Sanctuary

Trigger warning: this story contains themes of self-harm and suicide.

Sandra had tired of Larry Underwood’s ‘melancholic view of life’ and gave him his marching orders on the twenty-third of December, a few days before Christmas and what Larry had hoped would be their best family holiday ever. The kids were looking forward to the trip. They had no idea where they were supposed to be travelling to, and Larry could barely contain the surprise he’d saved all year for. Plane tickets for all of them to Tokyo and a deluxe accommodation package at the Tokyo Disneyland Resort, directly across the road from Disneyland. As it turned out, Sandra made her announcement before he could share the good news with the family. She cited, among other things, that she ‘no longer loved him’ and that she hadn’t for ‘quite some time.’

Larry was flabbergasted. He had no idea that his wife had felt that way. He thought their relationship was far from perfect, but at least it was stable. He couldn’t remember the last time that she had instigated any sort of affection, let alone any sexual romance, but he didn’t perceive that to be an insurmountable problem. Sex was ‘given’ begrudgingly and within a strict time frame. Larry had effectively been trained to climax in under five minutes when his wife relinquished control over her body once a month. He’d heard her on the phone to one of her girl-friends describing their love-life as a ‘monthly chore,’ somewhat akin to her period.

Larry sucked it up, resigning himself to accepting whatever morsel of intimacy his wife chose to throw his way, even though he knew it was a token gesture given to placate his ‘base animal urges’ (as she liked to describe his need for affection). Sure, he’d known on some level that her cruelty and distance were predicated by a lack of true love for him, but he had hoped that they could rekindle some of the earlier passion that had brought them together.

The kids hadn’t protested when their mother announced that Larry would be moving out of the family home. She’d ceremoniously presented him with a cheque for five thousand dollars from their savings fund, a legal copy of the divorce petition (dated three months before, he noted) and, smiling as she did so, a reminder that the pre-nuptial agreement he’d signed when they got married was still ‘legally binding.’ He’d left the plane tickets and hotel bookings on the hall table before he took his suitcase and closed the door behind him. He’d hoped that perhaps they could all just bury their differences and have a nice family holiday together, but it wasn’t to be. As it turned out, they did go on the holiday, only without Larry.

Not long after he’d moved out, he’d heard a rumor from one of his colleagues at the bank that Sandra had been ‘dating’ a management executive who worked for a telecommunications company. Bob had seen her at a hotel conference, sipping cocktails at the hotel bar after the presentation with the big-wig who had been steering the event. Something to do with ‘Business Processes in Banking Communications.’ He’d mentioned that they looked very ‘chummy’ together and blushed, not needing to say anything else to Larry, who sat there in stunned silence.

All Larry could think to say was to ask Bob to let him know if he heard anything else about his wife and the executive. Sure enough, Bob had let him know within the month that he’d heard that the guy, a one Tom Menzer, had recently returned from a holiday in Tokyo where he’d posted holiday snaps on his Instagram account and had regaled his colleagues and anyone who’d care to listen how he’d ‘banged the backside off’ some woman called Sandra. Larry’s depression plateaued at that point, and he resigned himself to any fate that now awaited him.

***

The realtor slid the property agreement across the table and smiled. Larry couldn’t believe how white the man’s teeth were and how perfect his skin looked.

“Everything’s in order, just have a quick read through and initial each page, then sign... here... and here.” He flashed another fluorescent smile at Larry and handed him a silver Parker pen.

The place was perfect — two-point-five hectares of wooded, rural land. No neighbors in all directions for at least a kilometer. Nestled in the middle of a valley surrounded by bush-clad hills, the section was his for a song, and a song was all he could afford. He bought it sight-unseen, apart from a quick glance at the photos on the realtor’s window and a quick glance online at the listing details and a map of the area in which it was located. Larry didn’t even bother reading the fine print; he initialled each page and signed where he should. Huh! Less than five minutes, he thought, Sandra would be proud of me. With a handshake, the deal was finalized, and Larry was now the owner of his own ‘slice of paradise.’ Or at least, the bank owned it as well until he had made the final repayments on the small mortgage that had topped up the divorce settlement.

