Layers of old paint had been scraped off the window's pitted edge; left open in the vacant apartment in hopes of catching a faint breeze from the grimy city air outside. A black journal on a packing crate nearest the window had been left carelessly open, with loose pages strewn about the floor as various black ink splotches lead a faint trail towards the door. A sudden breeze stirs the pages and they flip open to reveal a previous entry.
Month one, Day 12____________Time:The darkest hour
Perhaps if I am slowly going insane, I am not the only one. A solitary passenger clinging with desperate conviction to a sinking lifeboat. Or perhaps, in a poor attempt to rationalize my own acute neurosis, I perceive it popping up in those around me. Today, as I was making my way up to my floor close to midnight I overhead a rather one-way conversation. For no reason I could discern, it held my interest. I watched as a gentlemen in a shabby overcoat tightly clutching a black book in his left hand, attempt to unlock his apartment door. The argument heightened as he grew more and more agitated at trying to unlock his door and shut this unseen assailant out. I could not see his face, but his hands were blustered and his posture poor, as if the weight of the world on his shoulders was slowly growing with each fumble of the key.
“Roger! I tell you, not now!”
Had he been drinking? My keen sense of smell picked up a strong trail of old cigar smoke and the damp yeasty smell that prevailed from the tavern, wafting from his coat in onslaughts as he fumbled with the lock. A sharp angle jutting out from the hallway corner kept his attacker just out of sight. But still no audible reply was issued, of this I felt sure. I paused on the step hesitant, but something rooted me to the spot. Exhaustion?
“Blimey Roger, I just don't have it okay…I don't have any of it!”
The door finally swung open, hitting the interior of the apartment as the silhouetted figure burst through from the hallway.
“There's none left!” He thundered murderously, before slamming the door in punctuation. I peered around the angled wall to finally catch a glimpse of his tormentor. There was no one there.
3 comments:
Who was that talking to Roger? And how would your character respond to a rather pressing conversation wtih someone seeking knowledge?
I need it for my posts.
I'm pretty informanated right now. I think you keep Roger in the mix - maybe David's character could start seeing him, too?
Must... Stay... Awake...
I MUST! There was too much on this! Again, the buzz of the street lamp infiltrated my mental core, and I found myself drawn by the hidden beats within that noise. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.................
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....
.................................
(Earlier that day)
I strode down the street, avoiding eye contact and moving against the foot traffic. People careless bumped into me a few times - I ignored it and soldiered on, head bent over. The fellow at the root shop hadn't been helpful in the slightest - it was all "Good day!" to him, and he suspected the man didn't know even know how to talk properly. His act certainly didn't gain him any favor with Saul.
Lately, the other occupants of the building had been looking at him oddly, and crossing to the other side of the street when they saw him approach. They walked the other direction, and hurried into their apartment if they saw him coming down the hall. Saul was sure that Aretha hadn't just forgotten a canvas, but she quickly announced it to the air when she spied him coming down the hall, want back into her apartment, and he even thought he had heard the deadbolt turn as he walked past the shut door.
These petty items did not really concern me - but the reasons for them did. I wanted to be viewed with disgust. That was the reason for my manufactured rotten scent, the uniform I wore, and the way I conducted himself. But now, these people seemed to fear me. I do enjoy the new sentiments on a strictly personal level. Fear is a great motivating factor - but if feelings toward me continue down this road, it might be threatening to my mission to -
(At this point, I found myself to be rather close to a certain car who driver I couldn't see. The breaks screeched and squealed, and it seemed that I had escaped harm from my carelessness.)
But not quite. My legs suffered contact, and the vehicle was still at a sufficient rate of speed that I found my face in rather close quarters with the front hood. I jumped off as soon as I could, and the car sped off without me getting a chance to see the driver. Pokey came out of his stooping booth and asked me if I was alright, but I was fine. He apologized for the other car and said he'd talk to the driver about safety around the deck, but I persuaded him against that course of action. People were already spooked and it was my fault, after all.
Ms. Verdioso was standing across the street, rubbernecking at my minor calamity. I crossed and she didn't move away, but rather stood her ground as if bracing herself. Fair enough. "What in all Hell do you think that makes you a party to that little event, Ma'am!" I shouted. Let them stare. But no, she was staring, and not backing down. This wasn't going to work, and I knew it, so I walked away, almost feeling shameful, but not quite. She still shouldn't have been watching like that.
I knocked the doors of the Flats aside I strode into the hall. Van Vraken was at the mailboxes. He turned, and I SAW him. What eyes could communicate so much? Vraken pulled at his threadbare coat; the stitches were tested but held, and I knew it was time for me to let him be. I did not desire pain in one already hurt.
And then here came that fool Eros, making a smart stride as if the winds of fortune were at his back. I turned toward him and wanted to anchor that ship. But not now, not after being physically hit by a car and mentally walloped by the pain in those tormented eyes. I was weak.
He also made eye contact, and I saw the hint of a sneer, but there was no fear there. Only a haughty condescension and an arrogant gleam in his eyes. Oh no. Those were my winds, and that was my stride. What foolishness had he put upon my name?
Or was it not foolishness at all? I still had the strength for a vigil.
Post a Comment