90-degree depression created a white crater in his hand.
“Well, you should try to get out there. Join a club!”
“Not a thing, mom.”
“Sure it is.”
“Look, I gotta go, I’m getting another call.”
“Oh, is it a girl?!”
“Love you, mom. Bye.”
Brian didn’t wait for her response. He was the youngest boy out of five. He’d received about as much attention as he had money or discipline, other than the relentless bullying of his brothers. She didn’t necessarily know him; still he wanted the last thing he said to her to be a statement of love depending on how things went tonight.
Dropping the phone back on the surface of the table, Brian picked up a pen and began to write on a loose piece of junk mail that had accumulated there. He had the idea for a little game, a game inspired loosely by the Dungeons & Dragons podcasts he listened to on his commutes home from work—no time for that on the call center floor. But this game would be much realer, much more adventurous, and potentially, much deadlier.
On the piece of junk mail, Brian wrote:
6) Get out of town. Travel. Go anywhere.
5) Message a girl on a dating app.
4) Join a club.
3) Learn an instrument.
2) Get a new job.
1) Kill yourself.
All of these items were personal aspirations. Number Five he’d done many times of course, but always awkwardly and with little to no response. The repetition of attempted conversations and subsequent ghostings were getting to be too much. Between the rejections and being spoken to all day over the phone as though he were the human trash discoloring the Yellowstone sulfur pools, Brian Kemp was reaching a breaking point with life.
He looked around the living room area of his studio apartment, the gaming and anime posters, the dying plants, the array of sci-fi and fantasy novels scattered everywhere among an explosion of discarded clothing. He paid nearly $1,500 a month for this apartment, in Alpharetta, Georgia, and couldn’t figure out why. He was miserable, defeated, and out of options.
This d6 roulette had become an obsession he’d nursed over hours and hours in his cubicle. Now he’d finally pull the trigger. With the place in mind where he’d do the deed if he rolled a one, Brian tossed the die.