As he exited the realtor’s office, he thought of his children. Larissa was now at Law School, a bright, energetic twenty-year-old filled with the same drive and ruthless determination that possessed her mother, and Patrick, eighteen years old and already earning more money than Larry ever had as a software engineer. He was a particularly gifted coder and had caught the eye of an international gaming company after developing a game-app that had gone viral. Both the kids had blamed him for the divorce. Sandra had shared the more intimate and negative aspects of their relationship freely with the kids, who, of course, sided with their mother’s version of events. Larry paid the bus driver and sat down, gazing vacantly out the window at the buildings and people on the sidewalk as the bus made its way slowly across town.

The bus pulled up to Larry’s stop, even now, after two years of living on his own in the squalid rented apartment, the pit of his gut still churned, and tears welled up inside him as he thought about the way Sandra had discarded him. Using the tickets he’d brought for the family holiday out of his own hard-earned savings, to have a holiday romance with some guy she’d probably been screwing for who-knows-how-long had really hurt. The fact that the kids hadn’t even tried to contact him and had fobbed him off when he’d attempted to spend time with them was the ultimate insult to Larry. He couldn’t, for the life of him, work out where it had all gone so horribly wrong.

He unlocked the door to his single-room apartment and threw his briefcase on the bed. He opened the blind and looked out over the grey, smog-filled cityscape. He flicked the kettle on in the small kitchenette that doubled as laundry space and hung his coat in the small wardrobe at the foot of his single bed. He noted with disgust that more paint, flecked with black spots of mold, had peeled from the eggshell blue walls and ceiling. He took the brush and pan from under the sink and swept up the debris from the stained floor before emptying the contents into the trash basket next to the front door. He opened the door to the small bathroom and emptied his bladder into the toilet before washing his hands carefully. He contemplated having a quick shower, but the whistle of the kettle dragged him back out into the living area.

He poured a black coffee and sat at the small desk beneath the only window, reading the copy of the final dissolution of their marriage that had arrived in the post the day before. He stared at the words on the page and felt nothing. He thought of his kids and felt the same. He thought of Sandra and felt a sick feeling in his stomach. He thought of his life and how he’d ended up living in a shitty single apartment, divorced, estranged from his kids and alone.

He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, willing lung cancer on himself. He hadn’t smoked since his teenage years. Now fifty-two years of age, soon to be fifty-three, he’d taken up the habit again with a vengeance, just yesterday after receiving the annulment in the mail. He’d promptly gone to the corner store and bought a carton of cigarettes and a one-liter bottle of cheap vodka, which he’d promptly downed as soon as he’d returned. He checked the open packet of cigarettes and counted three remaining. He took another deep drag and coughed loudly before standing and burning the divorce notice in the sink. This gave him the smallest amount of satisfaction. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

***

When he decided to buy the property he’d seen in the window of the realtor’s office on the other side of town, he’d been with Bob. They’d just finished one of their monthly catch-ups at their favorite café when they walked past the office on the way to catch their respective buses. Bob had since transferred from the bank and was now a freelance business consultant, but still stayed in touch with Larry. Larry didn’t know why Bob wanted to be friends, but he did realize they were of a similar ilk — similar age, both divorced, kids who didn’t talk to them. Lonely bastards, essentially. Bob was the only company Larry had with other people outside of work now. Sometimes he wished he could have better social skills or feel more excited about life. But he didn’t, and he knew that he hadn’t felt like that for a long time and probably never would.

Larry sat back down at the table and sipped his black coffee. He looked at the company calendar hanging on the wall and then leaned over and circled the fifteenth of the following month with the Parker pen he’d stolen from the realtor’s office. He lit another cigarette and sipped his coffee as he wrote his letter of resignation.

He wasn’t worried about the apartment. He’d just walk out when the time was right. All he owned could fit in his suitcase, and he knew the apartment owners wouldn’t care if he left as long as the rent was paid. One of his neighbors had died sitting in his armchair with his cat on his lap and hadn’t been discovered until three months later, when the landlord had decided to find out why the rent payments had stopped appearing in his bank account. The cat was still alive, apparently having survived off its owner’s ample supply of bodily flesh. Larry smiled, thinking about how he could easily end up like his neighbor if he let himself go. Just give up — go on welfare, sit at home drinking vodka and smoking cigarettes until the end comes.

