A chapter of loathing (by Heather)

Create a story, poem, or any piece based on this metaphor: “a chapter of loathing”. 1110 words.

Jason watched as the repossessors grabbed the last piece of furniture and left the apartment.

His eyes met Rosie’s. She stood glaring at him, an unreadable expression on her tense face.

“Well, at least we have each other,” he said, attempting to lighten the moment.

Rosie’s reaction was not the one he was after. “Get out of here,” she hissed. “I can’t bear to look at you. Get out of my life.” Her palpable hatred hurled him out of the apartment.

Jason pressed the lift button robotically and caught the lift down. He stood in the lobby, barely able to breathe. He pulled out his mobile phone and looked at it blankly. This may be the only thing in the world I own now, he thought. He found Chris in his recent call list and rang the number.

Chris replied after several rings with a wary hello.

Jason flipped the phone into his other hand. “Chris? That you? Jesus, Chris, it’s all fallen over. It’s all gone!”

“Hey, slow down, man. What’s happened?”

“The repo guys have been here all afternoon and they’ve taken everything. Everything! And Rosie’s…” he nearly choked, “left me. I don’t know what to do. I’m panicking here. What should I do, Chris? How can I get it all back?”

Chris’ reply was slow in coming. “Okay, get a grip, man. You know you can’t get it back. You got the boot at the bank, your investments all fell over, you lost all your money, you borrowed from a loan shark and now you’re saying you lost Rosie. It’s all over, Jase. You can’t get it back. Don’t be an idiot.”

“But you know we all thought the market was going to rally. December looked so promising. You said yourself that it was just a matter of tiding ourselves over til the new year. I mean, you’re the one who set me up with Max, for chrissake.”

Chris’ voice took a dangerous tone. “Hey, don’t lay it on me, man. I warned you, you knew you were talking to the underworld. You knew it was a dangerous place. All you could see was protecting your precious high flyer life. Don’t you even think of trying to lay it on me.”

Jason tried to think but found his mind disturbingly out of gear. “Chris, I got no place to stay tonight. Can I come over? Just for a few days til I get this sorted?”

There was a pause. “Hey, Jase, you know I’d have you over in a minute, but I’ve just scored the schoolteacher with the red BMW, remember her? – first time she’s coming over and I need the place to myself. Maybe you could try Johnson.”

Jason drew himself up from the wall he’d been slumped against. “Yeah, cool. I’ll do that. Talk to you later.” He snapped shut the phone. A wave of hatred came at him, so strong he could feel it compressing his heart into a lump of iron. Chris had one thing right – he’d just wanted to protect his life: to protect Rosie with her developing career as an artist, his own career, their lifestyle, even to protect Chris and the guys at work. Was that so wrong? He brought his fist to his chest, unable to believe the force of the hate. Deserted by everyone!

Rosie gone. The sudden throb of pain in his chest belied the lump of iron.


Across the street in the next block was the old pub he and Rosie had frequented from time to time. He dropped onto a stool at the bar and ordered a schooner. He sat, fingering his glass, boxed in with a roiling mass of bitter thoughts – with the utter hopelessness of his self-made situation.

There was a light tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a girl of 19 or 20; cute, perky, full of herself.

“Hi there,” she said. “I thought you looked a little gloomy there and might like a bit of company. I’m Michelle.” She reached out a hand and looked at him expectantly.

Jason looked at her blankly, then took her hand and said, “Jason.” She eased up onto the stool beside him and popped her drink down.

Indicating a nearby table of girls, she forged on. “We were just talking about how a life is like a book, and we’re all in the middle of chapters in our lives. It’s a romantic idea, isn’t it?”

He found his voice. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Well, you could have, like, a chapter of adventure. Or a chapter of enlightenment. Or a chapter of love,” she said coyly, tossing a mane of casually groomed hair. “What chapter are you in, Jason?”

The lump of iron stirred in Jason’s chest. He looked directly at her. “Don’t know. Maybe yours is an empty chapter. Do you see blank pages?”

She drew back as if he had struck her, then laughed shortly. “Boy, you sure got a chip on your shoulder!” She grabbed her drink and her handbag, and headed back to the table where her girlfriends watched like wolves.

He turned away and flinched when he saw behind the bar a dishevelled guy with wild eyes, eyes so angry that Jason checked quickly to make sure the guy didn’t have a gun. With a start, he realised that what he was seeing was a reflection of himself in the mirror behind the bar.

He stared at the reflection. What chapter are you in, Jason? he mimicked. This is the chapter of loathing, he thought, savouring the word. For months now he had hated his job, hated his life, hated himself. Christ almighty, how long was the chapter of loathing going to be?

Was this the last chapter of his book?

He threw some change on the bar, got up and left. He walked back toward the apartment and stood across the street in the shadows, watching the window upstairs. He was jolted to see Rosie at the window, her canvas on an easel she’d managed to protect from the repossessors. She was painting, staring intently out at the view, then back to the easel. How could she paint at a time like this? What was she still doing up there in that empty apartment anyway?

He watched her until she disappeared from the window. Moments later the lights went out.

He moved toward the apartment door. She’d be coming out soon, with a few meagre possessions and no place to go.

The lump of iron in his chest flexed, softened by concern, by wonder at Rosie. He could hear the lift doors opening now, and for the first time in months of anguish, the tears came.