Blacktar Trumps The Guitar: Part I

The ordinaries were out and about-- drudging away at their ordinary jobs, drinking ordinary coffee, dreaming of cheating on their ordinary spouses with other ordinary people's ordinary spouses, dreading the commute home to face their ordinary family in their ordinary houses and dying to know when their lucky break might come and deliver them from the rat-race. Ethan watched them rush up and down the bustling streets of the inner-city through a crack in his boarded-up apartment window. Light broke through the slit in a pronounced shaft and shot towards the timber floorboards, highlighting millions of microscopic dust particles dancing in the air. There was nary a thing in the room save a few soiled pillows lined up side-by-side as a sort of a makeshift mattress on the gritty floor.

The physical separation between Ethan and the ordinaries could only whisper the true alienation felt in his heart and in his tired bones. Once, he was one of them. Not a corporate slave by any means, but a functioning member of society at least. And how quickly that did corrode, leaving a man with hopeful prospects nothing more than a vile abomination.

He was stooping down, leaning on the fragile windowsill, to peer through the murky window. And when he stood upright again his entire body screamed at him. His head was spinning, his saliva was dry and there was a terrible ache in his knees. Ordinarily, around this time of day when life was brighter, he would have scraped together some brunch for himself. But things had changed dramatically. Regardless, and in some kind of pathetic attempt to retain the dregs of his foregone normality, Ethan dragged his sorry frame into the next room; wherein a mouldy fridge sat in the corner beside a waist-high stack of moving boxes practicing as a kitchen counter.

Ethan almost laughed at the way his empty fridge reminded him of such exaggerated images in films and television. And in this way his life was a very exaggerated affair, but in every way the wrong direction.

Half a cold loaf of bread sat on the lowest shelf, among little else other than petrified cockroaches and the thoughtlessly abandoned wings of resident flies. Taking out a slice and inspecting it, gasping at shallow, intermittent breaths as though every muscle movement were an immense and taxing expenditure of energy, Ethan located two sections of creeping green mould on diagonal corners of the frosty bread. His stomach warned him not to catch scent of the wholly unappetising square in his hand that relinquished all molecular integrity beneath his fingertips, but it was too late. Just the thought of eating created waves of disruption in his stomach fluids, waves that crashed against the walls of his failing organ and made sure he knew that they planned to see the light of day in the very near future.

Very near future. An ungodly stream of bile tore from his guts and found a new home all over the cardboard boxes, trickling down slowly to the floor below in several gloopy strands. Dropping the slice of bread, Ethan doubled over and watched on helplessly as though from a spectator's perspective as his body rejected the little content inside of it with the violent energy of a child protesting soggy broccoli. This was life now, he thought to himself in the moments before he passed out with his hair mopping up the sludge in the absence of his consciousness.

                                                              [To Be Continued]

The End

0 comments about this story Feed