For the first time in a long while, Larry felt the twinges of something other than depression. He had a date to look forward to. A fresh start. He was now the proud owner of his own block of land, complete with a grove of established native trees and a wild section where he could do as he pleased. He contemplated building a log cabin and ‘living off the land.’ Perhaps even planting a large vegetable patch and fruit trees. Maybe even breeding some pigs and chickens for meat and eggs.

The section was eight hours north of the city, in a small coastal district mainly populated by farmers and lifestyle block retirees. He hadn’t quite figured out what he would do for an income, but he was sure he could sort something out if he needed to. His cut of the divorce proceedings was enough to service the small loan and provide rates and food money for at least two years, so he had a little time to sort something out. Luckily for Larry, the prenuptial agreement only covered Sandra’s personal finances and her family's inheritances. He had received a sizable settlement from the house, which, due to a market bubble, had returned considerable dividends after Sandra bought out his share.

He scrolled through the classifieds on one of the market sites on his phone until he found a reasonably priced ute for sale nearby. After a quick phone call, he arranged to meet with the seller the following day. He took the bus back across town the following day and returned with a new Toyota, complete with a canopy and a full toolbox. It seemed to run smoothly, and Larry was surprised that he still could drive competently after being so long without a vehicle. He bought some parking coupons and found a suitable car park near the apartment, grabbing some Chinese take-out, a bottle of vodka and a packet of cigarettes on the way home.

That night, he tried to call his kids. Neither bothered to pick up the phone or return his calls. Once again, Larry felt nothing — everything was exactly as he knew it was. He had no illusions about life, and as he lit another cigarette and downed a glass of vodka, all he could think about was the pending sanctuary of his woodland property.

The fifteenth approached rapidly. Larry’s manager accepted his resignation without a blink of an eye. No handshake, congratulations or commiserations. No nothing. Larry had expected nothing less, although he was surprised at the sudden lifting of a great deal of tension from his mind. He even put his feet up on his desk, cancelled all his work appointments, and loudly crunched his way through a crisp apple. Once again, no one even seemed to notice. It was almost as though Larry Underwood had achieved a status of invisibility.

Before Larry left work that day, he removed his tie and put it through the paper shredder in the stationery room. He chuckled to himself as he made his way out of the office to the car-parking building and his Toyota. The following two weeks went by quickly as he ‘worked’ out the remaining days of his employment contract. Some days he turned up on time, but mostly he enjoyed sleeping in, and on his last day of work, he didn’t even bother getting out of bed. The next day, he checked his bank account and found that he’d been paid for all the days up until his leaving date, as well as a substantial amount of accrued annual leave and sick pay. He smiled, things were finally looking up for him and all he’d had to do was make the decision to quit.

He made one last cup of coffee and smoked his last cigarette in the small apartment before packing his suitcase, gathering together his single mattress and bedding, locking up and sliding the key back under the door. As he made his way down the steps, juggling the mattress, bedding and suitcase, he felt good. Almost free, he thought, as he reached the Toyota and threw his belongings under the canopy in the rear of the Ute.

Within an hour, he had left the city boundaries and was driving through a green, rural landscape. He stopped along the way for a cigarette and a toilet break, buying a pie for lunch from the gas station where he had refuelled before finally arriving at the small township in the district where his property was located. He checked into a cheap but tidy motel and walked the short distance into town, where he ate heartily at a local diner before returning to the motel, where he slept like a baby until the sun rose.

***

He returned to the diner for his morning meal, walking past the tavern, a small post office, the grocery shop and the hardware store. He ate a cooked breakfast and drank a pot of steaming, fresh black coffee. He felt satiated as he sat there in the window of the diner, watching the slow-paced comings and goings of the small town. He paid the tab and walked back to the motel to collect his Toyota. Within half an hour, he had arrived, according to the GSP map on his phone, in the vicinity of his property.

