Rupert

by misslyss
Rupert was a sweet old man, and he lived well. Every day he would wake, shuffle his bottom to the edge of the creaky old single bed, and worm his misshapen feet into threadbare slippers. Groaning, he would heave his body off the mattress, and just stand for a moment, looking around himself. He would move his neck from side to side to hear the satisfying pops, and then twist his torso around as far as he could, so that his spine would crackle.

Feeling thoroughly stretched out, Rupert would reach for his frame – an ugly old thing, brought home from the hospital and never returned – and make his sluggish way to his cramped kitchen, drawers overflowing with all manner of kitchen implements. His breakfast would consist of oats zigzagged somewhat lavishly with local honey that Alma from downstairs would sell him every few months. If he was feeling particularly good, he might add a fresh strawberry to the side of his plate. He would take his time with eating, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his weathered skin as he sat in his favourite chair by the big window. He kept two small cacti in little bottles on the sill and he checked on them every morning, watering them every once in while.

He left his bowl at the other end of the table every morning, often forgetting it as he went to his day’s labor. Rupert would spend most of his days typing at his worn old typewriter, day after day, year after year. The typewriter itself had been a present from one of his colleagues a lifetime ago, the chair another (and though it clashed horribly with the peeling aqua paint of his wall, he couldn’t bear to part with it. He simply chose to cover the wall instead.)

Rupert had developed a nasty, wet kind of cough over a period of a few months. Never normally worried about this kind of common ailment, he had only sought medicine after Alma had warned him yet again of his steadily increasing frailty. Rupert had pooh-poohed her at the time, but heeded her advice eventually, somewhat concerned that this cough could impede his important work. Alma worried too damn much, he had conceded, always asking after his health, about when she could read some of what he was writing. He always managed to shake her off but he kept the bottle of bitter cough syrup beside the typewriter, swigging from it whenever he saw fit.

Every Friday, he would take the stack of papers from the table, seal them in envelopes and shuffle them down to the post office on the corner. Marie would give him her same crinkled smile and take his stack, and his few dollars extra from groceries every week. With his work done for another week, Rupert would head back to his apartment, whistling an old tune that he had once enjoyed.

Rupert sat at that typewriter every day until the day that they pried his cold, dead fingers from the keys. The cough had become wetter and wetter until he had suffocated, some syrup still left in the bottle. In the typewriter was a half-finished letter to a little orphaned African boy named Jock, and beside it was a stack to at least five more children. Each one thanked them for their drawings and asked them all about their lives. It was clear, for a few moments at least, that Rupert had been someone very important to so many.

Alma knew this to be true and she began to pick up the letters that were dropped on his doorstep even months after his death, papering her kitchen walls with the drawings of children worlds away.
Let others and the author know if you liked it

Liked it alot?
koyaai

koyaai

July 10, 2015 - 15:53 Hmm... How should I put this. I wanted more. Not in a bad way. But this was really a good piece. Considering you were limited. I liked how you gave us a good picture of Rupert without compromising the whole story. I can almost imagine him hitting the keys of the old typewriter every single day. Great piece!
misslyss

misslyss

July 11, 2015 - 01:41 Thank you very much!
FieNd

FieNd

July 10, 2015 - 17:14 So what exactly was he doing his whole life :D? Extremely well written!
misslyss

misslyss

July 11, 2015 - 01:42 Thank you for your kind words :-) As for what he was doing, I like to think he had at least one child and a wife at some point.
Mahoobee

Mahoobee

July 10, 2015 - 18:00 Gah!!! I don't know !!! Like seriously this is so well written with so much emotions of old bones and stuff. Great job. Good luck. :D
misslyss

misslyss

July 11, 2015 - 01:42 Thank you very much! I'm glad you liked it :-)
Mahoobee

Mahoobee

July 11, 2015 - 01:44 Your very welcome and good luck, mate. :D
sheelsdevi

sheelsdevi

July 14, 2015 - 04:47 Such beautiful realistic piece. I wish I really knew what he typed all day.But the vague way you mentioned it is in a way adding flavour to the story.very good read indeed.
misslyss

misslyss

July 14, 2015 - 05:34 Thank you very much! :-D
Manahill Naik

Manahill Naik

August 2, 2015 - 13:38 so beautifullll :( and sad :/ loving the details though ^-^
misslyss

misslyss

August 2, 2015 - 13:55 Thank you :-)

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