Metafiction- Memory

     "Ah, rum always lets me to throw all concerns." The man with red shirts murmured with his tongue loosed.
     "Well, that's what all alcoholics say to justify themselves." I, washing the glasses, replied him without thinking.
     "Ha, ha! Jimmie, you're such a jerk! How are you gonna keep this tavern going with those offensive words to clients?" He yelled at me with silly voice.
     "It's because a man like you gets to forget what they've heard while drunken and come over to my tavern again." Again, I replied with hilarious smile on my face.
     "Hahahahaha!" He then burst out his eerie laughter. He laughed nearly a minute, continuously trying to not laugh, then giggling, which turned out as a big laughter, again and again.
     I, as a bartender and the owner of this tavern, loved this mood. Despite some intemperate men, there were always various kinds of laughter all over the place. People didn't get hurt much and they just passed it with a laughter. All seemed to be very happy at my tavern.
     There was very weird thing about my tavern and me. I, who runs the tavern, couldn't drink any kinds of alcoholic beverages; rums, wines, beers, etc. Some may come to my tavern, get amiable with me, offer me an alcohol, and get surprised hearing that I couldn't drink even a cup of beer. I guess there aren't many tavern owners like me. But just because I can't drink alcohol doesn't mean that I can't feel the joy of drinking one. Because I feel it when I saw people drinking alcohol. Maybe me being unable to drink well have made some kind of yearning for alcohol. Maybe that is why I run tavern.
     What I do in the daytime is writing. I am actually a writer at day and a bartender at night. It's hard to argue what my main job is. I'll just say both of them are my main jobs. Let's put it that way. As a writer, I get inspiration from drunken people at night. Some people tell me their story, and some people just shows their 'real' face while they are drunken. The latter one is more motivating for me. They do not say a word to me, but their facial expression from true feelings tickles my imagination so much. Well, but I do not think of those while I'm working as a bartender. I just recall them at daytime. I only concern what I'm doing when I'm working on something. In that way, I felt some kind of proud at my outcomes.
     But I don't know I can really call myself 'writer' still in these days. About 6 months, I couldn't write any. I just can't write. Maybe I'm not being creative any more. Maybe I'm running out of inspiration. Maybe I'm sick of this ordinary life. I desperately tried to find something else to work on, but it was in vain. Ah, I just don't know what to do at day now.
     Then one day, when I was reading "Shawshank Redemption" leaning on the sofa at my house, I got few knocks on the door. I, having strange feeling, went out to the door but no one was there. Just about to close the door again, I found out a letter on the ground. I cautiously took it and came back to my sofa. The letter had no names or address but just the paragraphs.
 It was a stormy night. James William and I were drinking buckets of beer at Jimmie's house. I recognize that we had a tough chat about the rock concert that we attended yesterday. It was about five minutes before the midnight. Yes, that's exactly when 'he' came and knocked the door. Shivering for somewhat reason, Jimmie went to the door and twisted his palm to open the door. Just when the door was opened about half, that's when we saw his silhouette, we all fell to the ground.
 That's exactly what happened. Magically, we all fell to the ground. I think it's too much coincidence for all of us to just fall asleep because of drinking. It was some eerie force that knocked all three of us.
 Conscious came back with headache, but I thought I was still dreaming because I couldn't believe my sight. Willy hanged above the desk, and Jimmie with his blood on his back.
     What on earth is this? It looked like a detective story. I wondered more than a hour to think about who could possibly have left this at my house, but I couldn't get the answer. I looked at the letter again. It must be someone that knows my name. Jimmie was in the story and it must be a great coincidence for the man to just leave the letter which contains a story that has its character which perfectly matches the name of the owner of the house. But again, who? More importantly, why?
     Same number of knocks were heard again next day. There again, I found out a letter which seemed to be the next of the yesterday's letter. I read it.
 Damn! the house was full of Jimmie's blood, and a nasty smell of his corpse. I was definitely frightened for a moment. I looked around myself, finding for some weapons for protection. I found Benelli M1 Super 90, a shot gun I used when hunting for animals. However, it was such a surprise because Jimmie have never kept those kinds of shotguns at his home.
 With the shotgun, I decided to look for "him". Half angered, half curious, I really wanted to find who he was.
 Then the door knocked again. So, I went to the door, and shot my shotgun toward door. After I used all bullets, I found that I killed Jimmie. Jimmie's blood was everywhere and I carried him inside the house. William was the only person who saw my crime.
 I wasn't myself after I saw blood gushing out of Jimmie's wounds. The shotgun pellets ripped his limbs apart and left huge holes on his body. Not knowing what I was doing, I blankly aimed of William and pulled the trigger.
     Now it became kind of scary to me. Getting a letter containing a man killing me. But I couldn't understand the story. Jimmie in the last letter was described to be dead. But in here he was out of the house and gets to be shot by the narrator. It must be a psychotic who writes this down. But I didn't called police because I was one of the person who dislikes to be involved with cops.
     And the next day I again got the knocks on my door. I, this time, went quick to my door and looked for the one who drops me a letter. There was a man with a brown trench coat running away. But I knew that it was too far and he is too fast to catch. So I went back to my house and opened the letter.
 Shotgun, a monstrous weapon. It never shoots; It busts. So that's what Benelli M1 Super 90 exactly did. It busted William. It burst him and pulled him all the way to the porch stairs. I maybe wanted to make things clearer. I took the shot gun, ran down the porch steps and stepped on William. William was breathing with a great difficulty. So I sent him close to God. Nice fella. He belongs there. That's where I'll never going to be in. I'll never reach heaven, but he won't as well if I don't finish him up. I shoved the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
 "Click."
A sharp clicking sound was heard.
     Now I got totally puzzled up. This time Willy, who was hanged above the desk, got up from somewhere else and 'I' killed him. I brought up all three letters to my desk and read it once, but there was no difference in my understanding. The only slight difference that I've noticed this time was that narrator was speaking formal English at first but gets to speak inofficial and black's language at the end. He sure is a psychotic.
     Few days passed later. the letters were almost out of my concern now and I was being bartender at my tavern. Washing the glasses like always, I glanced at my tavern. I was quite proud of it. Hope that this tavern gets to exist until I die. Maybe I can inherit this to my son if I marry and have a baby. But those happy thoughts met their end when I saw the brown trench coat. It was same with the one that I saw from the man running away from my house. The owner of this coat seemed to left my tavern. He will come back, I believe. He won't go far with his coat left at my tavern. Then, being suddenly curious, I put my hand to the pocket of that coat and reached something. It was a full A4 size paper. There was the story same to what I've got along 3 letters. I remembered it right away. Then I read the story again. It was like a magic forcing me to read it.
     Having finished reading the story. I got thirst. I automatically grabbed the glass which was always on the desk of mine at my seat. I drank it and that right then I realized that it was not water. It was alcohol.
     The world was spinning centered at me, and I couldn't hold myself standing up. And everyone just looked like me. Some people were the men having a name-tag saying "James William". Wind was keep knocking the door. I hardly made my way to my seat and saw the clock. It was 5 minutes before midnight.
     It was a stormy night.


Image from: http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tavern_Scene-1658-David_Teniers_II.jpg