A trip down to Summertown

This will serve as the first post of my of my novel. I may continue updating this, though this is the first draft and only roughly edited. Enjoy the intro of Harley the displaced pessimist.

 

Certain music can make you feel more than just emotions. It can make you feel a setting, and can stimulate the brain more than plain words ever could. With the songs mentioned in each chapter, it is highly recommended to listen to them as the characters do.

A jolt is what wakes me from my sleep, calling me to reality, and reeling me away from my imaginative joy. Third night in a row, I realise as I check my phone to see it’s barely scrapped past midnight. I roll back over and lie staring at the ceiling, as I no longer feel capable of sleep, I come to accepting that I will only be functioning on 3 hours sleep tomorrow. No today. Oh well, I believe that the most intriguing thoughts are discovered at this time in the day, where the suburban towns stand still and all the docile families with their cowardly children doze into their dreams. This is the hour where so many teenager’s drunken hopes and dreams have come crashing down with the retching that was following them from when they started drinking their 80 proof or over liquor straight. Even I had had great thoughts at this hour, two nights prior I recall I had rushed out of bed as I found myself discovering a perfect plot idea for my creative task, three seconds a panic had stricken me as I needed to find a pen and write it down in the dark, but as I grasped the pen I found my head lost in the dark, and wishing to finally crawl back into my sleep. I guess that would be the plan for this night, to allow my mind to wander for however long it pleased, to whatever crevice of my conscious it desired, and to eventually have it allow me to sleep. Of course, I have dealt with sleeplessness before, not just during this period of desired consciousness that haunted my mind when it most vulnerable. I had found myself theorising that perhaps I only awoke because my mind did not want to journey deeper into the dreams that held all my fantasies, as even my own brain knew how dangerous they were to the heart and soul. Or maybe I was so unhappy with my miserable existence that my self-loathing had leaked into my subconscious and found escape to be an unlawful exercise. The only cure for these sleepless nights I had found was the grog, booze, liquor. The liquid escape. For now was Wednesday, and I had found that last Thursday sleeplessness had struck at 2am and that was a hell of a Friday. But that Friday night was a simple night spent with simple people, doing simple things, drinking and sex. I was only participating in one of that activities, and to my benefit the fiends were all busy being coital that they took barely any notice into the liquor which was left for my grasp. The Saturday hangover sure hurt, and my throat resembled the ache and smell of a skunk’s asshole, but it sure was the best sleep of my life. Though, of course, at 12am on a Wednesday night, or should I say Thursday morning, liquor was not a viable option, merely a consideration, an applicant for the job. But hey, school’s school, and if I fall asleep in business studies tomorrow it would be a better allocation of my time. So now I must ask myself a simple question. What to think about? What to ponder until all is pondered and the mind can work no more. Could try to list all the poets of the 20th century in order of who had the most poetic death, and we already know that Sylvia Plath would be at the bottom of that list. But why? What’s the point of that? Instead I’ll do what all young men filled with stupid brains and high hopes do, I’ll worry and fantasize and analyse all that has to do with a girl. Well not just any girl, as all high school boys would say, but my best friend. Fuck I hate how cliché my life has become, angsty teen who hates his damn life, family, school, and of course the only close friend I have is also my love interest. Thinking about clichés is certainly not what I want to spend my sleepless nights doing, instead I’ll focus on the non-cliché parts. Such as her being a dysfunctional idiot like me, who turns up to parties just to make sure she doesn’t pull attention to herself by trying not to pull any attention, how she isn’t some prude girl who pines for a guy to love her and instead gets on with her own shit, how she isn’t Hillary Duff, and oh how she’s also my dealer.  