Un Jour Dans La Vie

Day after day it was the same for me. It was a tragedy for me. I was once a man of love and compassion at the top of the world is now in a deathly dance with toxins and self-loathing. The bars in and around Paris become my home because they were comforting – they provided me with a clear repetition. Claire came into the bar to find me, and she did; slouched over the bar railing with blood trickling from the corners of mouth. I see her and without being able to lift my head I waved her down and shined my blood covered teeth at her. She looked horrified, as I would expect. She rushed over to me and talks to me but it was all noise to me. I could not understand her no matter how hard I tried. I watched as her blurry mouth opened and closed, contorting in every which way until I heard nothing anymore. I fell off of the stool and crashed on the floor with a rumbling thud.

I opened my eyes to see that I wasn’t in the bar anymore. I was back at home. I looked around and carefully maneuvered my way around the house. I wasn’t drunk anymore – that was apparent – it was something else wrong with me. I didn’t know quite what it was. Whatever it was I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I walked into the living room to see Claire sitting on the sofa with the phone to her ear talking to someone about me. She looked up and her face sad dozens of different emotions, none better or worse than the last. It was hard to read her.

“Branden,” she said shockingly, “do you not know where you are or what happened?” Claire asked. “You’re at your house, the one that I’ve been taking care of since your daily binges over the past week and a half. When I found you, you were a mess. Blood pouring from your mouth and no signs of life, if I had left you there you would’ve been dead.”

“And… I’m supposed to be thanking you? Why do you think I am drinking so much? Look at me. I am a drunk. I haven’t shaved in over a month. I reek of booze; I am a mess, a pathetic fucking mess. I tried to be the best I could be, appease all those around me obviously with no luck. I was a great man once. I was a man who saved the poor in the slums to go party with the rich high above. I am a sellout. Everything I loved is lost. Why should I stay sober? When I arrive in hell it won’t matter if I am sober or drunk; I still receive the same outcome.” I told her. My head was throbbing so I went to make myself a glass of whiskey.

“Branden, look, I know you’re hurting over the deaths of everyone you love, but self-loathing isn’t the answer. Nor are the massive drinking problem and drug addictions you’ve adopted. You need help and these depressants will only worsen your problems.” said Claire.

“Oh, is that so? Well these “depressants” help, if not for a short while. And I am already at rock bottom. No amounts of problems can further deepen my problems. Not unless they plan to dig a hole for one, to be completely honest though that doesn’t sound as much as a problem as much a solution.” I said.

Claire left shortly after and I went to my chair where I was heavily indulging in morphine and drinking. I didn’t feel very bad about the lack of apologies on my end. I said what I felt and there was no reason to say apologies. I started to paint and talk to myself while I was doing that. Talking to myself, I noticed I’ve been doing that an awful lot lately. “Was this a sign of insanity,” I wondered. I’d even answer myself. After I was done painting I decided that in the last few minutes of my somewhat clear-headed sobriety that I’d write.

“Dear Father. You were a shining example of everything good in this world. You’ve seen and done it all. I remember all the stories you’d tell me when I was a little boy. I remember all the times that you’d tell me that I was to become a great man, a wonderful person, never expecting this self-loathing. I hate the world for taking you from me and I hate myself for not doing more to prevent it. I need a savior, this is apparent in the pleas of my friends, and I found one: liquor. You were my savior, my mentor and the greatest friend I ever had. Oh, father, the amount of time I spend in my house weeping and inside the bars drinking to cope with the mourning of your absence is astonishing. You were the light at the end of the tunnel for me. Now that light has burnt out. Now, the only light that I find solace in is at the end of a lifted bottle. Everything good in me began with you, father so it’s only fitting that everything good in me died when you did.”

I fell unconscious due to the excessive amounts of morphine and whiskey I had taken before writing the letter. Pierre came by after returning from a trip in northern France. When he found me he called the paramedics who came by and took me to a local hospital.

Pierre called Hemmingway, Claire and a few other friends who haven’t spoken to me in a while. There, they all waited and wept as they awaited the news of my status. After about 6 hours the doctor came out of the room and asked if they were there for me and they acknowledged.

“Mr. Renoir is in the ICU right now. His accident wasn’t an accident though. Branden Renoir attempted to kill himself on an overdose of morphine and whiskey. He was lucky to be alive; how he survived, we’ll never know. But his liver and kidneys are going out on him and unless we find a donor he’ll die of that. Not anytime soon, but the more he drinks, the higher his chances of dying from it are. I am not telling you to make him stop but I think it’d be in everyone’s best interest to try and have him cut down. Is there anything that caused this desire to drink this excessively?” The doctor inquired.

“Yeah… Branden has been dealing with heavy losses, one of which he feels responsible for and is dealing with massive amounts of self-loathing on top of all that.” Claire explained.

“Well, we’ll be releasing him tomorrow sometime. If you want, give us a call and we’ll let you know when we’ll be letting him out.” The doctor told Claire.