He was amazed at how peaceful the drive out had been. He had the window wound down as he drove at a leisurely pace, hearing magpies chortling on the side of the road and the cool coastal breeze filling his senses with a freshness he hadn’t felt for a while. The most noticeable thing was the abundance of greenery everywhere, occasionally interrupted by a small cluster of farm buildings in the distance, but otherwise dominated by pastures, groves of trees, and bush-covered hills. It was hard to discern where his property actually was, but he knew it was very close by. Larry parked the ute on the side of the road and got out of the vehicle.

Within a short while, he’d found an entrance gate obscured by a healthy blanket of Clematis vine and weeds. After a few minutes and some considerable effort, he managed to rip away most of the vine to reveal the rusty old farm-gate and the remnants of a gravel road beyond. His heart sank when he saw the rusty old padlock, thinking he would have to return to town and buy some bolt-cutters. However, with a few sharp tugs, the old lock mechanism disintegrated, covering his shoes in ochre-colored dust. He pushed the gate open, the old hinges squeaking loudly, causing some birds to scatter in the air from the overgrown paddock perched before the huge grove of trees in front of him. Larry walked through the dew-covered grass towards the wooded area, feeling the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes and the dampness of his trouser legs.

As he reached the edge of the woods, the trees rose up before him — he could make out a mixture of large pine trees, some oak, and some native varieties. Partially obscured by hip-high grass and weeds, to the right and left of the tree grove ran an old fence line that demarcated his property boundaries and disappeared into the distance. The interior of the woods looked dark, and Larry hesitated before approaching, standing there taking in the vista of his property, listening to the sounds of birds at play.

Venturing further into the woods, he could feel the silence swell as darkness grew, along with the feeling of envelopment, as the trees surrounded him. He kept walking, the only sound the crunch of his feet on the gravel and the swish of the pine needles underfoot. Before long, the road widened, and the trees thinned, the light returning, as a clearing of sorts was revealed.

Next to a large, solitary oak tree, the bones of an old house lay before him. Skewed foundation stones could be seen, and the remnants of a brick chimney were visible among more weeds and vines. He hadn’t been aware that a house had been on the property and, he guessed, due to the state of the remains there really was only partial evidence that there had once been someone living there. He stood there in the middle of the remains and turned, looking upwards, at the hole above him in the canopy of trees. He imagined the property as it might have been thirty years ago or so, when the trees were pruned and neat, affording protection and privacy from the elements. He imagined what it could be in the future if he wanted to invest money and time to return it to its former glory, but he knew that it could only be a campsite until he constructed a dwelling of some sort.

At that point, Larry Underwood understood the enormity of his decision and the amount of work it would take him to live there comfortably. A great wave of emptiness descended upon him, and he sank to his knees among the weeds and broken remains. He held his head in his hands and wept uncontrollably until his tears ran dry, the echoes of his sobs lingering in the clearing before fading. Bird-song snapped him from his rueful state, and he got to his feet, brushing twigs and dirt from his trousers as he pulled himself together. He knew why he had come, and he resolved, then and there, to follow through on his plans and do what he had intended. He took one long, last look around and smiled. He knew that this was as good as it was going to get.

“Yes,” he said out loud, “this place will do quite nicely.”

As he walked back to the ute, he made a mental list of all the provisions he’d need from the hardware store.

***

Back in town, he bought some groceries and stationery and loaded the purchases from the hardware store into the back of the Toyota next to his mattress and other belongings before strapping the extension ladder on the roof. The first thing he’d need to do was some serious pruning, hence the saw, ladder, rope and gloves. He figured that if he wanted to, he could fell some of the trees and get them milled at a reasonable price to construct a small cabin. The foundations wouldn’t take much to resurrect, and he could build a dwelling around the existing fireplace and chimney. Hell, he could even sell some of the timber to recoup his losses, and he certainly wouldn’t go cold in the winter with the amount of readily available firewood.

He began to feel more optimistic about the possibilities that his property offered. His phone rang, jolting him out of his reverie. It was Bob. For a moment, he had thought one of the kids was calling him. Perhaps even Sandra. But, no, just good ol’ Bob.

“Hey Bob, how’s it going?”

