"Blake and I" a short story.

**:: astounded ::** · 04-13-2004 08:51 PM

"Blake and I", by Mark Fulton
October 1, 2003

Blake awoke to the sound of falling rain and realized it was appropriate, as the rain matched the rain that fell in his head. He never understood why he always heard a constant static-sounding rain fall in his mind, but it had grown on him and he learned to live with it. Though he had once loved the sound of falling rain, the constant downpour in the back of his mind was beginning to take a toll on his life. He always struggled with his grades in school, but that was the least of his problems. He didn’t seem to really care much about anything these days. His family never talked to him and he struggled working a just-above-minimum wage job at a record store a few blocks down the road just to pay the bills for this place. Blake and I have been living together for about 6 months now and to be honest with you, I can’t really recall how we met. We’re not the best of friends and we don’t really talk much, so we both pretty much just go about our lives individually. In spite of this, during the time that we have spent together I’ve felt a strong connection between us. No one understands him like I do and no one else really cares.

Blake came home and tossed some new records he had bought on his desk, picking up the one that was on the top. He turned on his record player, placed the vinyl on the platform and set the needle. Heavy metal type music surged through the room and the vibrations of the subwoofer melted through me with a constant buzz.
“What’s up man?” I halfway yelled as I lay on the couch tossing a basketball straight up at the ceiling. Blake didn’t reply, he just sat at his computer. “I said, ‘what’s up man?!’” He still sat there blankly. “Whatever dude.” I said nonchalantly.
“I’m sick of this shit man!” Blake stammered as he spun around in his desk chair and shoved it over into a small book shelf. A picture frame fell from the top of the shelf and the glass shattered on the ground. “Fuck.” He grabbed his forehead tightly and ran his hand back through his medium length black hair as he exhaled heavily filling his cheeks with frustration.
“What the hell is wrong? Calm down.” I asked hesitantly and awaiting an outburst.
“What the hell is wrong? What the hell is wrong!? This fucking rain, it’s drowning my mind and my life away. I’m done with it, done with all this bull shit, especially you!” He drop kicked his record player, the music stopped and it flew into the middle of the room with a silencing crash.
“Yo Blake, what are you talking about? Just chill, you’re flippin’ out.”
“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up!” He lunged for the bottom drawer of his dresser and reached towards the upper right corner where he pulled a medium size black pistol fastened there with a strip of duct tape. My eyes lit up in shock as he raised the gun and removed the strip of tape. He was actually going to shoot me; my stomach tightened and my face went pale.
“Hey Hey Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Man, put the gun down.” I backed up and threw my arms open in mercy.
“Nah, it’s all over shithead.” His whole body was shaking and I could see beads of sweat forming on his face and shimmering down his neck. He lifted the gun. I clenched my eyes shut.

He turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger as he stared down its barrel.

The bullet tore through the soft tissue of his right eye and left a hallow trail now filled with blood through the upper right half of his head. His hand ripped away from the gun and clenched his face tightly. The gun dropped diagonally onto his shoe and another shot fired away from him and right through his couch. My heart stopped and my blood ran cold. The reverberations of the two gun shots rang sharply in my head. Thick blood streamed through the cracks of every one of his fingers and stained the front of his bright white t-shirt with a slowly widening dark red column. He stumbled backwards onto his bed and drove his head into a pillow as he cringed in agony and clenched his teeth with madness. The rain stopped and everything was silent save the trickle of the rain padding against the roof outside his bedroom. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breath and my eyes stared blankly at Blake’s bloody hand. Everything began to get cold and my vision blurred as I watched him dying on his bed. I didn’t know what was happening to me nor did I even think about it. His life flashed through my mind; his grief, his anguish, the abuse, the sadness and suddenly I knew that I was nothing more than a figure of his psychotic imagination. Blake died and then I was gone.