I had some desperate thought that maybe, just maybe, if I got
outside, if I felt the cool, dirty breath of city at dawn, I might somehow
be cured. I might somehow stop feeling so nauseous, so confused, so lost.
It was some vain effort of my mind, fevered as it was, not yet able to give
up on false hope in miracles. I managed to keep the protrusion hidden
beneath an old baseball cap, with edges worn and peeling. I hadn't worn it
since the last time I'd been to a baseball game. One of the last times I
did something other than just try to survive.
The door stood between me and the real world. Everyone's faced with something like this at least once. They see the door, but they don't see the knob. They don't see a way out. All they see is something in their way, some obstacle they have to overcome. And everyone is tempted at least once to just turn back. Try again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. But the air in my apartment was stuffy, and smelled of sweat and panic. One more moment in there and I think I would have suffocated. And of all the ways I thought I would die, that was one I would not accept. Dead and deformed, lying like a useless lump of flesh on the hard wood floor of my living room.
So I pushed myself outside, or the outside pulled me into it. The sun stabbed and slashed at me, the wind splayed the skin of sweat I clung to and tore it savagely from my body, leaving me uncovered in a world I didn't own, in a world I didn't control. My hand went almost instinctively to my hat and I tugged on the brim slightly, letting the shadow hide my eyes from the sun's knives. Taking in a breath of air that froze my lungs and scratched my throat, I walked stiffly forward, my legs sore from the night before, my hand on my hat.
As shady as I must have looked, I blended right in. Even in the daytime, there are those that flicker through the crowd like weak flames, trying to cover, to smother themselves. The world is too much for them, and they huddle in the quasi-security of their possessions. Everyone does it. The more you own, the more successful you are. I think my dad told me that once. And not only that, I thought, you can make a better shield.
My head didn't hurt anymore, but only throbbed, mainly because of my own shame. I had an all-consuming fear that the thing would explode forward, larger than ever and all eyes would suddenly be on me. I would shrink from their sight, flee into an alley and never return to the accusing eyes of the daylight. I swallowed and I felt the scratchiness of my throat, the emptiness of my stomach. I don't know how long it had been since I last ate. And I must have sweated enough to drown myself. Even the hidden have needs.
It was about half a block to where I usually ate. Not because the food was particularly good, but mainly because it was close. It was early, but it would be open. It always seemed to be open whenever I saw it. I guess that's something comforting about it. Something stable, at least. So early in the day, the city was only starting its climb to peak. Traffic was already becoming heavy, on the streets and on the sidewalks. More and more people entered with each building I passed. By the time I had finished the walk, the city was starting to look more like a city. Almost as if I had just imagined it being empty. The city never sleeps. It dozes.
I remember me and Aya would climb out my window, laughing, and sit on the ledge, looking down on our domain, our kingdom. It's that feeling you get looking down on the world that it's all yours. As far as you can see is your empire. Lapped at lovingly by tainted waters, wrapped in a sickly glowing cloak of sky. We watched, enamored, as more and more of our subjects flooded out into the streets, brushing aside the night-walkers, the little flames that thrived in the darkness, blotting out the night as the dawn rose mightily on the horizon.
I felt that familiar little biting pain in my stomach. Aya always told me to look on the brighter side of things. Well, at least I had a name for my next ulcer.
The diner was a tiny little hole in the grave face of the city. A little remnant of something wholesome and culturally significant. At least, it used to be. It had, at one time, attempted to be something like a throwback to the '70s, with a real, working jukebox and waitresses in Technicolor outfits. Now, though, the black-and-white checkered paint was peeling, the jukebox was broken and dusty and the waitresses weren't paid enough to wear anything special. The greatest thing about it, though, was that it was going in a rapid downward spiral. No one came in anymore. It was perfect.
