A morning dull and dreary
I was one of those dreary February mornings you detest waking up to. Whilst the bone chilling winds whines against the house walls, looking for an Achilles heel, a slight crack in the concrete to sneak in through. It thunders down the chimney and transform the fireplace into an ash spewing, growling monster in the dark. As Ville's eyes fluttered open that morning, he couldn't bring himself to leave the comfy kingsize.
What's the point anyway? He thought, drunk on his shadows. Why should I ever bother to keep going? Past thirty years of age, pathetic and alone. And sober. He added, bitterness caressing his soft features. The rocker shifted, snuggled into his warm, somewhat suspicious smelling sheets. For a second or two, a pallid streak of skin were visible, it's contrast to the once vinyl black sheets were striking. Ville sighed. How long on the water wagon now? Five years, seven? Nothing mattered anyway now, his memories were blurred long ago anyway. With various bleaches…
After he fell asleep during a five minute break from band practice yesterday, Mige had literally commanded his friend to take the next day off. 'Write some lyrics, take care of that burn you've got there, and for god's sake,' he'd added, concern in his eyes. 'get some sleep. You look like you've been to hell and back.'
Ville spread his fingers testingly, and felt the sting in the sensitive skin in between his middle and index finger. The burn from his forgotten cig yesterday. When he got home late last evening, he'd neglected it completely, chewed a few aspirins and gone to sleep. Mige hated it when he overdosed his painkillers, but screw him. He was then lacking about three nights of proper sleep, so, thanks to the aspirins, he'd fallen asleep almost immediately. Articles of discarded clothing laid scattered about on the floor where he'd left it on his way from the bathroom to the bed.
Considering the lyrics part…He reached over to the nightstand and rummaged around till he found a wrinkled pack of Marlboro Reds(Yeah, I checked that). Giving it a slight shook, he enclosed his slightly perched lips around the brown paper filter. A Jackass lighter he'd stolen from Bam last summer flickered to light in his hand, and he lit the cigarette. He hadn't written anything in months. Their manager was pissed, the band members concerned. Ville was always writing, never had a writer's block been as bad as this. He couldn't help it. He really couldn't. By now, he'd tried about everything; listening to his favorite CD's, long walks and reading Poe. No results, whatsoever. There was just this feeling, he'd told himself. Like my inside is just one giant void. An idea fluttered through his mind. He had one option left: Call a friend. Kat? Nah, wrong person… Linde or Mige perhaps.. No, he had to get to the very root his miserable state. He sat up, grabbing his jet black phone with a gazillion functions he had no idea of, and pressed the glowing contacts button. He then proceeded to select the very first name on the list.
Bam
I'm soo sorry, but I have to do this! Even though I've started writing the next chappie already!
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