Story so far......
Well here is the beginning of the story that after being in my head for the past year or so, it has begun to find the light of day. I would like any enlightment, as I haven't written for sometime. I hope you enjoy..........
How could this be?
What had happened?
Why me?
What time is it?
He glanced down, to only be informed that it was 12:46am. For some reason this seemed to make him worse. Stopping, he looked up and calculated, within the last 45 minutes, his heart had been ripped out from its cage, told it was all a dream, that at one point you had to wake and choose. Then some shit about hope and that they could stay friends.
"Bitch!" He moaned, as a single tear, (the only one he'd give her) slid from his face.
Forcing hands into the pockets of his well worn jacket, he looked back ahead and continued the long walk back to his apartment.
As was a given with a Friday night, the evening had gone into overdrive. Cars racing by, racing each other. Groups of youths, of mixed genders, to the usual single sets, all becoming drawn to every bright flashing sign, each neon sign promising Drinks and Women, Women and Drinks, Free drinks with each Woman or Free Woman with each Drink.
Men yelling in drunken desires, arms wrapped around each other, forming what could only be a wall of flesh and bone, pint glasses in tow. Women, pictured as the calmer more responcable of the sexes, putting all the men to shame. With all the party nights, they can hold their own when compaired to the male speices, and at times put most men in their place. All dressed up to dress down, hair teased, lips coated, skirts hiked and cleavage exposed.
These groups all found their homes upon the night streets. From cement to bar stools, from stools to dance floors, from floors to stools, back to cement. And so on, repeated over and over, till either the wallets were emptied or the Sun washed them away.
Upon any other night Daniel would've been nicely mixed into the many groups, drinking, joking, drinking, dancing, drinking, playing, drinking, fucking. Not tonight. He kept his eyes low, only once or twice lifting to make sure he was walking the right way. Not that he didn't want to join in the celabrations, or that he might bump into someone he knew, and not because he wasn't in the mood. Just that at that point he wished everyone would just drop dead and suffer in pain and misery, if he was depressed, what right did that give others to be happy and joyful.
"Fuckin' Bitch!!!" He muttered, as a couple, arm in arm, brushed past him, all over each other the lady with a clove cigarette in hand giggling, as the guy smiling, was gropping her from behind.
Taking his last left he walked the path which lead to his room, his bed. Leaving the night life behind he pressed on, trugging up a set of cracked stone steps, he push a door open and entered the lobby of the apartment block.
Thankfully, the lobby matched his current mood. Dull and miserable. The small interior was not in the least warm and welcoming, as for first impressions it looked like it had been disigned like some Last Chance Motel. For as long as anyone felt discarded and banished, this was here to prove it could only get worse, with no light to reach for. From the chairs which all suffered from a bad case of woodworm, to the wooden floor, that at one point had been protected by a carpet, but now lay all exposed and stained, as a corpse might be left to decay and rot, every board moaned and cried under the preasure from a single footstep, so that at times it would sound as if some new form of sound torture had been let lose. The adjacent walls didn't fair much better, over the passing years it had been, by the many landlords, either repainted or freshly wallpapered in a pointless attempt to give off a family friendly tone, but, as was also the case, each Landlord had either out right given up and let time feast upon them, or, and this being the most frequent decision, the LandLord would out right quit and happily leave the hell hole for the next sucker who came along.
Over the passing years, the apartments had attracted a mixture of both the outwouldly down trodden and self cursed shells, Daniel had always wondered which of the two groups he belonged to, only recently had he decided that he would split the groups into a monthly membership.
Letting the door swing shut behind him, he was happy to be spending this month a member to the outwouldly down trodden band, he slowly made his way towards the front desk.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his mobile phone, glancing at the screen, it showed that the battery had died and it was no longer in service, no surprise, he rarely used it, so to keep the battery charged seemed a waste of time. He continued towards the clerk thankfull that at least this place had a message service, due to the lack of telephones within the building itself. Nothing has cheap rates without a reason or three.
"Evening. Any messages for room 135?" Daniel asked as politly as he could.
The clerk lowered the Evening Post that he'd been thumbing through, stared up at the person who'd interupted his reading of Garfield, and addressed him in acordence.
"Huh?"
"I was wondering if there were any messages for room 135, that's all." Daniel repeated.
At that the clerk slowly rose from his stool and lazily flicked through some tattered note pad.
"What's the number?" He asked, still flicking from the torn pages.
"135!" Daniel reinformed, he wondered what kind of Kindergarden teacher had let him get beyond 2nd grade.
"Nope, no messages left for that room." With the question answered the clerk sat back down and returned to the many adventures of an over-wieght cat.
Daniel remained at the desk, just staring down at the clerk. An image of some sharpe object insert into both eyes and flesh being burnt off flashed in his mind, causing a slight smile to form.
Turning back he headed for the stairs, taking the upward journey he was careful not to wake Old Bill, the local drunk who'd been here for as long as Daniel could remember. Bill stirred knocking a brown paper bag over and causing an empty glass bottle to roll and bonce down the steps until landing saftly upon the wooden floor boards, Daniel watched the rolling bottle as it fell, if ever he needed to know what day it was all he'd have to do would be to look upon Bill's many empty bottle's. Monday's was Whisky, Tuesday it was Tequila, Wedensday's Rum, Thursday was beer can day, Friday's were Vodka, and for the weekend it was Wine, as the store across the street always ran a two for one deal most weekends. Daniel glanced at the bottle's label. Vodka. It was Friday. He treaded carefully beyond Old Bill and continued the rise towards his room.
