A Meticulous Absence

By Erik Handy

Erik Handy, renowned author of chilling works like Demonica and Rot House, explores a different kind of horror in A Meticulous Absence - one that strips away the supernatural, laying bare the raw, human horror that is love and life itself.

 

This compelling autobiographical novel follows a young man on the cusp of adulthood, burdened by the weight of unrequited love and a lack of direction in life. As he navigates the uncertain post-college phase without a clear career path or ambitions, the protagonist becomes consumed by the love that never was and will never be. Bound by the relentless force of this unfulfilled longing, he teeters on the edge of despair, haunted by his own ghosts.

 

With poetic prose and a profound understanding of the human psyche, Handy delivers a riveting narrative that will leave readers captivated until the very last page. Experience the power of A Meticulous Absence and delve into the depths of the human heart in this extraordinary tale of love's enduring impact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Handy
• Release date: Aug 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9798215604861

Erik Handy

Erik Handy grew up on a steady diet of professional wrestling, bad horror movies that went straight to video, and comic books. There were also a lot of video games thrown in the mix. He currently absorbs silence and fish tacos.

Book preview

THE COLOR OF HER KIND

I can almost hear her typing through the soft collisions of the waves in the lake beside me and the faraway traffic noise, all blaring horns and humming engines. Splash, click. Splash, click.

I look up at Nikki’s room and her window is the only one open at the back of the gray apartment building. She’s typing an instant message to her boyfriend, a message I’m sure is filled with warm words like love and miss. Well, here’s a word for her that I’ve picked up throughout my soon-to-end college education: unrequited.

I let the drowsy splashes of the water entrance me enough to forget where and when I stand and I go back to the first occasion that word became relevant to me.

Her name was Sara.

Happier times.

Cutting English class to drive around town until second period. Writing notes and exchanging them in the hall between periods. Her blue eyes. Her shoulder-length blond hair. Taking her to the library to do research for some unnecessary research paper. Her pitiful face after she had her wisdom teeth pulled. The neck brace she wore after her accident. Picking her up from work and going out to eat.

Valentine’s Night ‘97.

Sara told me she was in love with me. I replied that I felt the same about her. However, she had to choose her boyfriend over me simply to honor the fact that he was there first.

Unrequited.

Cruel.

She kissed me and left me to sit in my car for a few harsh minutes. We were crying. I remember running a red light on my way back home.

That night was the last night of bliss for us and for me for several years. Soon after, she quit talking and hanging out with me. I thought I had done something wrong and I took offense to her explainable neglect. Word got through to her about how I felt and she told me she needed some time away from me, to maybe let her feelings for me die a bit. But the damage was done. In my post-adolescent haste, I cut her out of my picture.

At graduation, she sat in the row in front of me. When her row rose to walk, I looked at her and she looked at me. She offered a slight smile and I barely gave her one of my own.

In the next few years, we did hang out and talk to each other, but on one May day a few years after our fall, I called her and she told me to call her back that night. It was such a harmless, simple request. I didn’t call her back. I never called her again. What if she had gotten married in the time between calls? No fucking way I could handle that.

I want to go up to Nikki and tell her I love her, but the lesson has been learned and there’s no sense repeating it. Fools make the same mistake more than once. I know that if I gave sweet Sara time to get over me and us, then right now I could be standing outside her apartment window, probably happier than I am now and definitely more optimistic about the long future.

I think.

Splash, click. Splash, click.

***

I lay on Nikki’s hard bed.

She’s sitting at her desk, typing, typing, typing. I can only see the back of her. Her red shirt. Her thick, black hair hanging limply over her shoulders. I want to put my arms around her and see how far I can go until I ruin our relationship.

I look up at the white ceiling that doesn’t comfort me like a woman’s arms. I can almost hear the distant shifting of the lake through the