The first time we met was when I decided to buy off her, and she decided as a treat to get high with me. It was beautiful start to an abysmal friendship, and the hazed vision of her mellow green eyes covered by smoke still haunt my hollow ribcage. It’s odd how eyes may be so intricate but I can still see an image of hers from two years ago so clearly. But what of Elise to contemplate, the girl I value so much to decide to spend my valuable sleepless ponderings on. Well a basic recap is, I can never make my intentions clear mainly due to a lack of confidence on my behalf, and mainly because of the current status which we hold. Whenever I take a step back to look at my wretched existence, I notice how feeble I truly am, and of course I am only capable of such a process when midnight is struck and this dismal town decides to shut down. With all present in my life (which isn’t much really), it seems as if the only healthy and long-term thing present is Elise, and I guess the average teenage interest into sex isn’t as important as that. So no matter how much she may make my heart swell with a simple smile, it’s not worth it. No matter how much improbable virtues and situational perfection I create in my head, I have to refrain. At least for now. At least for when I sit here staring at my ceiling, wishing for glassy dreams to wash over my distant mind. I decide to just roll over, and hopefully sleep will fill my mind in an alternate position. I feel dozy, and my body is going in and out of function as my limbs fall asleep on me. Except, once in a comfortable position, with the only objective of sleep on my mind, I find my brain tracing back, to her. Always fucking her, honestly I just want to sleep not think about a fucking girl. Why the hell am I like this. A sigh escapes me and I set myself free of comfort to check my phone, this time not for just the hour. I see a couple messages, but brush my eyes over them as I search for what I know is probably there, a message from Elise. And of course, there isn’t. This time I force the sigh, and almost slam my phone back on the counter as I drive my head into my pillow. All I feel at this unholy hour on a Thursday, is a bundle of emotions that could only be classified as “Fuck”, fuck this, fuck you, fuck me, and fuck it. ‘Hope is a wounded bird, that soars through the sky headed for the ground, and faith is the wind that gushes that wounded bird up, delaying its fall.’ Something I remember reading, but not from where, pops into my mind, as if someone had said something and sent my mind into a frenzy. I contemplate the phrase like a disabled child would contemplate a simple math equation, unable to get the point or any aspect of it. But perhaps there is no point. What’s the point? To anything. For every time I bother with anything, especially in the case of my pitiful love life, which the quote seems to obviously be referring to; every time I bother it’s as if my efforts are being pressed down by natural occurrences. And every time my arrogant ass gets rejected in some shape or form, and rejection is the most painful of interactions. Every time my faith gets beaten to a pulp, ruined until wretched in state, but if a chance ever arrives that aspires that fucking hope, that fucking faith, it raises out of the pool of its own blood and gets beaten down again and again, worse than before. It’s all so fucking meaningless, cyclical and unbeatable; even in the long run, nothing truly lasts. What makes these pitiful thoughts even worse is that even now, I know that my stupid fucking ass, that may be making sense sitting all alone, walling in self-pity and lack of faith will just get back up again, have his heart swell and hope become fearless as soon as that fucking girls smiles at me the way she does. The good thing is, that in my state, tired and shrouded by darkness it’s as if all my thoughts are visual, and all my virtues are played by famous actors in my head. Faith by Willam Dafoe and hope by Tom Cruise in his short stature with a gleaming smile ready to take to the sky. But what’s even better than my own private show from professional actors, is that I can see her in all her subjective glory. Her sleek black hair that reaches down to her shoulder blades, coupled with a fringe that cuts off just before her eyebrows, which never fail to drag your eyes to her stormy hazel green eyes, and the matte red lipstick she always wears to pop out from the darkness of her hair and paleness