Trapped (short story)

Trapped

Was a peculiar suicide note. It said only one word.

Jorden Pmbrick was a man who didn't often leave his house. He didn't have much reason to. He worked on his computer most of the time and had lost any applicable ability to relate to most people. You see, Jorden lived in America around the year 2013 his life one more failed American dream. After school he ran a parallel track to his classmates. Instead of investing in the proper permissions his path would no longer intersect with theirs. He wanted to earn a living like everybody else, but something happened. He was given a bundle of money through the death of his father, and spent smidgin' after smidgin' month after month pursuing his own interests. As he did, he learned that there is no escaping the prospect that he'd be used as an ego booster at the bottom in any and all conceivable job markets.

He grew up as you well know being told that he could be anything he put his mind to, and he believed it. Well, that's what his television suggested anyway. His parents,who were less optimistic, weren't sufficient judges of character. He worked very hard without pay. He studied alone and never got grades. That first step putting his foot in the door turned into his only meaningful lesson. The interviewer graciously said, “You're the perfect student but you refuse to learn.” That sort of routine makes a person suspicious of that road towards success. His validity wasn't sought. The interviewer wasn't aware he read dozens of books and practiced his craft ten thousand hours give or take, but there was this new trending thing called a system control modifier that sort of, did what he envisioned himself doing. Sort of.

In his mid thirties now Jorden was alone for a long time not for lack of trying. He couldn't land a girl that actually believed in him and his hopes, just childish gold diggers that told him he couldn't be a suitable man without a job.

“Labels out as you put these on the shelves. Are you listening to me? You need to have the labels out so people can read them. People can't read them if the label isn't showing Jorden.”

His only plans it seemed started with the notion that he had funds to work with, but they would be his last. That is unless he won the lottery. He wasn't the type of guy to take much shit, but he knew that no one would have his back either, and everybody was an authority whore. He didn't have anybody. He would disappear into a rape room somewhere and be forgotten if he'd made a fuss. He would lose everything he built over the years. Owning things doesn't offer much protection from a bundled bunch of consumers. So he purchased guns and body armor for financial security. Worth more and more in price and if anyone came lurking to rattle him out of his gopher hole he wasn't about to run ducking into their box car.

He was a pre-existing condition. His savings that inconveniently for him depreciated was his only insurance and it was earmarked for citizenship. There were just some things that he couldn't afford to wager with on a last ditch effort. He kept his fingers crossed knowing some people can afford to die while others live in terror broke.

There he was alone day after day. Hadn't bothered with a new beginning. He had given up months ago drowning in emotions concerning conclusions inescapable. Without a plan he got fat and tried to culminate his feelings while warning others to the quicksand of American life. The society he lived beneath just kept riding and deriding him. He hoped for a rest at least, since he finally relinquished the dream, no luck. It rode him relentless so he decided he would find a safe place.

Former friends and girlfriends were too far gone. They had started on happy pills upon his departure to live amongst the more determined of dreamers, but things had gotten better for them and he was chemically easy to ignore. He was just that old irritable fog like a hangover from before their happiness. Shutting him out and disregarding his feelings was just part of their new outlook on life and it had taken hold for some time now. He didn't want to be so distant. It wasn't his choice. He was pursuing a career and something better.

His home was in order as the skies began to darken. After a long day of re-arranging and crossing off lists he looked over his home like a new day. He had waited a couple of weeks for a large standing safe to arrive about 3 feet wide and 6 feet tall. He cleared away an old desk and rearranged a few things to set it right at the front of his house like a blast shield conveniently next to a window that looked out on the front door. He'd thought that police tap and raps would be through a window with himself half behind the open door of a sizable gun safe. But he was not a violent man, he was just fed up. There was no place left to go and no avenue to get there. Bombarded by threats every day he lived in a society obsessed with torture and terrorism, and the sanctuary of the daily grind was cut off to him long ago. His pride was in the way. His dignity was criminalized.

It seemed so clean and luxurious, the safe. Safe's just glow like success and he could appreciate that. Like a grateful thief he didn't want to lose what he had, his home, his dreams, the treasures that he'd collected over the years in study. He took risks to get there, bought what he thought would give him a chance and purchased nothing but security for the future. Investments seemed causeless in a time of declining values. He couldn't even successfully invest in the only thing he relied on, himself.

It wouldn't be completely logical in any other time or place, but the death of Jordan still seemed of confounding horror. Peaceful wasn't exactly the feel of the room just clean and neat. His nest had been dowsed in a settlement solution. The investigator had made his way through it effortlessly checking each corner. The place was spotless, not a single decorative nonsensical sign of women folk to be seen, not a pile of cloth or clutter anywhere. The house was suspiciously empty, though well stocked, just a collection of perpendicular white walls. Amidst all the careful housekeeping there was a note taped outside a large safe. It turned out to be most peculiarly a suicide note, and it had only said one word, “Trapped.” How he was able to close himself in seemed somehow irrelevant considering the note.

Why was he resigned to this? Did he think he found safety in security? Was he comfortable in there so confined, living in luxury? Somewhere along the way he lost the dream but couldn't leave it.