The Feet and the Floor and Everything in Between

Squeeze story ideas from a writing prompt, snip off any loose ends and let it cool for a few minutes. Gently lay it down on a parchment or a paper and pat it dry once again to remove any excess elements. In a bowl, sift all-purpose words, a cup of dialogues, and a few heaping tablespoons of vivid imagery to ensure that there are no unnecessary clumps later on and then mix thoroughly until immersive. In a separate bowl, ladle character arcs that were simmered with sprigs of vengeance, loyalty, and development, pour a generous glug of tragedy and comedy, sprinkle similes and metaphors and whisk together. Coat the story ideas with the two mixtures and fry it with the eyes of a critique then season to taste. Afterward, garnish it with a title and deliver it to the table. There you have it, a masterpiece of a story, courtesy of Benjo Artemio.

Words are an extension of Benjo’s body. Whether it is to push someone into a fury or caress them to a soothing relief, he can muster up the right words to write. Benjo breathes life to his works, carving seemingly real fiction characters from pages or painting sceneries that evoke images as clear as seeing it with the readers’ own eyes. This eloquent wielding of words earned him trophies and plaques that carpeted every wall of his mansion, garbed him with praises from all around the world, and raked enough money to last two lifetimes. 

     He is a master storyteller. Or was. 

Benjo’s eyes were already open as the pale lances of light emerged through the stained windows, revealing the dust motes dancing in a slow beat he couldn’t hear. Ghosts. He tugged his blankets over his head and buried his face in pillows. Whether it is for him to suffocate or enjoy a wink of sleep, it doesn’t matter because neither came, only a few more beams that grew hotter and brighter. He rose from the sheets, sat on the edge of the bed opposite to the windows, and rubbed the non-existent sleep from his weary eyes as he felt the heat creeping on his back like a hug of an insistent lover. Ghosts. Then a slow low creak craned his neck to the left. His cabinet’s doors were slightly opened and revealed a niche of dark space. Benjo can feel eyes staring right back at him as he looked at the slit. Ghosts. 

They were the only ones with him in his house. At times, they lurk in the pitch-black corners, run through the hallways, or sleep with him. Always making a sound, always saying that they were there, always keeping him up at night. Benjo didn’t want them to be here, but he didn’t want them to go. These ghosts hold the last fibers of his sanity together. 

     “Good morning,” Benjo greeted the cabinet’s crevice with a groggily, base voice. He put on his slippers, got up on his feet, and walked towards the deep brown furniture. Wary that something may spring on him, he prepared his feet to back away but when he opened the doors, there were no ghosts, only clothes. Ghosts are invisible anyway. He removed his pajamas and donned a fresh robe.  

 “What are you doing?” His voice was merrier like someone talking to a child. Silence breathe. “Wow! That’s so cute!”

 He walked past the walls adorned with his frames of achievement while the hues of white and amber that covered his grand abode cooled his eyes. Carpets of different colors led him to the marble stairs with rails made from ebony. Benjo guided his hands on it for support as he descended. 

     “Good morning, honey,” he greeted the sink after arriving at the kitchen. “What’s for breakfast? You’ll let me do that?!” Benjo exclaimed as he opened a cupboard at the top and pulled a bottle of whiskey. “If you say so, love.”

His gaunt hands twisted the lid and then he chugged the whole bottle. With whiskey trickling down his salt and pepper grove of a beard, Benjo’s throat throbbed violently as to warn that he may swallow his Adam’s apple. He swirled the bottle to quicken the liquor flow and in just a manner of seconds, he emptied it. Then he waved the bottle towards the sink and uttered in a voice thick with alcohol, “I’m a dutiful husband.” 

He drew a bottle of red wine, pulled the cork off, and imbibe once again to the rich savory drink. Thumping headaches pounded his head and his eye can see nothing but blurs. A small stream of mixed snot and wine flowed down his nostrils but he wrinkled his nose so hard that it returned to his mouth. Then vomit surge at the back of his mouth but he retched it inside.

Benjo wobbled and swayed, with one hand holding the bottle and the other touching the walls for guide, knocking the frames that hung on it. The drunk man soon found himself at the bottom of the stairs. He raised the bottle to his leathery lips, sucked forceful gulps of wine, then his bony hands gave out and lost grip to the neck of the bottle. It shattered on the floor, pooling it with oceans of red and splintered glass. Seeing the puddle of wine, Benjo went to his knees.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he wailed his eyes out while snot dripped from his nostrils. He bawled then sob, leaving his throat raw and itchy. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Benjo moved his hands as if to pick something from the spilled wine which earned him a few gashes, but he embraced the broken glass and liquor all the same. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he howled so loud but only the ghosts can hear it then he darted back to his room.

He moaned as he staggered towards his bed. Hazy eyes and unsteady feet won him bruises after he fell a few times. After more tumbles than he could care to count, Benjo was back in his blankets once again. 