I sat down and was almost immediately attended to by a woman who just might have been a typical '70s waitress thirty years ago. Now her skin was wrinkled and her teeth almost glowed yellow from years of stale tobacco I smelled on her breath. I ordered and sat, tracing patterns on the peeling faux marble of the table. Marble was supposed to be ten degrees cooler than the temperature around it. I leaned forward and put my face to the surface. It smelled of mildew and wood. The surface was warmed by the glaring electric light that hovered uncertainly above me. I turned my head unconsciously, so that the center of my forehead touched the solid surface. Instantly, I winced and jerked back, putting my hand to my bandage. Not to soothe the pain, but to make sure the fragile fabric was still holding strong.
My food appeared as if by magic at the end of a yellowish arm, veins like dark rivers on the wrinkled map of her skin. I muttered something that resembled a thank you, but the waitress was already gone. The smell of old tobacco lingered for a while afterwards, masking the smell of the hamburger and fries that sat, sparkling with grease and salt, in front of me. I sighed as I stared at it, reminded about just how hungry I wasn't. The radio was playing some blend of music and static, and the door dinged hopefully once or twice. The owner of the place was staring at me, even though I pretended not to notice. It wasn't too strange, I suppose. I was probably the first customer that wasn't a junky or dressed in drag that he had in a while. But I did have a bandage on my head.
Suddenly the smell of smoke was wiped away, and the smell of gasoline and sweat came in so strong I wrinkled my nose instinctively.
"A hamburger and fries, eh?" Something made a scoffing noise to my left. "How horribly American of you."
The voice made my body tighten suddenly, though I didn't know why. A slender, pale-skinned hand reached out and daintily grabbed one of my fries, drawing it away from the rest with a flourish and dipping it lightly in the gob of ketchup set on the edge of the plate. The owner of the arm swooped lightly into the seat across from me, and I slowly raised my lowered head to gaze in awe at the woman.
Her lips moved like snakes, her smile like the blade of a knife. A pair of pale yellow-green eyes glittered like windows into a smog-filled sky set in the smooth perfection of her face, which was framed by pale pink like a ripening peach. Two rows of gleaming white teeth tore the head off of the fry, her sleek lips wrapping around it as it disappeared with a few quick lashings of her tongue. The hand sank and dipped the fry into my ketchup once again, swirling it about as she smiled silently at my awestruck expression.
"Y-you." I breathed the word.
The woman smiled wider and pointed the blood-soaked, jagged tip of her fry at me. "Yep. M- me."
The door stood between me and the real world. Everyone's faced with something like this at least once. They see the door, but they don't see the knob. They don't see a way out. All they see is something in their way, some obstacle they have to overcome. And everyone is tempted at least once to just turn back. Try again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. But the air in my apartment was stuffy, and smelled of sweat and panic. One more moment in there and I think I would have suffocated. And of all the ways I thought I would die, that was one I would not accept. Dead and deformed, lying like a useless lump of flesh on the hard wood floor of my living room.
So I pushed myself outside, or the outside pulled me into it. The sun stabbed and slashed at me, the wind splayed the skin of sweat I clung to and tore it savagely from my body, leaving me uncovered in a world I didn't own, in a world I didn't control. My hand went almost instinctively to my hat and I tugged on the brim slightly, letting the shadow hide my eyes from the sun's knives. Taking in a breath of air that froze my lungs and scratched my throat, I walked stiffly forward, my legs sore from the night before, my hand on my hat.
As shady as I must have looked, I blended right in. Even in the daytime, there are those that flicker through the crowd like weak flames, trying to cover, to smother themselves. The world is too much for them, and they huddle in the quasi-security of their possessions. Everyone does it. The more you own, the more successful you are. I think my dad told me that once. And not only that, I thought, you can make a better shield.
My head didn't hurt anymore, but only throbbed, mainly because of my own shame. I had an all-consuming fear that the thing would explode forward, larger than ever and all eyes would suddenly be on me. I would shrink from their sight, flee into an alley and never return to the accusing eyes of the daylight. I swallowed and I felt the scratchiness of my throat, the emptiness of my stomach. I don't know how long it had been since I last ate. And I must have sweated enough to drown myself. Even the hidden have needs.