How could this be?
What had happened?
Why me?
What time is it?
He glanced down, to only be informed that it was 12:46am. For some reason this seemed to make him worse. Stopping, he looked up and calculated, within the last 45 minutes, his heart had been ripped out from its cage, told it was all a dream, that at one point you had to wake and choose. Then some shit about hope and that they could stay friends.
"Bitch!" He moaned, as a single tear, (the only one he'd give her) slid from his face.
Forcing hands into the pockets of his well worn jacket, he looked back ahead and continued the long walk back to his apartment.
As was a given with a Friday night, the evening had gone into overdrive. Cars racing by, racing each other. Groups of youths, of mixed genders, to the usual single sets, all becoming drawn to every bright flashing sign, each neon sign promising Drinks and Women, Women and Drinks, Free drinks with each Woman or Free Woman with each Drink.
Men yelling in drunken desires, arms wrapped around each other, forming what could only be a wall of flesh and bone, pint glasses in tow. Women, pictured as the calmer more responcable of the sexes, putting all the men to shame. With all the party nights, they can hold their own when compaired to the male speices, and at times put most men in their place. All dressed up to dress down, hair teased, lips coated, skirts hiked and cleavage exposed.
These groups all found their homes upon the night streets. From cement to bar stools, from stools to dance floors, from floors to stools, back to cement. And so on, repeated over and over, till either the wallets were emptied or the Sun washed them away.
Upon any other night Daniel would've been nicely mixed into the many groups, drinking, joking, drinking, dancing, drinking, playing, drinking, fucking. Not tonight. He kept his eyes low, only once or twice lifting to make sure he was walking the right way. Not that he didn't want to join in the celabrations, or that he might bump into someone he knew, and not because he wasn't in the mood. Just that at that point he wished everyone would just drop dead and suffer in pain and misery, if he was depressed, what right did that give others to be happy and joyful.
"Fuckin' Bitch!!!" He muttered, as a couple, arm in arm, brushed past him, all over each other the lady with a clove cigarette in hand giggling, as the guy smiling, was gropping her from behind.
Taking his last left he walked the path which lead to his room, his bed. Leaving the night life behind he pressed on, trugging up a set of cracked stone steps, he push a door open and entered the lobby of the apartment block.
Thankfully, the lobby matched his current mood. Dull and miserable. The small interior was not in the least warm and welcoming, as for first impressions it looked like it had been disigned like some Last Chance Motel. For as long as anyone felt discarded and banished, this was here to prove it could only get worse, with no light to reach for. From the chairs which all suffered from a bad case of woodworm, to the wooden floor, that at one point had been protected by a carpet, but now lay all exposed and stained, as a corpse might be left to decay and rot, every board moaned and cried under the preasure from a single footstep, so that at times it would sound as if some new form of sound torture had been let lose. The adjacent walls didn't fair much better, over the passing years it had been, by the many landlords, either repainted or freshly wallpapered in a pointless attempt to give off a family friendly tone, but, as was also the case, each Landlord had either out right given up and let time feast upon them, or, and this being the most frequent decision, the LandLord would out right quit and happily leave the hell hole for the next sucker who came along.
Over the passing years, the apartments had attracted a mixture of both the outwouldly down trodden and self cursed shells, Daniel had always wondered which of the two groups he belonged to, only recently had he decided that he would split the groups into a monthly membership.
Letting the door swing shut behind him, he was happy to be spending this month a member to the outwouldly down trodden band, he slowly made his way towards the front desk.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his mobile phone, glancing at the screen, it showed that the battery had died and it was no longer in service, no surprise, he rarely used it, so to keep the battery charged seemed a waste of time. He continued towards the clerk thankfull that at least this place had a message service, due to the lack of telephones within the building itself. Nothing has cheap rates without a reason or three.
"Evening. Any messages for room 135?" Daniel asked as politly as he could.
The clerk lowered the Evening Post that he'd been thumbing through, stared up at the person who'd interupted his reading of Garfield, and addressed him in acordence.
"Huh?"
"I was wondering if there were any messages for room 135, that's all." Daniel repeated.
At that the clerk slowly rose from his stool and lazily flicked through some tattered note pad.
"What's the number?" He asked, still flicking from the torn pages.
"135!" Daniel reinformed, he wondered what kind of Kindergarden teacher had let him get beyond 2nd grade.
"Nope, no messages left for that room." With the question answered the clerk sat back down and returned to the many adventures of an over-wieght cat.
Daniel remained at the desk, just staring down at the clerk. An image of some sharpe object insert into both eyes and flesh being burnt off flashed in his mind, causing a slight smile to form.
Turning back he headed for the stairs, taking the upward journey he was careful not to wake Old Bill, the local drunk who'd been here for as long as Daniel could remember. Bill stirred knocking a brown paper bag over and causing an empty glass bottle to roll and bonce down the steps until landing saftly upon the wooden floor boards, Daniel watched the rolling bottle as it fell, if ever he needed to know what day it was all he'd have to do would be to look upon Bill's many empty bottle's. Monday's was Whisky, Tuesday it was Tequila, Wedensday's Rum, Thursday was beer can day, Friday's were Vodka, and for the weekend it was Wine, as the store across the street always ran a two for one deal most weekends. Daniel glanced at the bottle's label. Vodka. It was Friday. He treaded carefully beyond Old Bill and continued the rise towards his room.