The soft mattress relieved some grief away, but as soon as he was starting to get better, the cabinet creaked. Though it wasn’t just like last time because now, eyes are looking at him. Brown, laughing eyes stared at his red and swollen ones. “No,” she whispered, soft as a child’s voice.

“No!” Benjo thundered. “How many times must I tell you not to startle me, Yana?” His face rippled with rage. 

“I only meant to surprise you,” her meek voice and innocent face can melt down any anger, but not for Benjo.

He’s in the middle of work, rushing a story to be published in a week. The clatter of the keyboard coupled with the bittersweet aroma wafting in the air heightened his focus. As he was in writing, a sudden high-pitched “BOO!” astonished him that he heaved upwards, knocked the cup on his loins, and doused himself with boiling coffee. 

“Don’t do it again,” Benjo’s fiery eyes calmed down a little, but his fury is still in his trembling hands. “Look at what you did!” He raised a hand as to smack her.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she darted out the room, tears and fears welling in her eyes.

     After changing his clothes and wiping clean the floor, Benjo sat back again. He started typing but all he wrote had a dull feeling to it. His concentration was shattered by her daughter’s jape and the fast pattering outside the room. 

“What are you doing?” He saw Yana running on all fours back and forth across the hallway.

“Papa!” Her smile reached from ear to ear. “I’m just playing like I was a horse.”

“You think that’s cute?” He bellowed, his forehead wrinkled in his fury. 

 “I just-”

“Go play outside or else I’ll slap you and burn all your toys,” Without another word, Yana scurried away.

 Now that he was clear from any more distractions, Benjo wrote with ease like a ship sailing smoothly on a fair day. The clinks the keyboard made were a symphony to his ears, but the sweet music was disrupted with an abrupt loud thump outside. He ground his teeth in rage but opted not to bother anymore. Benjo was in the middle of the writing zone, where his concentration is at its peak. Enjoying his writing groove, he passed his work just in the nick of time and he started to notice the unsettling quiet. 

“Yana!” She wasn’t in her room nor outside at the gardens. Benjo checked other rooms, opened cabinets, look under the bed, but she wasn’t there. After a few more minutes of nervously searching for his daughter, he found her. 

At the bottom of the marble stairs, he saw Yana. He rushed towards her with his heart beating his way out of his chest. As he descended, he puzzled it all out- the thump and the silence. 

Drown in the sea of red, Yana laid lifeless. Tears streamed down Benjo’s eyes as he scooped her daughter from her sticky blood and held her chest near his ear. The silence was everything he could hear. He gasped and wailed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Not so long did his wife appeared. She dropped the groceries as she saw her beloved daughter smeared with blood. The red stains splashed on the stairs gave her everything that she needed to know. 

“Yana!” she wept as she yanked her body from his father’s embrace. She held her close and gave Yana the tightest of hugs, blood, and tears both trickled down her face. “What did you do!?” she husked. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the renowned wordsmith was loss for words. It was the only thing he could say. A pang of guilt washed his face while he continued muttering his words of forgiveness.

“Don’t do this, Trisha,” Benjo pleaded his wife after she gave him the papers for divorce. After their daughter’s funeral, Trisha decided to file divorce against him with grounds regarding his negligence that led to their child’s death. If she were to win the case, Benjo would lose almost all his wealth. 

Had he not been a master storyteller, Benjo would live in the streets by now. With a few tweaks in the story, seasoned with lies, and topped with believable acting, he reversed the situation against his wife. She’s to pay a huge sum to compensate Benjo’s losses. It left a foul taste on his tongue, but he did what he has to do. 

 In just a week after the hearing, Trisha followed Yana, swallowed by grief, and suffocated by a rope. 

Benjo couldn’t sleep the day he saw it on the news, nor the day after that. Sleepless nights haunted by her dead family turned to weeks then months. The last story that he submitted garnered literary awards and received offers to make it a TV adaptation but before he knew it, work and opportunities come piling up one after the other.

He tried to drown the sorrow with words and so he kept himself busy, but every time he sits down and write, all he could say was “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Choking on parched ink and crumpled paper, Benjo visited clinics and therapists but to no avail. There’s no more magic, the well has dried. 

Even so, he stayed awake for nights only to write two sentences, and all of it read, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Ghosts started to haunt him. The creak of the door, the patter on the floor, and the loud thud were a tumult of noises that assaulted his ears, and it grew louder every time he writes as to prevent him to never do it again. He couldn’t swim as he drowned in a withered sea.

Then it was his puffed eyes staring at the pitch-black hole once again. He stood, wobbling from all the liquor he downed, and picked a paper and a pen in his desk. He jiggled past all the broken glasses in the hallway, crawled in some times, but always moving. It was when the crimson red parted the blue sky when he found himself a hempen rope and a sturdy beam. 

With the few shafts of light left, he started to write.