Untitled
Title: Waking Up is the Hardest Part
Word Count: 412
The advantage of spending two years dreaming about the end of the mankind was that the day it actually happened, he wasn't at all surprised. He opened his eyes to the water-stained grey ceiling tiles and realized it was the last morning he would wake in this room. It was the last time he would haul his ratty, faded bunny slippers out from beneath the bed, though he'd made certain to leave a space in his suitcase for them. It was the last time he would have to fiddle with the knobs in the shower to get the hot water to work, the last time he would have to thump the air conditioner just so to make sure he wouldn't broil in his matchbox apartment. And when he heard his comically stereotypical landlord screaming at the kids playing in the overgrown empty lot next door, he knew that today was the last day the fat bastard would stumble in a drunken haze to the gas station to buy greasy, stale burritos for dinner, because in the process of paying with his crumpled, stained bills, the acne-ridden teenager that worked the full-service pump would decide to make dinner out of the landlord.
He felt it was almost cliche, really, but at the same time, oddly fitting.
His scattered knowledge of how the day would pan out spun in his head as he dragged his suitcase and duffel bags down to the small car he'd bought with what should have been next month's rent. It had seen better days, but in his dream the car was the right choice. He trusted it, because he had no other choice. And, because he hadn't had the money to afford the convertible.
The air in the car was stifling, the steering wheel hot under his hands. The metal buckle of his seatbelt seared his hand when he grabbed it. He hadn't driven since college, since the days when he had money, and talent, and possesions - all things that were squandered and sold so that he could find ways to turn the dreams off. It had worked, for a while, but two years ago the money ran out and here he was. Sitting in a car that reeked of beer, sweat, and just the faintest tinge of vomit, staring up at his shitbox apartment, realizing that as much as he hated everything and everyone in his life, he was oddly terrified of losing it.
Word Count: 412
The advantage of spending two years dreaming about the end of the mankind was that the day it actually happened, he wasn't at all surprised. He opened his eyes to the water-stained grey ceiling tiles and realized it was the last morning he would wake in this room. It was the last time he would haul his ratty, faded bunny slippers out from beneath the bed, though he'd made certain to leave a space in his suitcase for them. It was the last time he would have to fiddle with the knobs in the shower to get the hot water to work, the last time he would have to thump the air conditioner just so to make sure he wouldn't broil in his matchbox apartment. And when he heard his comically stereotypical landlord screaming at the kids playing in the overgrown empty lot next door, he knew that today was the last day the fat bastard would stumble in a drunken haze to the gas station to buy greasy, stale burritos for dinner, because in the process of paying with his crumpled, stained bills, the acne-ridden teenager that worked the full-service pump would decide to make dinner out of the landlord.
He felt it was almost cliche, really, but at the same time, oddly fitting.
His scattered knowledge of how the day would pan out spun in his head as he dragged his suitcase and duffel bags down to the small car he'd bought with what should have been next month's rent. It had seen better days, but in his dream the car was the right choice. He trusted it, because he had no other choice. And, because he hadn't had the money to afford the convertible.
The air in the car was stifling, the steering wheel hot under his hands. The metal buckle of his seatbelt seared his hand when he grabbed it. He hadn't driven since college, since the days when he had money, and talent, and possesions - all things that were squandered and sold so that he could find ways to turn the dreams off. It had worked, for a while, but two years ago the money ran out and here he was. Sitting in a car that reeked of beer, sweat, and just the faintest tinge of vomit, staring up at his shitbox apartment, realizing that as much as he hated everything and everyone in his life, he was oddly terrified of losing it.