The next day rolled by and I released. I was greeted with Claire waiting for me. It was bittersweet seeing her there. I harbored a look of disappointment when I saw her. I sluggishly walked to the car and asked what she’s doing there. She told me that she is here to pick me up and to get in. I got in and asked if I could be taken to a friend’s place. She agreed but said nothing else the entire way. She was absolutely pissed, and for good reason. I couldn’t debate that, nor did I have the will to.

We arrived and I said goodbye. She said it back while looking out in the rain through the driver’s window. Unknown to my friends, I has been coming here to meet with a prostitute who I frequently would be having sex with. Aside from the romps we’d also do cocaine to cope with the problems that I was having. The girl who I had been sleeping with was named Elsie Avalon. Elsie was a pretty young girl, barely 19 years old. She looked older though. That profession will do that to do. Her hair was red and she had hazel eyes. If you asked me what made her so attractive I couldn’t tell you. She wasn’t ugly at all – but she was far from beautiful. There was something about her that attracted me. Sorrow maybe? If so was it that I could relate or was it to subconsciously feed my ego? I knew it had to be her sorrow which rivaled mine but what about that sorrow always eluded me. I being in my mid-20s didn’t mind this age difference as long as she was of age; but I wasn’t here for just the sex. I found solace in her. I could confide in her without fear of judgment. My friends, they were open to helping my but they were critical of my life choices, Elsie, she was different, this was what I needed, she was a complete portrait of a siren.

Days before I attempted suicide with that morphine overdose I confided in Elsie that I was feeling guilty about the death of Serena. I told her that I was so closed off to the notion that they could be friends. I wanted her. There was no getting around that, and if I couldn’t have her romantically I didn’t want her at all. Despite my devotion to his words Elsie never could fully believe me. Why should she have? She has rarely seen me in a clear headed mind. Every time I stopped by to see her I would already be coked out of my mind, high on morphine or reek of whiskey breath. My words were hollow, even if my heartfelt emotions were dripping from my mouth.

I often insisted that I do lines of coke off of Elsie’s back and she allowed me, always. There was a complacency that fed my attitude of wanting to be in control. She was okay with whatever I did and that turned me on. After a couple lines of snow I would shout and blood would trickle down my nose. I’d get rough with Elsie – really rough - and she didn’t mind. Once again, that complacency and we’d have sex. The sweat and blood trickling from my nose after the lines of cocaine only fueled the already sexual rage I had. Elsie would scream so loud at times the people down the hall would tell us to “shut the fuck up.” After we were done fornicating I would always follow the same routine of lighting a cigarette, turning on a light, and takes a shot of morphine. Elsie, getting dressed in front of a mirror, looks in it and sees me shooting the morphine.

“Branden, your drug addiction… I know I am but a ‘whore’ to you but I do worry about you. Please, lay off of the drugs.” Elsie pleaded.

I glanced in her eyes and rubbed my hand on her face and chuckled. “It’s cute that you care about me so, it’s appreciated and the feelings are certainly reciprocated.” I said.

But the feelings were not reciprocated, at least not in the way that I had led on. I loved her, but he loved her for what she was to me; an outlet; sexually as well as mentally. The connection between us was one built on pure need, not emotional love. In the corner of his eye, I noticed a beautiful young brunette haired woman walking down the halls.

“Who is that woman Elsie? What’s her name? I must meet her!” I inquired with tremendous excitement.

“I don’t know who that woman was, Branden. I don’t think she works here and I highly advise you to not follow her to ask her about her name and such, the owners here don’t take to kindly to stalkers. Shocker right?” Elsie scoffs.

I sat on the edge of the bed and thought all the time I was there about the brunette haired woman. Elsie gives me a backrub to ease my tension but I was so lost in thought I didn’t even notice, and I failed to notice anything going on around me until I felt Elsie’s hands sliding down my trousers.

“At least I make sure you get every cent worth,” Elsie said.

A few days later I returned to the perfume ridden brothel where I hoped to find the brunette girl again. As I walked inside I heard the women there moaning to deafening octaves and saw Elsie flag me down. She gives me a hug and asked what I thought about how she looks.

She was wearing a dress that was grey with a gold trimming and grey heels, blonde curly hair, and blue eyes surrounded with dark eye shadow. I told her she looked fine although he found the dress repulsive and completely overdressed for a whore in a brothel but I didn’t say that. It mattered little to me though since I was going to be getting her out of it soon. And soon I did. No more than ten minutes after entering I made Elsie join the masses of women there in a deafening festival of joy and excessive orgasms.

After the romp I got dressed and started to tell Elsie how over the past year my appearance has decreased dramatically while taking a drink of whiskey. This time it was me to observe her in the mirror as she cried at the edge of the bed.

I walked over and asked her what the matter is as I held her hands, looking at her.

“It’s my husband, Jeff, he is abusive. Before I came into work today he hit me for no reason and started to tell me how much of a no good piece of shit tramp I am. How ugly I am and how I am a whore for doing this kind of work. A job he, himself made me do!” Elsie said as she continued to cry.

Despite being halfway to unconsciousness, I grasped her tightly and reassured her that she wasn’t anything of the sort. I complimented her and told her things I knew she needed to hear.

