originally posted on station456.tumblr.com on February 9th, 2012
***
A few words in particular seem to come to mind for those who take a look at Carl Ellington’s house: old, worn, aged, depressing, decrepit; things like that. When one enters this house, they must first make their way up the ancient staircase. This is an old house, so decisions often looked at as silly nowadays were permissible at the time of construction: These steps are made of an uncomfortably weak wood, and these specific steps are particularly in danger of a harsh snap, making the journey up them off-putting and slightly frightening. The sound of each creaky, bothersome step is outlandishly loud.
Once an individual braves his way up the horrific flight of stairs, he is greeted by a screen door, damaged with several holes and smothered with the excrement of those damn, smarmy birds. The entrance to this house opens fine, however, which makes it considerably more desirable than the pathway discussed earlier.
If one moves further, beyond the door, he would be greeted to a floor mat filled with the shoes of an elderly man. And often times a dog: A large, black-furred canine who is content to sleep and scarf down any food he can get his choppers on. This dog is old, lazy, and wants nothing to do with anything that does not involve slumber, a fuller stomach, or the man currently sitting in the living room.
This man’s name is Carl Ellington. He’s 78 years old, and could honestly be described in a similar fashion to the stairs of his house. He’s an old, beaten down man who quite honestly has had enough of what people commonly refer to as living.
A trembling hand brings a mug of hot coffee to Carl’s lips: lips that first press against the rim of the mug, slowly waiting for a small taste of the liquid to make sure it is of a tolerable temperature. Carl jumps back as the coffee hits his tongue, startled by the alarming heat of the beverage. A drop spills down the side of the cup, making its way past the faces of the two children pictured.
As Mr. Ellington attempts to clean the small mess he has made of his morning cup-o-joe, the large, black beast previously resting by the shoes comes walking in, slowly, as all of his movements are.
“Hey, Buster.” Carl says, snapping his fingers towards the dog with what he hopes to be a smile, but what is actually a miserable attempt at such an expression. “Ya wanna help me clean up my mug? What mug is this…” Carl’s miserable attempt at a smile turns to an obvious frown that would be unsurprising to him, given the sudden burst of morose emotion he started to feel.
“Oh, Buster, this is daddy’s favorite mug. You remember Charlie, Kate? They visited us, oh, how long has it been now…” Carl closed his eyes, thinking rather long about a response to a creature that won’t understand him. “Oh, uh, yes, they came to visit around seven years ago. It was a year after ‘ur mum left us.” Carl begins to choke up. “Off to that place I told you about the other day, where they have all of the bones you could ever want.” A pause. “And big fluffy pillows, perfect to snooze on, all day, long as you like.”
A tear begins to creep its way down Carl’s face, in a similar fashion to the drop of coffee down his favorite mug.“What are we doing, Buster? What the hell are we doing?”
Buster simply looks at Carl, with an emotionless face that couldn’t be less interested.
“I don’t know what else God wants me to do on this planet. Laurie’s gone with Him, my babies are all grown up, living their own lives. I wake up and have my coffee. I’ll spend the rest of my day watching my programs, or listen to the radio, dozing off half the time. I’m not in the game anymore, and I think I may have just grown tired of playing.”
The dog’s apathetic face turned to a different one. It did not change due to further understanding of the old man, but because the dog wanted a treat. This face was accompanied by one of his paws scratching at the old man’s pockets.
A smile, finally, shows up on Mr. Ellington’s face, after a sniffle containing the sobbing he is now done with. “Heh, oh, poochy.” Carl pats the dog on the head. “Maybe He’s keeping me here for you.” The old man takes a treat from his pocket and feeds it to Buster, who complies with a comically large lick that practically just shoots the cookie straight down his throat.
Buster is smacking his lips, satisfied with the treat, as the old man sees a colorful blur outside of his window. A further inspection at the window, after a process of getting up and walking over that was very much unnecessarily slow, shows Carl that the blur was a blue ball that most likely came from the tiny, nearby park in the middle of the little neighborhood.
“Look like God’s sending me a sign, Buster. Maybe I’m not completely useless after all.” Carl says, as he makes his way over to his door.
Aside the bottom step is the ball: Carl moves forward to the first step from the top.
He takes another step.
And another.
And one more. This fourth step is his last.
There are a total of 12 steps.
SNAP!
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