Timothy Gorge didn’t realize that he would be an assailant again when he got back home Wednesday, at five in the morning. He was coming back from his job at a local crepe café to his shot-gun-style home nudged between two mansions; possibly a housekeeper’s quarters long ago before the wealthy anesthesiologists next door decided to rent it out. He anticipated the feeling of being claustrophobic, which is what made him rent the home in the first place. Last week, or some time ago, he had decided to replace the old, termite-infested door at the front of his house with an even older one – it reminded him of the days when he used to visit the Favelas In Brazil. He craved the crowded, crime infested location. Yet, as much as he appreciated the feeling of being trapped in, his house was completely empty.
The only pieces to cover his walls was one painting of two lovebirds pretending to peck at each other, but are more interested in the horde of berries hanging below them. The walls are bare, olive green and bare, with a single fridge, one white sofa and a plain white bed. The bed is decorated with his late night drool and two blotted spots of red towards the mid-section of his mattress. His cat, Bagpipes, was lying on the side of his stomach. He had been sleeping there since Tuesday, waiting for his owner to come back and pick him up.
As Timothy was pacing towards the bed he contemplated his obese cat, and found himself rather jealous of the creature. Bagpipes led a life of carefree days, snoring, and finding new animals to kill, while Timothy was lucky enough to get a job flipping skinny pancakes. As he looked outside of his bedroom, the lovebirds mocked him along with the bare, silent walls that mirrored the emptiness he felt inside. The only thing close to him was Bagpipes. The cat laid in the same spot every day encroached with the same spots that Timothy tattooed his bed with. Everything was empty – the hollowness of Timothy’s home, the walls…his stomach. Bagpipes didn’t make a noise, and the sounds of the house were shot away along with the drool that sucked back into Timothy’s mouth.
A knock on the door shot the saliva back up. There was an odd hum steaming from the broken, and awkward limp door, like the days of Timothy off in the corner of his Middle School classroom drawing circles on the floor with his oversized red crayons. He left his bedroom, past the only photo that showed any real photographic artistic qualities in his life, and lazily walked towards the front door. This would be the first time in weeks that someone actually cared to walk up the weed-infested stairs that led to some horrible excuse for privacy. As Timothy grabbed the silver doorknob his heart was thumping to the beats of the very far and rare excuse of people that he actually knew. Perhaps he knew this said person, or maybe it was another solicitor – he liked those people the best.
The man was propped sideways cocking his tan, extremely defined jaw line to the left of Timothy’s existence, possibly staring at the decrepit, chipping paint or the beautiful white roses that adorned the only middle patch of grass in his yard.
“Oh! Well hello there sir! Isn’t it just fine meeting you on this blessed afternoon.”
His smile was bigger than bagpipes, proclaiming large, beady eyes that glimmered small tattoos of Jesus Christ in his irises. There were small knacks at the tip of his finely shined shoes possibly from skipping up the worn down stairs to greet Timothy.
“…I apologize for gazing off over there – I was just admiring your roses – they sure do look beautiful.” He pressed his lips tightly together, not that it was any sort of fake smile, or forced one, but that he was trying to hide his embarrassment. The man bent over to unlock his leather bound brief case that was latched with two golden crosses on either side. His white shirt was buttoned all the way to his neck, except for a loose piece of chest hair that peaked its way like a new grown weed, curling along the top button of his shirt. His pants were as black and stringent when you first see the wisps of a cup of coffee in the bleary morning.
Timothy shook his head and made up a certain sort of smile, “the roses were for my pet bird’s grave – her name was Samantha…” The ‘Jesus man’ stood blinking precisely the amount of skips he took down the sidewalk to greet Timothy’s house.
“Oh. I see. Well I’m sorry to hear that…” he grabbed Timothy’s hand and patted it in affirmation, “I’m sure he’ll make a great pet for our Lord.” The button-up and black pants man grabbed for some pamphlets and a bible, getting his ammunition ready, and prepared to fire.
“If you wouldn’t mind a brief twenty minutes, I’d love to chat with you today about the word of the Lord. I promise you won’t be disappointed in what He has to tell us.” Timothy looked at the man, and then back towards the barren hallow-ways of his home.
“Sure. I wouldn’t mind. I think I have some time to spare.”