Dread for Morning

Head swimming, Randolph braved the hallway once again.  His long legs trapsed along, dodging one questionable puddle, stepping over this sleeping vagrant.  The communal bathroom was far from welcoming but at least it was vacant this time.  He wouldn't have to lean against the rail listening to the cat calls and come-on's echoing up from the dirty street below.

With a misstep on the way in, he had to catch himself on the grimy sink.  He growled at himself, coughed roughly, and kicked the door shot, nearly rocking it off its hinges.  Two tired hands with too many scars ran up over his face and across the stubble on his head.  The face in the mirror offered no love for his gazing, no answers to the questions in his addled mind.

Perhaps not answers, but a few thoughts did occur to him.  No more drinking with Eric.  Pills from the guy on the corner are a bad idea.  "What are you lookin' at?" was probably a rhetorical question.  And perhaps most importantly, the White Lady was expecting three grand by Friday.  There was no 'or else'.

"Sleep.  I just need sleep.  Just four hours, and I'm right as rain," he told the face in the mirror, not that it showed any signs of believing him.  After five minutes or so of sneering at himself, Randolph concluded his business and retreated to the hole he called a room, spent for the day, done for the night, with dread for the morning.

The End

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