Pink Water Bottle

A man, whose name we’ll never know, searched through his backyard with a stressed diligences that suggested he was drowning something out. He was a tall but not overly tall red-headed man who just remembered that one time he equated a girlfriend’s friend’s baby with a dog.

“It was supposed to be funny,” he said out loud through tight, gritting teeth. He lifted a lawn chair by its seat, tilting the plastic furniture slightly to observe what lied underneath. “Nothing.” He did this to three more chairs and a large wooden outdoor table that was built by some family member. He doesn't remember which one, only that it was only one generation old and no one wanted it. “Fuck.” His muted tone echoed slightly under the emptiness of the table.

The man looked for his water bottle. A pink recycled plastic reusable water bottle that was the last of the 4-pack he bought. He had lost the other three.

“Where the fuck did I put it?”

You had it when you drove home.

He looked at the garage where his car was and visually traced his steps, looking at the usual walking path he would have walked from the garage. He couldn't find any hint of pink. “Fuck.”

He walked inside and closed the door behind him but he never stopped moving through the rooms of his house.

Inside then. It’s probably inside somewhere. Check the freezer. You leave shit in there. Did you go to the freezer yet. No you didn't. You got home, got inside, then went to the bathroom. Maybe in the bathroom. God, I hope you didn't leave it in the bathroom again.

“I gotta stop doing that.” The moment the lights flashed on in the bathroom he could tell it wasn't there. He knew it wasn't there but he felt like checking.

Good. You didn't act like a dirty fucker and bring it into the bathroom.

“Then where is it?”

He was going to kill himself once he got home. He had everything planned. He didn't have a large list of things to prepare. He wasn't picky. Just before he was about to do it he noticed his water bottle wasn't on the table. He thought he had put it down on the table but apparently no, he didn't.

Why do you need the bottle. You won’t be needing it. It doesn't have to do with anything you wanna do.

He usually carries the water bottle around because of an article he read shamed him into drinking more water.

“I need to stay hydrated.”

Who told you that. It’s just something people say. You don’t have to worry about it.

“Well I should deal with it.”

But you’re going to kill yourself. Plus you don’t actually have to get those eight glasses from just water. Juice counts.

“I need to find the bottle. I lost the others.”

But. You don’t need it. Those others are irrelevant. It doesn't matter.

“Well. No. It does matter. I just need to find it then I can kill myself.”

Why do you need to find it so bad.

He checked the freezer and it was empty but he still looked through the rest of the kitchen. Any place he would put something down without thinking.

“It’d just be nice if I found it so, I don’t know, not be a dick to someone.”

Who’s gonna be mad.

“Someone will be.”

Who told you all this.

“Well. No one, I guess. It’s just someone will be upset.”

No one will be upset. They’ll be concerned with other things and such. Who taught you all this.

“The burden would fall to someone else and that would make me a dick.” He stopped rifling through his backpack of random shit and stared at the wall, easily remembering the time when someone close to him told him he made bad first impressions.

They were just some person you worked with. It was at a staff party. You were drunk. You don’t remember It properly.

“She was being honest. She said I was nice but that it takes time to see that.”

That seems positive.

He physically cringed. His body shuddered for a hot second and he pushed the thought from his mind. “Enough of this. I gotta find that bottle.”

He continued his search by increasing the speed in which he walked between all four rooms of the ground floor of his house. He hadn't been upstairs yet. There was no way it was upstairs.

No one said you were ugly.

“That’s not really what I'm getting at.”

You think you’re ugly.

“I've gotten over that. I have matured in some ways. I can give myself some credit when needed.” He looked in his mostly empty bedroom. The clay coaster on the ground next to his bed had an empty Coke bottle on it. The sight excited him slightly. But of course that brief moment turned to disappointment once he realized what it was.

“It’s not even pink…”

Who said you were ugly.

“No one. It’s just,” he stopped talking and looked at his IKEA bookshelves, knowing full well the bottle wasn't there. Half the books he hadn't even read yet. Most were inherited from his dad, a newspaper man before the Internet, so he had a very large and very random selection of reading materials. A lot of original pamphlet propaganda from Mao and other Chinese communists. He never got a chance to ask his father why he had this stuff.

“I know because of the way people look at me.”

What if you don’t actually know how others look at you. You’re not the best judge of character yourself.

“I've learned to read the way others treat me. It’s fine. I'm nothing special. I'm aware. People don’t like me.”

You’re seeing people and the world in the wrong way. What if you’re wrong about people’s opinion of you.

He walked closer to the nearest bookshelf. His eyes seeing the titles of books but not really registering who or what they were. “That sounds horrible. Then that means I am truly broken.”

Rather than being out of place.

He stood unmoving. He clicked his tongue in his mouth like he was mulling an idea over in his head but it was simply a habit at this point for him. It meant little.

You just hate people.

“Yeah, maybe I do.” He picked up a small pamphlet off the shelf and held it up to the light. It read: Mao Tse-Tung WHERE DO CORRECT IDEAS COME FROM? Foreign Language Press PEKING. The inside said (May 1963). He held the thin paper booklet with both hands and ripped it in half. “Now no one will have it.”

That was Dad’s.

“Why the fuck did he have it in the first place?” He left the room to quickly check outside, again. Just in case he missed it.

Why are you doing this.

“Because it’s all I can think about.”

He crossed the living room, his eyes scanning the wooden floor in case he had missed it there.

It’s not your fault.

“It usually is my fault.”

Of the times he let people down, angered them, cheated them, he couldn't remember ever doing it on purpose. That doesn't excuse the fact that he still cheated, angered and let people down. It’s just a fact he always remembered.

You’re exaggerating. You did your best.

“My best isn't good enough.”

The automatic light turns on once he opened the door to outside, the yard once again bathed in its dull luminescence. He couldn't see any sign of pink or even a bottle shaped object. Nothing.

It could still be in the car.

It could be in the car. He was surprised that he never fully considered he just didn't bring it in when he got home.

There are no rules in place telling you what to do.

“I’ll go check the car then.” The man walked through the house for what felt like the thirtieth time of the night. He grabbed his shoes and headed for the door.

There is no one judging you. No one will shame you.

“I'm just tired of remembering what I've done.” He walked along his usual walking path to the garage, instinctually holding his keys balled in his fist. The metal teeth dug into his palm enough that they left an impression.

But none of that is important. No one remembers that stuff. More to the point no one cares.

“But I do.”

He got to the garage. He opened the door and turned on the lights to see the small coal-grey car that an uncle sold him. From outside the car, he could see the pink handle and cap of the water bottle. His grip tightened on his keys, digging them deeper into his palm.

You don’t need to do anything.

“That line of thinking is what brought me here.” He entered the garage and closed the door behind him.

He opened the door of his car and sat himself down in the driver’s seat. He placed his hand on the top of his water bottle like it was the stick-shift.

You’re really good at blaming yourself.

“Yeah. I know.”