of her skin. In my mind, her face isn’t the only feature present, as her lightly freckled neck connects to her not so broad shoulders and the only sense of femineity accentuated by her petite frame are her hips that cut away from the rest of her slender frame. A sudden realisation hits me, I can barely remember the features of my own mother’s face but I can remember (with distinct detail) Elise’s body frame. Fucking hell, I need to stop staring so much. Before I know it. my mind has cleared, for some reason it becomes empty and sleep finally washes over me. But of course, not for long, I wake up again in the night, and after checking my phone I’m delighted to see it’s barely passed 5.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I whisper, with every word scraping against my throat. Oh, what my life has become, the existence I don’t even like enough during the day is forcing me to remain awake during the night, stealing me from the pleasantry of sleep. Not even sleep to release me from the boring life which I’m trapped in. The mildly depressing home life of a single child with working parents, whose only real interest in their child is materialistic gain and the hope of career success as a business man. Ever since I was 12 I was almost forced into commerce studies, and advanced economics was my tutored subject ever fucking Sunday. But my parents, who both had major roles in a big bank were barely around to see whether the tutoring was even working. But hey I guess it did, I topped economics and came in the top 10 for business studies last year. Real sob story isn’t it? Rich parents don’t pay attention to their son and only give support through bills. Well it wasn’t, for a long time there was a sense of freedom with distant parents which I sure as hell abused. Every weekend would be a sort of bender, and I would turn up to those tutoring classes every Sunday hung over to shit, so eventually my parents were informed and decided to be not so distant. “Bed at 10pm, you’re allowed to go out and do whatever the fuck you want, because we know you’ll do it anyway, only once a fortnight. This next year Harley, it’s important, we need you to do well, and you don’t want to fail yourself.” Now I’m not the type of kid to complain that “Oh my life is so shit now cause I can only go out a quarter of what I used to.” But honestly, the drinking and the smoking was the only shit getting me through this bullshit year of school, I was still functioning, and getting all my work done (somehow). So once I was cut off, well more not allowed to keep up with the rate I once was, I was forced to start thinking about shit. There were no more distractions, my future would pop into my head, and there wouldn’t be a bottle there to push back the answer. And the thing was, pushing back the answer was the only sense of relief I could find. Because the thing about the final year of school is, is you don’t know how its going to turn out, and thinking about your future is a one way lane down to stress. And I am again at a state where emotions and thoughts are visual and stress is played by Brittany Spears, and not any Brittany Spears, but 2007 Brittany spears. But what truly makes my life so dreary, dull and depressing, is I have no idea what I’m fucking doing. I don’t get along with anyone, other than Elise who tolerates my shitty self, but none of her other “friends” do. At times I question whether she just puts up with me, and I know that that’s just anxiety speaking (played by Michael Cera), because Elise has dealt with me after smoking too much and becoming a vegetable as I have with her. But at times it does seem as if the people she states she only deals with because it’s easier are her true friends and I am the one she only deals with. I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life. Like, sure I could go into commerce or some shit but I’m not willing to study my ass of in such a way, maybe I could start a small business, or maybe I should do something literary. The only interest my parents condoned was interest in literature, mainly post-modernist literature filled with varying levels of existentialism. The idea of being an editor, or even a part of a writing firm really sparks my interest. But getting from where I am to there seems almost impossible, and any sort of interest is just that, an interest, not an opportunity. I feel lost in this dismal world, with Elise being my only benefactor and time being the only escape.