“Good, Larry. Haven’t heard from you in a while. I was getting worried. How are you?”

“All good, thanks. You’ll have to come for a visit one day. It’s really beautiful up here.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, Larry. So how you doin’?”

“Not bad, just getting ready to start my project. I really should get going.”

“Sure. Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re still alive.” Bob laughed, and for a moment, Larry missed the only person who’d ever really shown him any sort of friendship or understanding.

“Yep, still alive, Bob. I’ll be in touch. Take care.” Larry disconnected the call, knowing that would be the last time he’d speak to Bob. He secured the load and drove around the corner to the motel. He put the kettle on and brewed himself a strong cup of coffee before sitting at the small table and writing a letter to Bob in the guise of a ‘last will and testament,’ whereby he gifted Bob his land and vehicle.

After he finished Bob’s letter, he wrote a duplicate to his lawyer and then separate ones — short nostalgic letters, no ‘will and testaments,’ only filled with sentiment and vain expressions of ‘undying love’ to each of his kids. He chuckled at the irony of gifting the land to Bob, who was essentially a mirror image of himself. He wondered if Bob would put the land to the same use that he intended for it one day.

Larry put the rest of his belongings in the Toyota, then sat in the sun on a chair outside the unit and smoked a cigarette. He leaned his bald head against the warm cladding and felt the sunshine on his face. He exhaled a plume of smoke in the air and smiled. Life was good. Especially now that everything was on his own terms. He felt free for the first time in his life. He finished his cigarette and settled the bill with the motel manager.

***

Larry parked the Toyota deep in the woods and walked back to the gate, which he promptly covered with the pile of vines he’d stripped off it the day before. Looking at it from the road, anyone would be hard-pressed to notice that it had recently been opened, let alone that anyone now resided within the property. He walked back to the Toyota, noting that the sun had now dipped behind the Western hills. The interior of the woods grew dark quickly, and within minutes, it felt as though night had closed in.

He unstrapped the ladder from the roof rack and dragged it through the trees to the clearing, leaning it up against the trunk of the oak tree. He stepped back and estimated the tree to be at least fifty feet in height. The limbs dropped down over the remains of the foundation slab of the old house, and Larry knew before he made any inroads toward building a suitable cabin, he’d need to do some significant pruning. He started to wish that he’d opted to buy a chainsaw, rather than the pruning saw. Perhaps it might’ve been easier to just cut the tree down instead of pruning it?

He looked at the tree and thought about the amount of wood he’d have to move if he chopped it down, and decided pruning was a much more sensible choice. Besides, he thought, that old tree kind of reminds me of me: a bit old, a bit lonely and sad, designated melancholy by those who know it . . .

He made his way back to the Toyota and slept soundly in the back of the wagon on the mattress he’d taken from his apartment. Falling asleep to the faint sound of pine needles dropping on the roof of the canopy like soft rain.

***

He woke early, his nose wet with condensation. He yawned and exited the wagon, lighting a cigarette as he pulled on his shoes. An eerie mist, the color of blue smoke, filled the gaps between the trees. His sleep had been filled with profound dreams, and he knew that today was the beginning. That today was his special day – a day when freedom and identity would combine to create the man that Larry Underwood always knew he was. It was no coincidence that today was also his fifty-third birthday. He unloaded the pruning saw and the rope from the vehicle and locked the Toyota before covering it with stacks of brush and dead wood. He closed his eyes and spun in a pirouette several times until he became dizzy, then stopped. He steadied himself and threw his car keys with all his might, deep into the woods, before collecting the provisions and making his way to the clearing through the mist.

The sun sat low in the sky, and the birds chirped in the trees as the mist slowly began to dissipate. His breath condensed before him as the cool morning air settled into the day. Larry looked at the oak tree, set alone in the clearing as if standing guard over the ruins of the old house, its leaves glistening with dew and the ladder against the trunk where he’d left it. He looked at the foliage above him, trying to determine the best place to begin pruning. He considered looping the rope around the thinner branches to see if he could snap them off, but quickly realized that would be futile.

