Silent Crow's Cabin

Jeremy Brendon Caldwell hated the stupid, annoying party, with its stupid, annoying people. He fumbled up to his top floor apartment, spilling clumsily through the door. Kicking off his shoes, he turned on a light, and without hesitation, attacked the fridge, grabbed a beer, and drained it with a few skillful gulps. On the main floor of this lovely, old, Victorian mansion, there existed a cauldron of booze, music, marijuana, cocaine, sexual tension, laughter, drama, poised staggering, fondling, and whatever else constitutes contemporary debauchery these days. Ingredients of the same old toxic soup that everyone thought was such a fabulous reward, but merely produced massive headaches and lingering regrets. Jesse was always the first to get fists full of drinks and arms full of girls, but not tonight. Tonight, he sauntered through the jolly spirit of fifty Juris Doctor law students, firing acerbic barbs and nasty words, like bullets from a machine gun. He’d enabled this scene, and now wanted to rip it apart; destroy all those happy faces, break furniture, throw plates, maim everything he’d paid for. Pretentious, money-sucking leeches, that’s who they were. They said things that didn’t matter and never bothered to thank him. He’d been a walking ATM for food, beverages, libations, and all the ridiculous decorations, putting them in a festive mood. He subsidized these idiots, and their families, by paying the steep rent, heavily discounting the amount they owed him, and paying all the utilities. It was embarrassing for him, to merely chip in, when his so-called friends would be saddled with student loans for decades. But, everyone took him for granted. He could afford it. No big deal. Keep the gravy train coming. Didn’t matter. Until now. He’d had enough. Three years, and one simple, fucking ‘thank-you’ would have done. Even Teeq, aka Timmy Quinn, was guilty, but Jesse gave him a pass. Having forged their friendship in grade school, Teeq, regardless of his motives, was usually there for him. Jesse grabbed another beer, drank the whole of it, and then got another, pouring it down his throat like flood water through a storm drain. This was their last holiday before graduating in the spring; probably the last time he’d ever see most of them. Perhaps these stupid acquaintances were better than nothing. Maybe he’d miss them. No, he thought drunkenly. Fuck ‘em. Anger and frustration never stopped him from partying before. In fact, those were excellent reasons to do so; douse the emotional hellfire, spend time in permissive oblivion. But tonight was different. It was the last Christmas party with these minor league idiots. If he could only be honest with himself, he would have realized, he wasn’t actually pissed at them, but, instead, his deep, festering wounds had triggered his fears and automatic defenses; this wasn’t the party he hated. The Christmas party, hosted by his mother, Celia Bartos-Caldwell, at his home in Newport, Rhode Island, was. She gathered big league people with big league networks; seasoned players with elaborate schemes, pernicious plots, and major league power. Not only was he was required to attend, this year’s event signaled his official entry into the sticky web of blind ambition and back-channel, back-stabbing ways; the beginning of his serfdom to the feudal intrigues of the global Monopoly®️ game. He’d be the primary focus of his mother and many of her friends, and felt a rage so desperate, so inescapable, so edgy, so ‘end of the world’, he couldn’t function. His life wasn’t his own, and never would be. Gnawing bitterly at the edges of his soul, was an elusive, starving, void-like energy. It was two pronged; one anchoring itself somewhere in his distant past, systematically getting bigger and heavier, and the other, a newly established malevolent in-growth, seeding his thoughts with darkness. Together, they generated idealized notions of violence; mobilizing ways he could vent his growing, intractable feelings. For the first time, Jesse earnestly thought about killing himself, and went through a list of preferred methods. He never had a problem with anyone thinking about or becoming suicidal; resonating with the difficult feelings, and the friggin’ hopelessness of change. Driving over a cliff, like the guy at the beginning of the 1963 movie, “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World”, always amused him, except, he didn’t think he’d be leaving knowledge of a treasure behind. Just leaving, was the feature of his increasing obsession. Maybe he’d find a place along the coast of Maine somewhere, or in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. A scouting trip would both serve a purpose, and give him a purpose. He could choose a spot and do it, or could choose a spot, and plan. What a relief. He got his keys and put them in his front pants pocket, not bothering with a winter coat, or warm shoes. Perhaps he’d strip naked before crashing into oblivion. The thought made him laugh. Perhaps, he’d walk into the front door of his family mansion first, and gag his mother before she started badgering him about his birthday suit. That was better. God, he hated her voice. He laughed even more, imagining her muffled protests. In any case, it was time for some action. Leaving his shackled conscience behind, Jesse opened his apartment door.