But at least now the morning has reached my dome of unpleasant thoughts, and my cluttered mess of my room is finally illuminated, and even now I still wish for sleep, more for the point that a day of rest sounds much more appealing than a day at school. This early in the morning, time seems to be at a stand still. The families that decorate the ditto houses, in their boring lives, waking at 6 on the hour to prepare for their worthless job feeding into some leech of a corporation, only to come home 12 hours from their wake happy to see their own children, day in and day out. But as the sun rises over the layers of replicated houses, there is no commotion from these obnoxiously pathetic habitats, only the waking chirps of birds, and even a dog who begs for attention a few streets over. At 6.30 hits my alarm begins to go off, and I allow “Tubthumping” to play out a little, and as the music rings on I even start mouthing the lyrics. Some songs lift your mood no matter what. I begrudgingly leave the cocoon of my bed, and get ready to waste away my day. I can hear mumbles coming from my parent’s room, who rely solely on my alarm as their own wake up call. I take no notice and file downstairs. Making myself a long-awaited breakfast of simple butter on toast and a glass of milk and juice. But as I take the toast out of the toaster my father who I had not heard come downstairs, takes the plate away from me.

“Harley, come on. Dentists today.”

A sense of reasoning meddles with my instinctive anger that compliments hunger. At least I get out of school.

“Just go to school until second period, get whatever you need to do for homework, and then I’ll pick you up.”

That lingering feeling of instinctive hunger seems to take over the reasoning, as my father then leaves the room, grabbing a bottle of whiskey on the way out. I storm over to my bag, feeling the empty cavern that is my stomach, tearing itself apart begging for sustenance. Slugging my bag over my shoulder, it I make for the door, and hear no responses to the slam of it. Once outside I can feel the sounds I was identifying during the sleepless time overwhelming, as the dog a few streets over is still barking, but is now more audible whilst contesting with the sounds of families starting their days, and parents rolling off in their safety cars to work. At least on the walk to school there are couple of service stations, I’ll probably just pop into one of them, grab a bite to eat and make my way to hell.  The walk is tedious and painstakingly mundane, a 4km walk to school, which isn’t long enough to catch a bus but is long enough to be tiring. Numerous kids that commute to my school also walk the same path I do, which always leads to run ins. A couple times, when I would be walking back from Elise’s (which is the same distance from the school for me but in the opposite direction to me) I’ve run into Tommy Newick, this kid in the lower grade. It was only when I’d go to Elise’s after early leave and smoke, that when walking back he would be leaving school. He would incessantly pester me, as the first time we talked I was so high I allowed him to conversate with me, and to him that must’ve seemed like an invitation to friendship. I can barely remember the topics he talks about, something about how Twinkies never expire, or how the canteen was subtly ripping everyone at the school off. Not to be mean to the pest, but Tommy is quite a round fellow, almost a ball, with him being so short as well. But at least, with me leaving the house early I would not run into any sort of “school pal”. In hindsight, leaving the house early wasn’t the greatest decision. School starts in almost an hour and a half. I stop in the middle of an empty road, and contemplate going back home. Almost as soon as the thought enters my mind my stomach grumbles and I get off the road and start speed walking in the direction of the nearest servo. My dad thought, as I would have my braces removed today, it would just be easier for the dentist if there was no food stuck my teeth or anything to discomfort the dentist, and of course the best way to do that would be to fast. Which made no fucking sense to me, but he would have gone off if I had eaten at home, the fucking worthless drunkard. I made my way down the streets, paying barely attention to the houses that all looked the same. After around 500 metres, I had my sights on a service station, and I crossed the road that was normally busy in the afternoon but was practically empty at this time in the morning. I rushed in, almost tripping on my own feet, and went straight to the coffee station and found some warm baked items. I scoured my gaze through the display of pies and sandwiches, before laying my eyes on a sausage roll. The guy behind the counter has his eyes locking on me, shockingly he’s not exhausted at this hour. I keep my eyes away from his as I walk up to the counter, my focus scrolling through the aisles. I get up to the counter and place the sausage roll down. And then he states, as monotone as possible “Is that all?”

