Category: Short Story

I had hit rock bottom that night. Everything that mattered to me was gone. I had been fired from my job, kicked out by my wife, and even my dog had run away. The only thing that kept me going was the bottle of whiskey that I carried in my coat pocket. It was my only friend, my only comfort, and my only escape.

I decided to go out and find a place to drown my sorrows; maybe I could meet a friendly lady who could make me forget my troubles for a while. I didn’t care where I went, as long as they had booze and music. I just wanted to numb the pain and feel something else, anything else.

I walked around the town, looking for a bar that was open. It was snowing hard, and the wind was blowing like a banshee. I could barely see where I was going. The cold was biting into my skin, but I didn’t feel it. I was too drunk to feel anything.

I stumbled upon a sign that said “The Oasis”. It looked like a cozy place, with a warm glow coming from the windows. I could hear some piano music playing inside. It sounded nice, soothing, and inviting. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The first thing I noticed was that the place was empty. There was no one behind the bar, no one at the tables, no one on the stage. It was like a ghost town. The second thing I noticed was that there was no alcohol. The shelves behind the bar were filled with books, not bottles. The tables had chess boards, not coasters. The stage had a piano, not a jukebox. I felt like I had entered the Twilight Zone.

“Hello?” I called out, hoping to find someone who could explain this weird situation. “Is anyone here?”

No answer. I walked around the place, looking for a clue. I saw a sign that said, “Welcome to The Oasis, a sober sanctuary for recovering addicts. We offer a safe and supportive environment for anyone who wants to quit drinking or using drugs. We have meetings, workshops, counseling, and entertainment. We are open 24/7, no matter the weather. Come in and join us; you are not alone.”

I felt a surge of anger and disappointment. This was not what I was looking for. This was not what I needed. I needed a drink, not a lecture. I needed a woman, not a counselor. I needed a party, not a meeting. I turned around and headed for the door, ready to leave this place and find a real bar.

But the door was locked. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. I looked outside and saw that the snow had piled up against the door, blocking it from the outside. I was trapped. I was trapped in a bar that didn’t serve alcohol, with no one to talk to, no one to help me, no one to save me.

I started to panic. I felt like I was suffocating. I needed to get out of here. I needed to find a way out. I looked around for a window, a back door, a fire escape, anything. But there was nothing. The place was sealed like a tomb.

I screamed. I screamed for help, for mercy, for God. But no one heard me. No one came. No one cared.

I collapsed on the floor, sobbing. I felt like I had hit rock bottom. I had nothing left. Nothing but the bottle of whiskey in my coat pocket.

I reached for it, hoping to find some comfort, some relief, some escape. I unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to my lips.

But before I could take a sip, I heard a voice.

“Hello, friend. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I looked up and saw a man standing in front of me. He was tall and thin, with a long beard and a friendly smile. He wore a white robe and sandals. He had a halo around his head and a pair of wings on his back.

He was an angel.

He reached out his hand and said, “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

I was too stunned to speak. I was too scared to move. I was too curious to resist.

I took his hand and followed him.

He led me to the stage, where the piano was. He sat down on the bench and gestured for me to sit next to him.

He said, “Do you like music?”

I nodded, not knowing what else to do.

He said, “Music is a gift from God. It can heal the soul, lift the spirit, and inspire the heart. It can also reveal the truth—the truth about yourself, the truth about your life, the truth about your destiny.”

He placed his fingers on the keys and began to play.

He played a song that I knew. A song that I loved. A song that I hated.

He played my song.

He played the song of my life.

He played the song of how I was born, how I grew up, how I fell in love, how I got married, how I had a son, how I lost him, how I started drinking, how I ruined everything, and how I ended up here.

He played the song of my past, my present, and my future.

He played the song of my joy, my sorrow, and my pain.

He played the song of my hope, my despair, and my redemption.

He played the song of my death, my judgment, and my salvation.

He played the song of my heaven, my hell, and my purgatory.

He played the song of my God, my devil, and my angel.

He played the song of me.

He played the song of the truth.

And as he played, I saw. I saw everything. I saw myself. I saw my life. I saw my fate.

I saw the truth.

And the truth set me free.

Mr. Jones was a handsome man, with a charming smile and a fit body. He worked as a salesman for a company that sold kitchen appliances, and he was very good at his job. He could persuade any housewife to buy a new toaster, a blender, or a microwave oven with his smooth talk and his dazzling grin.

Mrs. Jones was a plain woman, with a dull expression and a thin frame. She worked as a cashier at a grocery store, and she was very bad at her job. She often made mistakes with the change, the coupons, or the receipts, and she had to endure the complaints of the customers and the scolding of the manager.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones had been married for five years, and they lived in a small apartment in the suburbs. They had no children, no pets, and no friends. They had nothing in common, except for one thing: they loved each other very much.

Mrs. Jones loved Mr. Jones more than anything in the world. She loved his handsome face, his fit body, and his charming smile. She loved the way he kissed her, hugged her, and made her feel special. She loved the way he brought home gifts for her, like flowers, chocolates, or jewelry. She loved the way he told her stories about his work, his travels, and his dreams.

But Mrs. Jones also feared Mr. Jones more than anything in the world. She feared that he would leave her, cheat on her, or forget about her. She feared that he would find another woman, more beautiful, more smart, or more fun than her. She feared that he would realize that he deserved better than her, and that he would break her heart.

So Mrs. Jones decided to do something to keep Mr. Jones by her side forever. She decided to make him fat.

She started by cooking him large and delicious meals every day, with plenty of butter, cream, cheese, and sugar. She baked him pies, cakes, cookies, and brownies for dessert. She packed him sandwiches, chips, candy, and soda for lunch. She bought him ice cream, popcorn, pizza, and beer for snacks. She praised him for his appetite, and encouraged him to eat more and more.

Mr. Jones did not suspect anything. He thought that his wife was just being kind and generous. He enjoyed the food, and he thanked her for her efforts. He did not notice that his clothes were getting tighter, his belt was getting shorter, and his buttons were getting harder to close. He did not notice that his face was getting rounder, his belly was getting bigger, and his chin was getting double. He did not notice that his breath was getting shorter, his steps were getting slower, and his energy was getting lower.

He only noticed that his wife was getting happier, and he was happy too.

Mrs. Jones was delighted with the results of her plan. She watched with satisfaction as her husband grew fatter and fatter. She knew that no other woman would find him attractive, and that he would not cheat on her. She knew that he would depend on her, and that he would not leave her. She knew that he would love her, and that he would not forget her.

She only forgot one thing: the health of her husband.

One day, Mr. Jones had a heart attack. He collapsed on the floor of his office, clutching his chest and gasping for air. His co-workers called an ambulance, and he was rushed to the hospital. The doctors told him that he had to lose weight, or he would die. They put him on a strict diet, and they gave him pills, injections, and machines to help him.

Mrs. Jones was devastated. She blamed herself for what had happened. She realized that she had been selfish, foolish, and cruel. She realized that she had not loved her husband, but only possessed him. She realized that she had not made him happy, but only miserable. She realized that she had not saved him, but only killed him.

She begged him for forgiveness, and he forgave her. He told her that he still loved her, and that he wanted to live with her. He told her that he would do anything to get better, and that he would follow the doctor’s orders. He told her that he would lose weight, and that he would be handsome again.

But he never did.

He died a few weeks later, in his hospital bed, with his wife by his side. He died with a smile on his face, and a tear in his eye. He died with love in his heart, and regret in his soul.

He died, and he left her alone.