Oscar was a ripped umbrella.

Gina slams the door so hard the momentum causes it to swing back open giving Oscar one last brief view of the inside of her apartment. The scratched hard wood floor where they would dance in their socks, the blue walls he had helped her paint last November and Buttons the diabetic black cat, who was sitting on a stool watching the as the doors floated back open. Buttons let out a gentle meow, Gina looked at the cat then followed its gaze to the door to where Oscar stood on the outside. Her eyes, glassy with the tears that she planed to cry after kicking Oscar out. She grunted furiously and stormed back to the door. “Wait..” Oscar yelped. But the door closed, stern and heavy this time. He could hear the locks clicking from the other side. Oscar Young had just broken up with his girlfriend Gina Sowell. It was his idea, though beautiful Gina had a monkey on her back. She was a terrible drunk. Stumbling, mumbling, vindictive, devoid of lucidity and absent of sanity. Not that Oscar was without his chemical flaws, he became a moody insecure high school girl when he drank too much. But relationship became volatile and the fog that veils a new lovers ugly bits was dissipating. The night Gina had a very important art exhibition at a gallery in Wicker Park. She was a wonderful painter. She often took pictures of her friends and loved ones, studied the photographs, and painting pictures of the ‘little secrets inside the persons heart‘. For Oscar, she painted an umbrella with rips and tears in the fabric. He was a little hurt by this but choice not to say anything until after the exhibition, after all Gina was already very nervous. It normal for people, with a daunting stressful task, to want a drink or two to soothe the nerves and steady the heart. If two glasses of wine can steady a shaking hand than an entire bottle and 2 Klonopin can melt the skin off that hand and scar the bone. Gina showed up drunk, the straps of her dress hung off her shoulder and her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bounced around, staggering like wounded animals. Flirting with all the strange artsy men who wore odd facial hair and indoor scarves. At first she didn’t notice Oscar, his new yellow shirt tucked in nicely to his pants, holding a glass of wine of his own which he quickly poured the bathroom sink after seeing the lush state Gina had gluged her way into. He purchased a water bottle and took Gina by the hand to the lobby where he sat her down. She was sour, making fun of Oscar new yellow shirt he had bought just for the event, just for her. After the exhibitions Oscar drove her home, she screamed about how she wanted stop at Chicago Classic Hotdogs, Oscar told her it was closed but he promised to take her in the morning, in a fit she grabbed the wheel of the car and jerk it, throwing the Volkswagen onto a curb. “What the hell is your problem?” Oscar yelled as he got of the car to check the damage. “Hahhah, it’s okay no body died. Come on get back in the car and lets go home.” She laughed from in the car with the window rolled down. She said that the apartment was too hot to cuddle and that night she made him sleep in the bathtub. Oscar, feeling the sting of loss but the pride in the assurance that he’d made the right decision to end things with Gina headed down the stairs. He thought about Gina crying in her bed, this sadden him, no one had ever cried for him before. That was usually his job, and while the idea of inflicting heartache did not make him happy he was confident that Gina would get over it. She was a unique sprit, and when she was sober and happy, Oscar swore that heaven moved in her heart and behind her eyes. About half way down the stairs Oscar realized he had forgotten his car keys in the heat of the argument (Oscar didn’t want to argue, he simply wanted to discuss the possibility of a break, Gina’s hangover and conformational disposition played catalyst to yelling, Oscar hated yelling.) He sighed, knowing that when he knocked on Gina’s door, she would answering it, spilling tears, it would be awkward but Oscar needed his keys. “Oh man.” Were Oscar Young’s last words. He began to sprint up the stairs. Taking tow steps at a time. The first leap a success, the second went as expected. But on that third, in his haste he over shot a step, lost his footing and fell back down the stairs. Bumping and bouncing down the narrow case of 32 steps. His legs swung over his head and Oscar thought about how the tumbling reminded him of a dryer, which reminded him of his new yellow shirt that he wanted to wash. He’d slept in it and it desperately needed to scrub the funk out of it. Like a rag doll, Oscar's head bounded and settled at the bottom of the stairs. His falling body left scrapes and scuffs on the white paint of the corridor. As his vision resored from the fuzziness of confusion he felt multiple pains surge through out his body, the worst being the feeling on his ribs cracked and splintered in his side. He could taste blood.
Before Oscar’s grandma passed last summer, he often visited her in the hospital. One day she told him that he didn’t have to visit her any longer, she said it hurt knowing that she didn’t have much time and too see her family as often as she did just made it worse. She said instead, to write her letters. She explained that letters were better than actual conversation, that an honesty is lost in conversation, we worry to much about the other person. People are forced to share time and opinion in real conversation. Sometimes spoken words lag and lull, sometimes we over think and over thinking destroys what we mean. But in letter we are free to vent, we can bleed emotion. Oscar decided that he was dying, and that maybe letters from loved ones would be too hard to handle. That maybe dying alone at the bottom of a stairwell of your ex-girlfriends apartment is the best way to die. You don’t have the time to miss family or TV or diabetic cats. All you need to do is focus on the punctured lung and drift to sleep.