“Yeah.” I mutter, handing him up 5 dollars. The guy must be having a ball, this early in the morning and in a servo. There was nothing about him I could read, so he was either still there from a very early morning shift, or had just gotten in. I normally find reading people to be quite an ease, especially women. You can tell everything about a person that would come up in a starting conversation just by looking at their apparel and face. But this guy, the local servo guy lets call him, he was in a work uniform and had a face comparable to a bar of soap. I felt that by the local servo guy being the exception to my judging skills, it was dire that I found someone else to use my talent on. As I turn out of the streets I scan the area for any soul who’s not in a car. To my luck I find a man jogging with his dog on a leash. Easy game. His dog is a Pitbull something, maybe a terrier, but he looked something fierce, with his muscles moving with each step-in front of the man. Now the man, looking like he was straight outta New York, as if he had lived there his whole life and certainly aged with the city. He had barely any hair, yet tried to make it look like he did, but he still wasn’t fooling anyone. The stringy combover only shortly distracted you from his huge nose and olive skin. He was Italian, no doubt. But his build wasn’t something he was trying to draw your attention away from. He was a big man, not skinny, not muscly and not fat, but somewhat in the middle. His body just reminds me of a rectangle, but I have to stop thinking about shapes and ask the real question. Who is he? Let’s call him… George, now George studied to be an accountant. He did alright in Uni and he certainly fulfilled his goal. His life was alright, until he was 36 and had an early midlife crisis. Now his wife supported him through this, his wife Roberta, but she secretly despised him for it. He decided to quit his job, leave the city and move to the suburbs. Knowing oh so much about economics, George decided to start his own small business after helping with the success of so many others. And it was going alright, at least until his gambling addiction came up. George was heavily in debt, his dog wasn’t even his dog it was a stray, and Roberta, his wife, knew nothing of it yet. I had to keep a smile off my face, and had to turn away from dear George so he would notice my staring, but I felt like I had hit the hammer right on the nail. I started to walk, and tore the wrapper off the sausage roll. The streets didn’t seem so depressing and everything so aggravating once I had some food in my stomach. Once I finished my sausage roll, one of my emotion actors decided to pop by ‘Boredom’, played by Vince Vaughn, and I just stopped walking. What the fuck was I to actually do with my time. The only bright idea I had was going to Elise’s, but she wouldn’t even be up yet. At least if I walked there, I could walk to school with her, and that would be a better place to wait doing nothing anyway. So I started to walk, passing through these streets that were only dull instead of painful with my hunger quenched. It was 6.45, still an hour and a bit till school would fucking start. God I had never wanted to school to start earlier, what was becoming of me. I know I’d have to sit in 2 periods of business before being pulled out as well. God I can’t fucking wait.

I guess I may as well go see Elise, wait outside of her house or something till she leaves. Fucks sake, why’d my dad make me fast?! It makes no sense to me, literally none. Some food in my teeth wasn’t even a major inconvenience to the fucking dentist, Jesus Christ. So, I start walking down the main road, with at least one car passing every minute. Now that my stomach is filled, I feel drowsiness attempt to pass over me, and it wins. I drop my head as I walk, staring down at my feet with eyelids cutting down my vision.

I made a mess of July

The birds chirp over my head, lounging on the branches of the magnolia tree I rest below. My head feels as if it floats with the clouds above the chirping birds, above the beautiful blossoming tree I chose amidst intoxication as my resting place. The moment of clarity, and appreciation of nature comes to a halt as I wish to tilt my head upwards, and feel deep in my cranium a splendorous pain, my souvenir of the night before. I rest my head back down on the ground, filled with scattered blossoms that now decorate my hair. I edge my eyes open and adjust them to the light, withstanding the pain that comes with it, and as I lurch myself up with the will of greyhound, my brain sends me spinning. It is only when I sit with my back leaning on thin wired trunk of the tree do I realise that my glasses are resting on my ears, nor my head. A simple sigh whispers from the inner chasm of my lungs, as I now wiggle my way up the tree, requiring solely on the force through my legs and the stability of its rooted base. I gaze around, my vision obscured due to biological reasons as well as external factors, and after 5-10 minutes of gazing I give up on my search and recline into my prior position. I sit there, completely thoughtless, and with the dull thud of my heartbeat exploding through my head I feel the concept of confusion edging towards my conscious. My mind, blank and pained, has barely any recollection of the night, and as to how I ended up in my current position. I am of course naturally inclined to accepting it, but still intrigued as to how I found myself under the likes of a magnolia tree on the 1st of July. I admire the scenery, the tree is rooted towards the far-left corner of what seems to be a park, large oak trees decorate the sides of all the pathways, which have oriental lamps placed appropriately in their wake, the park has a few joggers passing under its net of leaves, and the lack of any other activity suggests that I have awoken with the sun. The observation is enough for me to consider pulling my phone out of my pocket to try to make sense of the situation. But with the will of a greyhound lacking, I decide against it and rest my head in solace against the trunk again and fall into rest.

