Sunday, January 25, 2009

Nor Forsake You.

Still nothing much to say. Want to read a short story I wrote for my English class? You do? Ok, you asked for it.
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I met him on the stairs. That's where he is pretty much everyday. On some days I get lucky and I can go up the stairs to my apartment without him bothering me, but today wasn't one of those days. As I expected he stopped me, “Hey! Hold on a sec, buddy.”

I stopped next to him and glared down at him angrily. I looked at his dirty face with his scraggly gray beard, his clothes full of holes and his unkempt hair. He looked like your stereotypical homeless old bum. “What do you want now, needle prick?” I said to him.

“Can ya spare some change for an old drunk?” he said at me, his voice like a rusty iron door being forced open clumsily.

“Every damn day you ask me that and every day I tell you no.” I sneered at him, “The only way I'd give you any money is if you used it to buy a knife to cut your throat.”

“That don't sound like a bad idea.” he replied, “So how about it?”

I ignored him and continued up the stairs. He was an annoyance but really, he's not such a bad guy. After all, he's honest enough to admit that he just wants money for booze. I suppose the real reason I treat him like crap is I'm afraid I'll end up like him soon. Ever since the ban on non-state approved reporting was put in place, my career as editor of the local paper came to an end. With the economy in the state it was, I couldn't even find a job at a fast food place. Right now, my only source of income was allowing myself to be subjected to the weird experiments of that crazy doctor. 50 dollars a day, it was barely enough to make my rent at the end of the month.

As I got to my apartment I noticed that the paint bucket that was tipped against my neighbor's door was still there. I saw it when I left earlier but it only now dawned on me that if he opened the door, the bucket would fall over and the paint would stain his shoes and carpet. I'm not sure why I didn't notice something that simple this morning, goddamn pills. It must have been put there by the four kids of that ugly whore that lives one floor up. I remember when those little brats got a hold of a big, long knife and duct tapped it across my door frame. I almost walked into it and cut my face and saw those kids hiding around the corner and running away as I ducked around it and took it down.

I suppose I could have moved that bucket and spared him the clean up, but honestly I didn't care much for him either. Worthless hermit. I unlocked my door and walked in. My lovely little dump. A stained couch that folded out into a bed, a television that hasn't worked for ages, garbage all over the floor and a carpet that's in desperate need of vacuuming. I used to keep it in decent shape, but ever since I started letting that lunatic use me as a guinea pig I just don't see the point.

Screw the mess, I just wanted to eat. My stomach was kicking inside me asking for food. I wanted to pick up the phone and order some pizza or maybe Chinese food, but I couldn't. As part of this latest fun ride the doc had me on, I could only eat yogurt. Then after I'd eaten it I would have to take one of those pills. He had given me two bottles. The one with the sun on it were to be taken in the morning with breakfast and the one with the moon on it were to be taken at night with dinner. No lunch. The former made me depressed and distracted and the latter just knocked me out. He even drew the sun and moon on the bottles with smiley faces, like a little kid. Well, at least he gave me yogurt for free.

I went through my usual end of the day routine, I pulled the bed out of the couch and stripped down to my boxers. Then I ate a cup of strawberry yogurt and took my pill. I was out before my head even hit the pillow and didn't dream. I haven't dreamed since I was a kid.

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