“I can’t believe me, a basket case of 10,000 degrees, is sitting here being a therapist.” I thought to myself.

After a while of confiding in me she dried her eyes and thanked me. She then sat up gave me a kiss and then pushed me onto the bed while she made her way down his body and reaching down to unzip my pants to give me a reward, the only kind she knew how to give.
After my ‘reward’ I gave Elsie a kiss, put his clothes back on and lit a cigarette. “Where are you headed off to now?” Elsie asked.

“I got a meeting with the angels or the devil, which one it is or which one it could turn into is both lost on me.” I said cryptically as I walked out the door and left down the hall.

I was in search of the brunette I saw while with Elsie a few days prior. Whether or not she is actually here was unknown, but I had to make sure, try and look for her. I needed to at least put my mind at rest, regardless if it was a warranted the results I wanted or not. I walked around the brothel with a brisk pace. The scent of too much perfume, loud moaning, groans and the creaking of floorboards and beds were ever so present, and what would’ve been a little more than distracting at any other given time, where not the case here. I was focused. I was after one thing and I’d be damned if there was going to be anything from stopping me from finding it – finding her.

I spent a good 20 minutes trekking down the halls, getting quick glimpses of the flapper girls around the rooms, and going back around for a second trek, to make sure I didn’t overlook someone. But no luck, the girl was nowhere to be found. I had but one last hope: the front desk. The front desk was there for pretty much novelty purposes, but once in a while someone would be there and even if they didn’t work there they might’ve at least seen her walk in or out.

Rushing down the stairs I tripped but managed to catch myself on the railing before falling and making a fool of myself to the folks on the bottom floor. When I got down there I seen the attendants and girls chuckling, it was apparent that despite not seeing what happened, the rumbling and tumbling sounds were more than evident to what happened. I fixed my tie and walked up the girl sitting at the desk.

“Pardon me, Madame, I am looking for a girl, she’s just about 5’4” if even that tall. Curly brunette hair, green eyes and um…” I stuttered while realizing I was chasing after a girl I knew absolutely nothing more than her most basic of complexions.

“Want to finish your sentence there, hun? Because if that’s all you know there is nothing I can do to help you. There are at the very least 5 girls who fit that description upstairs taking dicks by every horny guy in Paris right now.” the girl at the desk said.

The look that fell upon my face was a look of heartbreak. A stark contrast to the gleeful and hope-filled look I had coming downstairs. The very thought of guys doing those things to her made me sick. It bothered me but what was I to do? To my knowledge, she wasn’t even aware of my existence. It certainly is a sad feeling seeing as how for the past few days she’s been on my mind nonstop.
Why did she mean so much to me though? It’s like she’s been there all my life.

“Thank you, Madame; I bid you a good day.” I told the girl at the desk as I kissed her hand. With my hat in hand he walks outside and takes a seat on the steps and lit another cigarette.

“What the fuck am I doing this for?” I asked myself. Before if someone told me that I’d be chasing shadows of a girl who, aside from a quick glimpse, I had no idea about, I’d call them crazy. What was the motivation that was driving me? I knew he wanted to meet her, but I had no ideas as to what as the driving force behind this. I knew what I was doing, but ‘why’ was the definitive question.

Snow that once was covering the steps of the establishment had begun to melt. Not the most ideal place to sit, but it was good enough. Sitting on the melting snow covered steps, with my butt freezing from the cold; I heard the doors behind me close and heard the sighs of a girl behind me.

“Excuse me, mister do you mind if I get a smoke from you?” a young girl asked.

I handed her one, without looking at her as I stared off at the snow sheets in front of me. I found myself in one of those trances again, at least this time it isn’t drug or alcohol induced, no, and this one is a trance brought on by lust, which can be just as destructive as any amount of drugs or liquors.

She sat next to me and in the corner of my eye I saw a couple canvases get set on the ground. I asked, never taking my eyes off of the snow that lied ahead of me, if she is a painter? She tells me yes while almost mimicking me by staring off and smoking. Neither of us showed any interest in looking at each other while we conversed on talk of art. That was until a small gust of wind blew my hat off of my knee where it rested. Tired and worn I struggled to get up with ease. When I did I saw her. SHE WAS THE GIRL I AS LOOKING FOR ALL ALONG! I was filled with excitement, but I had to try my hardest to restrain it. “This is our first ever meeting and needless to say, if I was to inform her that I spent almost an hour in this place searching for her from a few days ago I would come off as rather creepy.” I had thought to myself. I took the opportunity to introduce myself to her and asked her if she’d like to go and get a drink right now.

“Mr. Renoir, you’re a kind gentleman, not the sort I’d expect to see her, but a kind one. I appreciate your offer to get some drinks but I cannot do so, at least not now. Here is my number though. Maybe sometime soon we can?” the girl told me. I was heartbroken. Shot down by the girl I was searching for what seemed like half past an eternity.

“Can I get your name, at least?” I inquired.

“Teresa. Teresa Bonnet is my name.” she said as she flicked her cigarette in the snowy street and walked away.