“Fucking hell he’s heavy.” I awake to two men on either side of me raising my arms with their own as they attempt heave me into the sky. I let out a disgruntled noise and begin to retract from their grasp, fully alert and vision barely functional.

“Leo fucking calm down.” The voice seems somewhat familiar to me and as I focus on his face I recognize the piercing brown eyes that adorn his fair complexion.

“Oscar. What’s going on.” I mumble, wishing an answer whilst yearning for more rest as my body feels as if it’s decaying by the moment.

“We’re getting you in the car you drunkard.” I hear the voice from my left mutter through the struggle of heaving me through the park.

My brain barely re consolidates the journey to the car, the next thing I know the car is winding its way through the streets of eastern Sydney. I doze off in the backseat, my body resisting to be woken, resisting the tempting bumps into consciousness. Before I know it the two friendly shapes are heaving me out of the car, and now into an apartment door. As they bring me towards the stairs I tear my left hand off the other man, and reach out for the railing. I of course misjudge the distance and throw my weight a good three inches too early and fall dramatically. The two men must lunge down to prevent me from knocking my own chin on the bottom steps and then proceed with the grueling task of dragging me up the stairs. One by one we make it up the flights and to what I assume is Oscar’s place, where I guess they will wish for me to sleep, a concept I quite dearly encourage. The hour as to when I stopped drinking is a question I would like to know, as I may be hung over but I am still indeed drunk.

“Get up.” The serenity of blank darkness is what I awake to, except it seems to be the back of my eyelids. The newness of the world is revealed to me as I decide upon opening my eyes, and it takes me more than a couple moments to realize exactly where I am. I awake to the man named Oscar hunched over my body, refraining from shaking me awake but on the verge of doing so. It seems to be his apartment that he allowed me to pass out in. His apartment is adorned with wicker furniture and many absurdist paintings littered on the walls, his living area seems somewhat of a conference zone as it all surrounds the low Japanese dining table in the middle, which lines perfectly with the flat screen mounted on the wall. My resting position has the perfect view of the whole apartment, as the bed couch is located in the far left corner of the place, next to the bedroom entrance doorway and a vase filled with fake bamboo. Oscars furniture says a lot about his lifestyle, almost more than his posture, voice and appearance. His distinctly gay features are only portrayed through his private life and the men he always keeps company. But hell, who cares about that, he’s a great pianist and PR work comes effortlessly naturally to him.

She has no tick

She has no tick. No nervous tick. She stands there, above the crowd, speaking as if they were not there. Her head gazing in between the audience, avoiding their eyes but making them feel watched. Everyone has a nervous tick, but with her, I cannot find one. She stands high, head standing straight and her hands comfortably hold each other, crossed over her stomach. Maybe behind her eyes, her mind is rushing to and fro, ticking back in nervous convulsions. But to my eye, there is no fear. I wish to catch her, to perhaps break this focus that is so contempt. It seems as if all eyes are fixated on her in the same fashion as my own, a certain whisper of the room sets everyone on edge. But as she’s finished, her so well educated speech, time seems to have stopped, flown in fact, so quickly that we all must shake off the certain trance we have fallen into. She leaves her stage, and all our eyes that shined so wholly like a spotlight on a dancer seemed to wither off. But my eyes never leave their gaze, following her so fervently through the room. My focus now leaves the subject of her eyes, and instead grace her sun-dried pink lips, her neck so softly carved and her free flowing sunflower blonde hair. My mind begins to endow her with improbable virtues and imaginary sentiments, blissfully gracing my imagination and banging down the door to my heart. There is now another, up there on the stage, stealing the attention that was sufficed for her. The rest of the room has seemed to erase the enchanting act that had graced us all, but not me. My eyes have not wavered from her body, from her subject, and my ears have gone silent as they buzz with an oddly eerie screech. Everything to my right seems to fade away from existence, as if carved away. And only as my fingers start to begin incessantly tingling do I realize the calamity of the situation. The incessant tingling seems to spread through the tip of my finger down to the base and to yet another finger. I stand up, shooting up in fact and stealing the spotlight of everybody’s eyes, and I walk out. I walk as fast as I can, I reach for my phone and feel the tingling turn into a sharp jolt. Forcing myself through such discomfort I type away. Except I cannot spell, nor speak and the tingling has moved from my hands to my legs. My thigh unexpectedly cramps and I find myself up against a wall in agony. The incessant tingling that so haunts my conscious spreads from my limbs to now my face, moving through my mouth and forcing me to avoid swallowing. As time flows on I sit, with my leg stretched out and hand elevated away from any touch. There I wait, allowing this ceaseless annoyance of pain to swarm over my body, restricting all my functions.