It was about half a block to where I usually ate. Not because the food was particularly good, but mainly because it was close. It was early, but it would be open. It always seemed to be open whenever I saw it. I guess that's something comforting about it. Something stable, at least. So early in the day, the city was only starting its climb to peak. Traffic was already becoming heavy, on the streets and on the sidewalks. More and more people entered with each building I passed. By the time I had finished the walk, the city was starting to look more like a city. Almost as if I had just imagined it being empty. The city never sleeps. It dozes.
I remember me and Aya would climb out my window, laughing, and sit on the ledge, looking down on our domain, our kingdom. It's that feeling you get looking down on the world that it's all yours. As far as you can see is your empire. Lapped at lovingly by tainted waters, wrapped in a sickly glowing cloak of sky. We watched, enamored, as more and more of our subjects flooded out into the streets, brushing aside the night-walkers, the little flames that thrived in the darkness, blotting out the night as the dawn rose mightily on the horizon.
I felt that familiar little biting pain in my stomach. Aya always told me to look on the brighter side of things. Well, at least I had a name for my next ulcer.
The diner was a tiny little hole in the grave face of the city. A little remnant of something wholesome and culturally significant. At least, it used to be. It had, at one time, attempted to be something like a throwback to the '70s, with a real, working jukebox and waitresses in Technicolor outfits. Now, though, the black-and-white checkered paint was peeling, the jukebox was broken and dusty and the waitresses weren't paid enough to wear anything special. The greatest thing about it, though, was that it was going in a rapid downward spiral. No one came in anymore. It was perfect.
I sat down and was almost immediately attended to by a woman who just might have been a typical '70s waitress thirty years ago. Now her skin was wrinkled and her teeth almost glowed yellow from years of stale tobacco I smelled on her breath. I ordered and sat, tracing patterns on the peeling faux marble of the table. Marble was supposed to be ten degrees cooler than the temperature around it. I leaned forward and put my face to the surface. It smelled of mildew and wood. The surface was warmed by the glaring electric light that hovered uncertainly above me. I turned my head unconsciously, so that the center of my forehead touched the solid surface. Instantly, I winced and jerked back, putting my hand to my bandage. Not to soothe the pain, but to make sure the fragile fabric was still holding strong.
My food appeared as if by magic at the end of a yellowish arm, veins like dark rivers on the wrinkled map of her skin. I muttered something that resembled a thank you, but the waitress was already gone. The smell of old tobacco lingered for a while afterwards, masking the smell of the hamburger and fries that sat, sparkling with grease and salt, in front of me. I sighed as I stared at it, reminded about just how hungry I wasn't. The radio was playing some blend of music and static, and the door dinged hopefully once or twice. The owner of the place was staring at me, even though I pretended not to notice. It wasn't too strange, I suppose. I was probably the first customer that wasn't a junky or dressed in drag that he had in a while. But I did have a bandage on my head.
Suddenly the smell of smoke was wiped away, and the smell of gasoline and sweat came in so strong I wrinkled my nose instinctively.
"A hamburger and fries, eh?" Something made a scoffing noise to my left. "How horribly American of you."
The voice made my body tighten suddenly, though I didn't know why. A slender, pale-skinned hand reached out and daintily grabbed one of my fries, drawing it away from the rest with a flourish and dipping it lightly in the gob of ketchup set on the edge of the plate. The owner of the arm swooped lightly into the seat across from me, and I slowly raised my lowered head to gaze in awe at the woman.
Her lips moved like snakes, her smile like the blade of a knife. A pair of pale yellow-green eyes glittered like windows into a smog-filled sky set in the smooth perfection of her face, which was framed by pale pink like a ripening peach. Two rows of gleaming white teeth tore the head off of the fry, her sleek lips wrapping around it as it disappeared with a few quick lashings of her tongue. The hand sank and dipped the fry into my ketchup once again, swirling it about as she smiled silently at my awestruck expression.
"Y-you." I breathed the word.
The woman smiled wider and pointed the blood-soaked, jagged tip of her fry at me. "Yep. M- me."
