Shattered Delusions by John Patrick Robbins

Fiction, John Patrick Robbins

Shattered Delusions

Rachel sat on the bed listening to what sounded like someone dying in the restroom.

This was far from the romantic vision she had within her head, when she had agreed to a weekend getaway with a so called famous writer.

“Hey, are you alright in there?”

She called out.

“Yeah, must’ve been something I ate last night.”

Frank Replied.

“The only thing I recall you eating last night was me.”

The door opened as light filled the semi dark room.

“Well least that explains why my breath stinks so bad.”

Frank said as he laid on the bed,

Rachel laughed.

As she punched Frank’s arm.

They laid there for a while before anything else was said the room felt more like a tomb than a fine hotel suite.

“Is every morning going to be like this?”

Rachel asked.

“No, normally I’m really hungover and not feeling this good.”

Frank said as he got up and walked to the small fridge.

As he removed a few shot bottles.

“Care for breakfast my dear.”

“You just literally finished puking your guts out and now you’re mixing a drink. Don’t you think you might want to slow down and give your body a rest?”

“So I take it, that’s no sweetheart?”

Rachel simply shook her head questioning why in the hell she had decided to tag along on this adventure in the first place.

“What are you trying to live up to some invisible standard, set by those great writers you speak of so often?  Or do you just want to see if you can match Hemingway in some literary big dick contest?”

Hemingway couldn’t match Hemingway my dear, I’m just enjoying the party as long as it lasts and getting as many drinks down my neck as possible.”

Frank had heard the same spiel from women he had cared for so many times before.

They wanted to taste total freedom, yet somehow forgot.

That the wild night would always lead to another semi-sick morning.

And no man, not even Frank Murphy, was invincible or impervious to the occasional hangover or usually permanent one in his case.

Rachel was just another vice like the bottle and at times even the page.

Frank understood, we all have an addiction that’s never the question.

It’s simply a matter to what degree is your addiction.

Rachel was a great escape and a weekend fling and nothing more.

“You know, I’m curious what’s with that woman you’re always writing about? I forget her name.”

Rachel said in her attempt to seem interested yet remain semi catty as women even at a great distance were a bit like Japanese fighting fish.

Beautiful at a distance but best kept in their own little bowl or they would tear into one another simply by default.

“You mean Susan.”

“That’s her name, what’s the deal with her and why are you always writing about her?”

“She is the captain cunt to my drunken Peter pan sweetheart.”

“Are you still in love with her or something?”

“Heavy on the something with a side of fries.”

Frank didn’t wait for a reply he simply excused himself and went to sit outside on the balcony.

Taking a seat as he enjoyed the sunrise on the ocean.

No matter the state, the ocean was always a welcome sight.

He understood his bed partners’ mock concern.

He just didn’t care to be dissected by anyone let alone somebody he shared a bed with and nothing more.

Weekend getaways were simply an excuse to escape from the page and the people who made you  regret ever wanting to be a writer to begin with.

The people who always said the same stupid shit and always assumed they were so interesting you just had to write a novel about them.

And their ceramic elephant collection and four cats.

Who if you left the door open would certainly escape their boring asses if only they could.

Frank felt like death warmed over and nobody ever needed an audience when they simply wanted to puke and recover to chase the buzz that evening.

Rachel sat down beside him on the balcony.

She was quiet for a second but Frank knew that wouldn’t last long.

“You know, you’re nothing like I thought a known writer would be.”

“Yeah and what’s that?”

“I mean your writing at times seems so deep and yet you seem very cold and distant.”

“Well thank you for that charming analogy my dear any other complaints I suggest you speak with my agent. Which reminds me I’m sure he is asleep so let me give you his number.”

“You know I get you hide behind your humor.”

“And large women at times but that is strictly because I always enjoy the view.”

Racheal was getting annoyed at Frank’s lack of interest in a serious conversation.

“What are you so damn afraid of, why can’t just be serious for one second and open up to me?”

Frank’s patience was wearing thin with his hangover.

“Okay sweetheart what is it you want to know that I haven’t shared as of yet?”

“Why do you always write about women yet are always alone? I mean why don’t you just settle down instead of drinking yourself to death chasing that goodtime?”

Frank kicked back the remains of the screwdriver he mixed for breakfast.

Leaned back in his chair putting his feet upon the railing.

“Well you see it’s very simple sweetheart. I love women but I will never be in love with any one woman because honestly, why spend weeks at a time sharing your thoughts when you can simply cut to the chase and share orgasms?”

“So it’s all just about getting off with you, I mean don’t you ever want anything more?”

“Yeah I want a good cocktail, maybe some lower priced drugs which reminds me are you a dealer?”

“I’ve told you like seventeen times I’m a stewardess you asshole!”

“Well at least you enjoy getting high.”

Rachel stormed off without a word as she in vain tried to slam the sliding door into the room.

She would cool off eventually or maybe just call a cab and leave Frank to his vices and page counts.

He reached in his pocket as he felt for another shot bottle of overpriced vodka.

As just then a seagull dropped a shit on his head that splattered down his face.

It was warm and made him almost vomit.

As an old man stepped out on the balcony from the room beside him.

They both stared for a minute saying nothing as the old man simply shook his head.

As he said something under his breath as he went back inside.

Yeah sometimes you can pen lines of pure beauty and grace and other times you’re truly shit out of luck.

Frank showered and hopped in bed in hopes of hopping on his cranky bed partner.

The bed was empty and Rachel’s bags were gone with her.

She had met the man behind the page and learned he was just the prick he portrayed himself to be.

It’s hell to be a delusion within someone’s mind.

If ever he met that deep charming bastard of a fantasy, he would happily kick him in the balls.

Frank poured another and ordered a dirty movie.

And enjoyed some alone time the best way he knew how.

Sure Frank knew he had a problem but he had a firm grip on his issue at the moment.

Thank the lord he had asked for extra towels.

He sure as shit hoped he had left that do not disturb sign upon the door.

Because unless you had a large ass and nice rack seldom was Frank ever happy to see anyone.

John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review, Black Shamrock Magazine and Under The Bleachers.
He Is also the author of The Still Night Sessions from Whiskey City Press. His work has been published here at Punk Noir Magazine,  Fearless Poetry Zine,  Piker Press,  San Pedro River Review, San Antonio Review, Heroin Love Songs, 1870 Magazine.
His work is always unfiltered.