The Overpass

The overpass.

An ambient shade of orange illuminates the alley I rest in. I lie there shivering in the cold, as my resting place is the only section that isn’t covered in a blanket of snow. My eyes roll back as I shake into reality, slugging my back up the wall. I slide my hand down to my arm, removing the cold metal pinching at my skin, a violent headache shakes my head as I now feel my ears picking up on footsteps and the grunting of lowered speech. I press my hands to the wall, attempted to stand, and after my third attempt of exerting pressure through my legs, they finally work. I still lean against the wall, stumbling forth and edging my way to the clearing of the alley. My eyes only flicker open for seconds, staying closed for most of the journey allowing my perception to slowly become clear. By the time I can keep my eyes open, I’m already out of the alley. Except I can’t stand, and the lack of the wall leads to me tripping forward and falling onto a car. Offffffttttmy body releases a sound as I hit the cars’ front window. I hear the sound of footsteps increasing, sending rattles through my skin. I look around, spinning, to try to locate where the sound is coming from, and before I know it I’m being pinned against the car. A man, dark of skin, tall, a face clean shaven and weak of features, has his elbow against my collar pressing me into the car. Behind him trails a girl, the girl is what stops my eyes from wandering out of their sockets. Wearing heels she is still not above the height of the man, her brown hair stops at her shoulders but gently brushes against her collarbones which are exposed by her low cut strapless dress. I know what she is. The man looks into my eyes, and I can tell he’s analysing me. After a few seconds, he looks down towards my arm and immediately smirks. I don’t pay much attention to it all, my eyes captivated by the woman standing close behind him. I notice him reach into his jacket, and now my eyes shift back to him. He pulls out a vial and places it in my hand, his smile still present and whispers into my ear to take her to the end of the line, and set her out into the night and the dark northern cold. He then removes his forearm from my collar, and steps away and continues to step away until his out of sight, and all my white and red eyes can look at is the girl in front of me. She blankly stares at me before beginning to walk, not looking back to see whether I follow. So we walk. For hundreds of metres we walk in the cold. I can feel the underlying emotion within the woman, the cold itching into her skin and scratching her emotions to the surface, easy for us all to read in the frozen breeze. She shakes, but I don’t have a coat, and I know that this journey will take up the whole night. And we don’t have a car, so this trip may as well be her death sentence. The houses seem to fly by, majority of so boarded up, blocking out all hope of sound. The only noise being a subtle hum escaping the streetlights above us. A noise so quiet yet to violently loud. I seem to be tagging along behind her at this point, and notice a streak of dye in her hair, a vibrant red line in the mellow mahogany, a lightning bolt against a door. Her and I never speak, but she has that visible breathing. I find my eyes, wanderers as they are, resting too comfortably on her figure. After dozens of almost replicated boarded houses, we reach a battered and long deceased mansion could have almost been basking a beam of pure gold. The complex is fenced off, with boxed buxus lining the fence. The girl stops at the gate, the mansion resting in our wake illuminated from the inside by lighting so fierce the shadows of movement send vibrant lights to shake my eyes. The girl seems entranced by the building, her eyes slowing gazing over the structure. We stand there for minutes on end, the woman admiring the mansion with the sounds of heavy music protruding, and I admiring her. But when the shadows no longer dance spots of pain across my visions and instead temporarily blind me, my heart rushes and I start towards her hand. Her freezing fingers attempt release from my grip but I lurch her towards me and begin to run with her dragging by my side. Her heels click along the pavement, and I can hear the music from the mansion fading away into the nightlife. After we’ve run past many more mansions like theone before I release her hand from my grip. That is when I see her hands have turned blue, and then I can tell they’ve gone numb and she stops to look up at me, her eyes a startling blue. I reach out my hand to her, mine still filled with colour and warmth. There we stand, simply looking in each others eyes. She lets go and begins to walk straight, and only after she’s left do my eyes allow my mind to describe the sight.  We have reached the line. Dozens of cars line the road, hollow and broken down and the girl is walking out, but above her cars rumble, and around her shrouds darkness. The only light is that of the cars headlights that creep through the cracks of the road above. After minutes pass I can no longer see her figure, as now she has been consumed by the overpass. I look down to the vial in my hand and back at the consuming pit. But am I not at fault? This is the arrangement and what I’ve been sold.

