Deviations

This is a story I revised for a classmate of mine. It’s titled "Devitations" by Matthew Dreany.

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            It was a particular sense of freedom that filled his lungs on that numbingly bleak Tuesday morning. The cold air swept past his face, brushing against his newly unshaven stubble—a mark that indicated his detachment from the clean appearance of those in San Diego, California. Matt’s appearance, of course, gained the disdain of those around him, but he continued onward with an always present look of apathy.

            It was only hours earlier that his father shouted at him: “If you’re going out, don’t fucking bother coming back”—the sound in his voice almost quivering—“and give me back the god damn house keys.”

            Matt stood there until his father had finally positioned himself inside one of the four hardwood dining chairs at the dinner table. Both of them began to silently stare off into the distance as their minds had drifted to the smell of cigarettes that had always occupied the home. That odor had permeated from his father and thus resonated from all corners of the old one-story house and as such, it was the closest thing they could describe as the scent of home.

            It only took a lapse of forty-eight seconds until Matt shifted his body toward the hallway and begin walking toward the front door. As he reached for the newly polished brass door knob, the sight of it caused an inquisitive expression to show on his face. It had only been three weeks since they changed the locks to keep him out, and he couldn’t help but wonder how many days or weeks would go by before the same was done again. In fact, he was surprised that it remained the same for as long as it did. Changing the locks had become almost ritualistic in that household so that if enough time had gone by where it remained the same, it seemed uncharacteristic.

            The streets Matt walked were the same that he had traversed all his life, and they always welcomed him home each and every time. He was unsure of where he was going, yet he moved with a particular swiftness reminiscent of someone who had paved his or her own path. “Moving no where fast,” a lyric he recalled from a band he could no longer remember. Finally, he arrived at a local convenience store. It was a Circle K gas station. The sliding doors welcome him, but the clerk behind the counter does not. She gazes at him as he enters and thinks to herself, “Better keep an eye on this one.” Matt dismisses her, however, and heads straight toward the restroom.

            It was a one room public lavatory that smelled of lemon ammonia cleaner. The walls were painted a light gray with parts beginning to chip, and the slate toned laminate flooring made an abrasive squeak each time he took a step. It often made customers feel claustrophobic as the ceramic toilet, plastic trashcan, steel sink, and glass window took up nearly all of its space. It was a simplest way for the owner to detract any sense of longstanding comfort in order to deter transients.

Upon entering, Matt impulsively stretched his hand outwards toward the cold mirror as if to confirm his own reality by reaching for his reflection. He attempted to reassure himself by repeating the same lines: “I’m free now,” but the words fell to deaf ears as he locked the door behind himself.