Larry carefully climbed the rungs of the ladder, the pruning saw hooked to his belt, and the rope looped over his shoulder. The ladder was twelve feet in length and reached up into the lower branches of the tree. Within minutes, Larry had climbed from the top rung and ascended another ten feet to a suitable spot. He looped the rope over a branch and began to hack at the surrounding limbs until he’d cleared a decent amount of foliage. He looked down through the hole he’d made and realized that three large lower branches needed removing. He lowered himself carefully down and set about sawing the green wood with the curved blade of the pruning saw.

The first branch fell surprisingly quickly, nearly unbalancing Larry from his perch as the last stroke of the saw passed through the timber. He caught himself just in time, sweat dripping from his forehead with the exertion and the sudden scare. He managed to get halfway through the next limb before having to stop for a rest. He lit a cigarette, his hand trembling from the tightness in his forearms as he blew smoke through the leaves around him. A blackbird alighted on a nearby branch and cocked its head in Larry’s direction, eyeing him auspiciously as if questioning his presence in the tree. Larry flicked the spent cigarette at the bird, instantly feeling guilty as the butt hit the bird’s back in a spray of embers. The bird looked at him accusingly, then dropped from the branch, flapping its wings, and was gone.

Larry spat in his palms, then, with fierce determination, he launched himself at the branch, nearly bending the saw's blade in the process. It fell to the damp earth below with a dull thud. The remaining branch took him nearly half an hour of sawing, and he nearly gave up. He thought about why he was there and how he would need to be strong for what lay ahead. Persevering, another seven strokes of the dulled blade dropped the last limb to the ground.

Exhausted and hot from both the exercise and the increasingly hot day, as the sun cast a dark shadow from the oak tree across the long grass below. Almost like a sundial, he mused to himself as he tried to work out the time. He paused, a sudden memory from his childhood resurfacing at a scout camp where he had learned orienteering and telling the time by using the shadows cast by the sun from a specific direction.

He shuddered briefly as he remembered the way the scout master’s hands had fluttered over his body, as he explained in great detail the correct method of telling the time in the wild without a watch. He still remembered the smell of sweet alcohol on the old man’s breath. Larry pushed the memories from his mind and thought about his children for a moment, wondering if they had ever encountered anyone like the scout master in their young lives.

He looked down at his jeans and thought it had started to rain as drops of water dampened the denim. He realized he was crying, tears streamed down his face as he readjusted his position in the tree. He wiped his face with his shirt-sleeve and fumbled his last cigarette from the pack. He tried to focus on his breathing as his mind raced. His haunches ached as he crouched on the branch, muscle spasms ran up his thighs, forcing him to stand upright. He dragged the last smoke from the cigarette, dropped it to the ground and began to climb the tree.

He made sure the rope would fall to its full length without touching the ground below. At least ten feet above ground level would suffice, according to the information he’d gathered from the internet. He carefully created a slip-knot and then secured the other end of the rope around the main trunk of the tree, using the knot he’d been practising for the past year, before winding the rest of the thick nylon cord around the selected branch that overhung the empty space. He looked in the empty cigarette pack, checking to make sure he had nothing left to smoke, before crumpling the packet and tossing it down. He stood then, pulled the slip-knot open and lowered it over his head like a crown, tugging the rope tightly around his throat.

He mouthed the words silently: ‘I love you,’ as he thought of his children. He stood still for a minute, waiting for some sign that he shouldn’t do what he was about to do, but nothing happened. He felt nothing, despite a solitary tear that ran down his cheek, and he knew that the time was at hand, that this moment had been a long time coming, and that some form of release awaited him, no matter how dark it might be.

This point in time was, after all, the inevitable conclusion of a series of events in his life that intertwined with the acceptance of his perceived fate and the relinquishment of his will to live. He felt his destiny to be pre-ordained by forces beyond his control, and he was willing to accept that. Somewhat akin to the experience of a blind man pulling a bow taut and sluicing an arrow into the atmosphere, with no way to stop its release and no way of knowing its ultimate destination. Larry Underwood inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and stepped out into the warm midday air.

If you enjoyed this story, you will probably like my debut collection, Sanctuary & Other Short Stories. Click on the image below to grab your print or Kindle copy.