My first short story

Lights flash before my eyes, as I walk through the not so spacious hallway. With no regrets weighing my shoulders down, I stride in chest high and jaw clenched. Greeted by numerous acquaintances, a couple of “friends”, my somewhat ex, my little too close friend, and introduced to the people I have never seen before and hope to never again. I seek refuge in the two people at this gathering event that is called a party, that I know rather well. One of which, is completely beautiful but a little too narcissistic, and the other is her friend. Oh I wish for such nights where I have no need to seek refuge within the people who do not know me in the dark, but those who wish to seek out the dark with me. The night proves uneventful, uninteresting, wearing my patience and capability of normality thin. With the ear thumping rhymes vibrating in the air, and girls with daddy issues grinding, my eyes catch a glimpse of beauty through the shoddy field. The smoke from the dance floor cannot block my view from such a sight. A girl, with her two insignificant friends, dancing in time to the songs she wishes not to know. My night, proving still uneventful but my patience is enduring, as I lock eyes with this sight, her wistful brown eyes staring into my own blackened grey, I feel the butterflies rise and fall in my chest, the smoke and bodies cannot prevent this connection of eyes and heart. I move with the beat, up the stairs in a ¾ motion, sliding my way through the dancers, I wish to provide a better look, for her and I. Her dance becomes more of a shuffle, her moving away from her friends, my chance to pounce and drug her becomes more clear. Love is but a drug. Our eyes still locked in one another’s, I decide to examine her beauty. Her mahogany brown hair lusciously cascading over her shoulders and down to cover her breasts, wearing a white tank top, with only her bra straps covering her shoulders, her beige skirt cutting off at her knees. She smiles at me and I feel my heart begin to thud, to the beat of the music but louder. In that one single moment, I feel everything drop away, the music, the assholes and daddy issue girls around us, and I look directly into her eyes, as she leans in and kisses me. That one single moment, felt like enough to last a life time, a sweet relief, a distinct distraction, but as I feel her hand move from the small of my back, and into her skirt, I think things are getting too out of hand. Maybe she’s drugged, or out of It I think to myself, but when her hand returns to my neck this time icy cold like metal, I question my actions within the moment. Then it happens, I hear a click, as the chamber behind my neck is released, my throat becoming hollow and her head becoming see through. The gun in her hand drops, but she drops into me as I slowly lower to the ground, choking on my own blood.