Status: finished, until i decide to write an epilogue. i still may.
Folded Paper.
Allister Roberts.
He resided in apartment 237, on the fourth floor of the old building. His apartment was nearly a visual of the inside of his head. It didn’t contain much. It was practically empty and gray. It was quite alright that way; that’s how he liked it.
Allister had always been a bit odd. His closet only consisted of sweaters, t-shirts, cargo shorts, and skinnies. His cabinets only consisted of peanut butter, red apples, instant coffee, apple juice, and frozen microwave meals. He never wore khaki with red or blue.
When Allister was thirteen, he decided that he would live to make others smile, despite how much of a rut he was in. The way he lived his life was, in fact, a bit cliché. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t aware of that. When Allister was seventeen, he began folding paper. He started with origami, morphing squares of paper into cranes and such.
He didn’t start constructing paper airplanes until he turned nineteen and moved into apartment 237. When it came to the paper airplanes, he didn’t want anyone to know that he was the one folding them, writing carefully selected words onto their wings, and releasing them out into the air. When it came to the paper airplanes, in which he released at exactly 12:30 pm every Wednesday, Allister just wanted people to pick them up from the ground, read them, and smile. Not even his friends knew that he folded paper.
Allister didn’t do much besides folding paper. He didn’t leave his apartment much either. When he did, it was to collect his mail and to buy more paper from the store when he ran out. Occasionally, he’d stock up on cigarettes and pay his phone bill. He was okay with it, though. He liked the way he lived. He liked to think that he lived a life of simplicity.
His parents didn’t understand. They didn’t understand why he did nothing—as far as they knew—and they didn’t understand where they went wrong when raising him. Still, the pair never hesitated to send him hearty checks to his P.O. box every month to keep his bills paid, to keep him on his feet.
He was sitting on his bed where it sat near the large window, folding and creasing a blank piece of white paper into a boat, when his phone began to ring. Allister didn’t know who would be calling him; he didn’t have many friends that would call him and his parents definitely didn’t care to call him. The sound of Alt-J playing from the stereo and his cell phone was a bit bothersome, so he didn’t dither to answer it. “Allister Roberts.”
“That’s exactly who I was looking for. It’s Daniel Walberg, friend. Do you want to hang out at my place later tonight?” he asked. “I’m also going to have alcohol and lovely ladies there. Who knows? You could earn yourself a girlfriend tonight.”
Allister thought about his friend’s offer. Sighing, he responded, “I’ll come, Daniel Walberg—for the alcohol. I’m quite alright with not having a girlfriend. I don’t need another person to worry about and entertain. I can barely entertain myself.” Allister chuckled.
“Whatever. Tonight at eight thirty? It sounds marvelous to me. See you then!” Daniel Walberg hung up. Allister left his cell phone on his bed and stood up, moving the boat he had started making from the bed to the nightstand. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. It didn’t give him much time to get ready to spend time at Daniel Walberg’s house, especially with how fast he moved.
He undressed himself, completely, before making his way toward the bathroom. Allister thought it a bit weird that his apartment didn’t contain a shower, but he didn’t mind as twisted the nob marked “H,” warm water spewing from the faucet. He kneeled next to the bath tub and reached over, grabbing the plug and clogging it.
Allister stepped into the bathtub’s steady rising water after grabbing himself a washcloth. It wasn’t until then that he remembered it was the third of October, his dead sister’s birthday. He wasn’t sad. She was dead before he turned six, so he remembered nothing of her but the smile she always wore. Thirteen years was enough to get over the grief.
Allister had always been a bit odd. His closet only consisted of sweaters, t-shirts, cargo shorts, and skinnies. His cabinets only consisted of peanut butter, red apples, instant coffee, apple juice, and frozen microwave meals. He never wore khaki with red or blue.
When Allister was thirteen, he decided that he would live to make others smile, despite how much of a rut he was in. The way he lived his life was, in fact, a bit cliché. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t aware of that. When Allister was seventeen, he began folding paper. He started with origami, morphing squares of paper into cranes and such.
He didn’t start constructing paper airplanes until he turned nineteen and moved into apartment 237. When it came to the paper airplanes, he didn’t want anyone to know that he was the one folding them, writing carefully selected words onto their wings, and releasing them out into the air. When it came to the paper airplanes, in which he released at exactly 12:30 pm every Wednesday, Allister just wanted people to pick them up from the ground, read them, and smile. Not even his friends knew that he folded paper.
Allister didn’t do much besides folding paper. He didn’t leave his apartment much either. When he did, it was to collect his mail and to buy more paper from the store when he ran out. Occasionally, he’d stock up on cigarettes and pay his phone bill. He was okay with it, though. He liked the way he lived. He liked to think that he lived a life of simplicity.
His parents didn’t understand. They didn’t understand why he did nothing—as far as they knew—and they didn’t understand where they went wrong when raising him. Still, the pair never hesitated to send him hearty checks to his P.O. box every month to keep his bills paid, to keep him on his feet.
He was sitting on his bed where it sat near the large window, folding and creasing a blank piece of white paper into a boat, when his phone began to ring. Allister didn’t know who would be calling him; he didn’t have many friends that would call him and his parents definitely didn’t care to call him. The sound of Alt-J playing from the stereo and his cell phone was a bit bothersome, so he didn’t dither to answer it. “Allister Roberts.”
“That’s exactly who I was looking for. It’s Daniel Walberg, friend. Do you want to hang out at my place later tonight?” he asked. “I’m also going to have alcohol and lovely ladies there. Who knows? You could earn yourself a girlfriend tonight.”
Allister thought about his friend’s offer. Sighing, he responded, “I’ll come, Daniel Walberg—for the alcohol. I’m quite alright with not having a girlfriend. I don’t need another person to worry about and entertain. I can barely entertain myself.” Allister chuckled.
“Whatever. Tonight at eight thirty? It sounds marvelous to me. See you then!” Daniel Walberg hung up. Allister left his cell phone on his bed and stood up, moving the boat he had started making from the bed to the nightstand. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. It didn’t give him much time to get ready to spend time at Daniel Walberg’s house, especially with how fast he moved.
He undressed himself, completely, before making his way toward the bathroom. Allister thought it a bit weird that his apartment didn’t contain a shower, but he didn’t mind as twisted the nob marked “H,” warm water spewing from the faucet. He kneeled next to the bath tub and reached over, grabbing the plug and clogging it.
Allister stepped into the bathtub’s steady rising water after grabbing himself a washcloth. It wasn’t until then that he remembered it was the third of October, his dead sister’s birthday. He wasn’t sad. She was dead before he turned six, so he remembered nothing of her but the smile she always wore. Thirteen years was enough to get over the grief.
♠ ♠ ♠
I quite like this chapter.