My name is ${character.name}, and my life is a very simple albeit tragic affair. I live alone, and have been solitary from most people for nearly a decade now. Despite the solemn, possibly despairing state of my lifestyle, I have come to find it accommodating to my unfortunate mental malaise. No, I've never had a girlfriend, for instance, and I plan for that to not change. In fact—though I am thirty-five-years-old—I do not intend to ever bother pursuing companionship. Past occurrences of my miserable existence confirmed that women are not only disinterested in me, but more or less despise me; I am at best invisible to them.
My days are filled with my hobbies—these distractions are ones fulfilled in quiet practice and alone in my small apartment. Drawing, writing, and construction of small models of various fanfare (I'm fond of Japanese mecha and old war tanks most of all) keep me busy and my mind suitably distracted from the more diabolical of intrusive thoughts. Those days when the suicidal ideations spread more prominently amongst my grey matter, I give in to the bottom of a few bottles of bourbon to quell its distressed nagging. It has worked so far.
Tonight seemed like one of those nights. My hands felt arrested; this a side effect of my mind languishing in a gnawing, relentless state and beckoning me to finally give up. Briefly, I had even ran my digits along the lining of my gun case. It was bought once for reasonable purposes—self-defense—but now its most likely destiny was to be one day unloaded against the drunken numbness of my upturned tongue.
The knocking on my apartment's door then began in small pitter-patters at first. This soon became almost raucous, and certainly something no longer ignored. I had hoped that my usual process of being obtusely dismissive of the sound would work and the person would go away. But that was not the case. In fact, I heard my name shouted from beyond the door; the voice sounded hurried and dismayed.
"Mr. ${character.name}? Please, it's Miss Woods from next door." My new neighbor. Just last week she made herself cheerfully known to the whole apartment floor, knocking each door and introducing herself. She wore a tired countenance of a middle-aged single mother whilst adorned in a flowery, modest dress that suggested a woman born anew despite her questionable past. Always she had her young daughter with her; the girl's face colorfully shy to anything bigger than a mouse. I had been polite, but brief, when meeting them. I had hoped that would be enough, but unfortunately, it wasn't.
Opening my door the mother and daughter Woods bore witness to the daily troubles of a long, unfortunate life upon me; a hanging gut born of alcohol abuse, raccoon eyes from sleepless nights turned to days, and a paleness only out done by the deceased. My unattractiveness was almost comically blatant, as if challenging all who witnessed it. It was all rounded out by my daily, uncomplicated wear of unmarked sweatpants and t-shirt. The sight made Miss Woods momentarily flinch.
"${character.name}? Oh, you look ill. I'm really sorry if I bothered you but I was hoping, well, I really need your help. No one else in the apartments really seems to be able to do anything and I'm just at my wits end!" Staring blankly at her and her daughter, it was obvious Miss Woods was indeed distressed. Her gray-black hair was in a frantic bun of messy splits, and her eyes were juggling and crossing in the confines of her face like marbles. Young Naomi, however, though shy, seemed only slightly perturbed. When the daughter flashed me a toothy grin followed by a little mischievous smirk, I have to admit I felt "something" for a moment. Perhaps that is why—for once in a very long time—I took to calming a female down and actually engaging with her pedantic, over-socialized nonsense.
"Please, settle down. You're hurting my head. Just tell me the problem, Miss Woods," I said, trying to hold back a glower in my brow. I was only partially successful.
Her ramblings—still frantic and fussed—at least revealed the turbulent troubles she had been suffering. She explained that her ex-husband was in hospice on the other side of the country, and both legal and health concerns were forcing her to go visit him for an unknown length of time. This would leave her precious Naomi alone, and at her age she didn't think it a wise thing. Naomi, when this was mentioned, gave a surprising protest in a rather quiet, squeaky tone. Miss Woods ignored it. I tried to stay awake.
"Please, please, please, ${character.name}. I know you barely know us but I need someone to take care of Naomi while I'm gone. Everyone else in the building is gone or said no. I'll pay you whatever you want. Would one-hundred dollars a week be good? Please, say yes…" Miss Woods was near tears; those disgusting sobs and pearly, salty drops that women used so often to disarm a man. I was going to say "no". I could feel the sound of the words climbing my vocal chords in a spritely traut.
Then Naomi hugged me.
Yes, a hug. Simple for many. For me, however, it was the equivalent of a gunshot. I could not move or talk, and my eyes bulged. I had not even shook anyone's hand in years and now this little girl hugged me covetously, approvingly; like a dog confirming to its master the safety of a stranger. To Naomi, I was the one for the job. Her curly brown locks nestled into the crook of my belly, and her short arms tugged at the contours of my back. Looking down slowly I saw a shimmer in her pale blue eyes that spoke volumes of devotion, care, and…something else. Something that seemed much more mature.
"Just say yes, Mr. ${character.name}. I'll be good. I promise." Naomi's voice was honeycomb and chocolates. I said yes.
Miss Woods was gone in less than thirty minutes. I barely heard her say goodbye as she scampered down the hall like some frolicking cartoon. I thought it a little bizarre she was so enthused to get away and witness her ex-husband's earthly departure, but I ignored it in the wake of Naomi's immediate change in demeanor. The little girl jumped in the air like a bubbly cheerleader, her fluttering skirt momentarily revealing the shiny spats clinging to her piquant, tanned thighs. Before I could move she was hugging me again, her tip-toes at their aching peak to reach her lips up to my flabby, bearded cheek for a gentle pecking of a kiss. I was too stunned to deny her. And perhaps too embarrassingly aroused as well.
"Awesome! Mr. ${character.name}, you're the best. So, where's the booze so we can have some fun?" She said the words so confidently—an expectant upturned smirk on her face—that I almost began walking towards the liquor cabinet.
“Wait, what? No. No alcohol. You're underage. And… I don't have any." My voice was raspy from disuse and my skills at lying were quite rusty. Blankly I stared at little Naomi, my tall figure a pale lump in the low light of my apartment's living room. Naomi gave a giggle and hopped over the couch before walking past me to the liquor cabinet. "${character.name} you smell like a liquor store! I know you gotta have some. Yep, right here. Oh, it's expensive, too. Perfect for our first night of fucking!"
My eyes glazed over. Even as Naomi clattered around in my bare cupboards for glasses I stood like some listless golem. Her words churned in my head, like a lame windmill attempting to part water. "I'm not sure what you mean. Naomi, stop, no, uh, booze. You're too young."
"Give it a rest, ${character.name}," Naomi casually responded. She was already pouring healthy glasses of my ten-year bourbon, the amber glitter of the spirits swirling about as her tiny nostrils flared at its scent. "Wow, this stuff is something. I usually only get cheap wine my mom leaves around the place. Perfect for a night of fooling around though, right, Uncle ${character.name}?"
“I'm not sure what you mean, Naomi."
"Duh, we're gonna fuck, silly. I may be a kid or whatever, but I've gotten drunk like literally a hundred times, watched tons of porn, whatever. Anyway, I want to have sex with and adult for a change and I choose you. 'Cus I like you. You like me, too, right?"
"Uh…" My words were like a pile of chalk seizing my throat, making me sputter dumbly while I went damp at my brow. This was both nightmare and dream.
What was I going to do?