Alone Read Online Free PDF

permanent and unyielding, his emotions were not. They came intermittently, buoyed on waves of numbness. One moment, he felt numb inside. Then, he would think of Jerry or Danielle and the emotions would rush back in. He wished that he could cry. He thought he might feel better if only he could cry. After a while, he realized that he was humming aloud to himself. The song was tuneless.  
    With a speed that belied his apathy, Dan pushed himself back from the table, knocking the chair to the floor. He leaped to his feet, screaming obscenities. Snatching the pad of paper from the tabletop, he tore his checklist off and crumpled it in his fist. Then he flung the wadded ball across the room. Still shouting, he rampaged through the kitchen, knocking pots and pans from their hooks above the glass-topped oven and pushing the microwave off its cart. The unit gouged and scratched the floor tiles before breaking. Its cord still dangled from the outlet like a disembodied appendage. Dan ripped the silverware drawer from its hinges and tossed it across the room. Then he did the same with the other drawers, spilling their contents into a heap. His rage carried him into the living room, where he kicked over the coffee table and snatched the cushions from the sofa. He punched a hole in the closet door, and then, unsatisfied, he punched it again. He gripped the knob and wrenched the door from its frame, leaving it hanging by only the upper hinge. Then he charged inside the closet and tossed items haphazardly—umbrellas and winter coats and shoes they hadn’t worn in years.
    Emerging from the closet, he paused again, looking for something else to unleash his frustration upon. Grunting, he pushed the fifty-two inch plasma television off its stand. Then he jumped up and down on it, grinning as it cracked beneath his heels.  
    “Jerry! Danielle! Come back. Somebody come and wake me up!”
    Still shouting, he grabbed pictures from the wall. He put his foot through a Monet print, his knee through an original canvas painted by a family friend, and then moved on to a set of family photos. Only then did Dan pause. Chest heaving, he stared down at Jerry and Danielle. They stared back up at him, smiling.
    “WHERE ARE THEY?” He flung the framed photograph across the room. It slammed into the wall, shattering the glass. Shards rained down on the carpet.
    “Bring them back,” he yelled. “God damn you God! You bring my family back right now. Right fucking now!”  
    If God heard him, then He too was silent. Dan glanced around at the wreckage. The tempest had occurred quietly—the sounds of destruction muted just like earlier.  
    “It’s not enough,” he moaned. “Make some noise, god damn it.”
    Panting, he ran to the door and dashed outside.
    “Hello,” he screamed. “Hello, I’m here! I’m right here. It’s me, Daniel Miller. Is there anybody here? Is there anybody left? Can anybody hear me? Please, if you can hear me, say something. Hello? Somebody? Anyone?”
    His momentum carried him through the yard and out into the street. Dan stumbled over the curb, but regained his balance. Arms flailing, he fled toward another neighbor’s house. Unlike the Lopez or Kresby families, he didn’t know this neighbor’s name. His interactions with them were limited to nodding at the husband and occasionally waving at the wife. They were an older couple, and kept to themselves. Jerry had always claimed it was because the two were uncomfortable with a gay couple living next door, let alone a gay couple with an adopted child. But Dan had never gotten that vibe from them. They weren’t rude. They were just private. Right now, none of that mattered. They could be members of the Westboro Baptist Church for all Dan cared. He’d still be happy to see them. Hell, he’d march right alongside them, lifting his ‘God Hates Fags’ protest sign high for all to see, if only they answered their door.  
    Between him and their door, however, was the