The Night of Seven
Page 5
Maximo slowly slides the many large gold rings from his fingers and places them on the desk one by one. He loosens the silk of his tie to where it doesn't feel so much like a noose anymore; he doesn't feel as if it's going to choke the life from him and save the family the trouble of having to dispose of him. He supposes that will be the biggest insult. He figures that it will be the biggest slap in the face for them to force him to kill himself for being such a disappointment. It's at this moment that he feels that he is actually seeing his life clearly. He doesn't know if he can say that he has ever been more clear about anything.
Now bare fingers pull out the bottle of stupidly expensive single malt from the top drawer. He pulls out the pretty crystal tumbler and pours himself a drink, perhaps for the last time. He probably shouldn't even bother with the glass, but at least he can take this last drink knowing that for a while, however short it was, he really was somebody.
A knot in Maximo's throat rises because he knows that no, he never was. He was always just a pretender who people-pleased his way into a position of power. They will probably have his very own security officer be the one to come in here and end him. That's likely how they will do it. He has offended the wrong person, for the very last time. No more off-color jokes, no more pretending. This is the end. Maximo drains his glass in one gulp and pours himself another, and then with a tear running down the side of his face, he ditches the glass entirely and drinks straight from the bottle. Should he try to fight? Should he attempt to delude himself that he might be able to walk out of this room and go back home to his two Persian feline beauties? Who will look after them?
Unable to control it any longer, his face falls hard onto the desk, and the tears come freely. The last moans of a desperate, doomed man.
The family found him when he was just barely a teenager. He was living on the street, and it was the longest stretch of time that he can remember to that date where he was left alone by his mother. He fell through all of the cracks in the justice system. He was unwanted by the state and living off of garbage. When the family took him in and put clean, warm clothes on his back, it was only logical that he started to do anything and everything that they asked. They let him eat whatever he wanted in any of the restaurants that they owned. He was allowed to pick clothes from the stores that they worked, and eventually, he started working enough for them that he was earning a pretty decent living. He could pay for his own place and then he started to have more money than he knew what to do with. It was such a simple thing. He does anything and everything that the family asks him to do. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t have their full protection, but as long as he keeps his nose clean, they tolerate him. It’s better than he would have ever gotten to have if he had died in any of those dumpsters that his mother kept trying to abandon him in over the years of his then young life. He never thought that it would end like this. This is simply too big of a slight for the family to overlook. Such a simple job. He was normally so careful. Annoying sure, but careful. Now he was going to have to pay for that mistake; there isn’t going to be a way that he can talk himself out of it. No amount of cheesing or playing dumb or kissing ass is going to get him out of this. They might have been even wanting to do this for a long time now. It’s obvious that the family doesn’t much care for his personality; they probably only kept him around because he was too stupid to ever question anything. That is probably all he ever has been to them. Easy labor.
The phone rings.
Maximo debates whether he should even bother answering it. He knows who it will be.
“No…” he moans, “please no,” snot bubbles under his nose, and he hastily wipes it away. “It was just one stupid bitch. There are other bitches.”
Maximo chugs as much of the bottle as he can, and his hands hover over the receiver as the classically styled rotary phone rings for the third time.
He picks up the phone and taps the receiver against his forehead pathetically before he speaks. “Hello,”
“Maximo...you made quite the boo boo, haven't you.”
Maximo nods, his throat thick with tears. “Yes,” he wails.
“What a sad little man...don’t worry, Maximo; it will all be alright very soon.”
He cannot believe his luck. He can't believe his fortune. Perhaps they love him after all. “Really?” The elation is obvious as his relief palpably fills the his office.
“Yes, Maximo.”
“Thank you, thank you. I'm so sorry. I will never mess up again. No more boo-boos from me, I promise.”
There's a clicking ‘tsk’ sound from the other end of the phone. “Oh, Maximo no.”
“Wha- what?”
“This is unforgivable. But the pain of your sad, pathetic little life will soon be over. When I hang up this phone, you are going to write a suicide note, and then you are going to throw yourself out of your closed window.”
Maximo cannot answer; he wails so loudly.
The phone line goes dead in response.
He knows what he must do.
There’s no point in fighting it; if he tries to get away...if he tries to run, they are just going to find him. They would always find him. Maximo drains the bottle to the very last drop. He supposes so long as he dies...it doesn’t much matter what method he uses...maybe it can be the first and only thing that he ever chooses for himself.
Maximo pulls out a small, mirrored tray from beside the place he used to keep his bottle...and then he pulls out his stash. More than enough to stop his heart and melt his brain...and he knows it. At least he will end his life doing the only thing that has ever loved him back.
The story continues . . .
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Nadia Siddiqui has always been an author at heart—writing stories in her room since she was in high school. Now her stories have come to life. She spends time with her calico cat in Los Angeles, CA.
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