Friday, April 27, 2012

do you want some more??

Ok, I will keep randomly giving out  some more of work-in-progress novel...if you want it!! 


(insert maniacal laughter)


For real, here ya go...a bit more this time!




He woke up in a dumpster. “Fuck, am I dead,” he questioned out loud. He looked around him and sniffed the air. “Oh, I’m in a dumpster. Vince, you idiot, you’re not dead…Damn feels like it though,” he pushed open the dumpster lid and peered out. His back ached, his legs felt weak, and he felt slightly dizzy. He shook his head and stretched his arms up. It was light out but dark in the alley where the dumpster was located. He jumped out of the dumpster with apparent ease, despite his aching body, and slammed the lid shut. He glanced down at himself, his uniform was ripped and smelled worse than it ever had, which was a feat in itself. Vince walked toward the street and shrieked when the sunlight hit him. “Jesus Christ,” he yelled loudly, shielding his eyes and cowering to the ground. He tried to walk into the street and his entire body hurt, it felt like he was on fire. He was, actually, he realized as he saw flames rising off of his shielding arm. He shrieked, pounded out the fire, and retreated to the alley, hiding behind the dumpster. He pressed himself to the wall and started sobbing. He realized his tears were red, like blood. At some point, he must have fallen asleep. 

***
When he woke up again it was dark. The sun had set and the streets were busy with people running here and there. The distinct sound of car horns made him wince, a headache dwelling deep in the back of his head. He uncurled himself and looked at his hands. They were grimy and covered with dirt, likely from his job and hiding behind the dumpster. He stood up, groaning loudly, and stretched his back and arms. “Fuck me, this sucks. When is the pain going to stop,” he asked out loud, leaning against the brick wall behind him. He stepped out from behind the dumpster. Rats scurried as he moved. “Filthy vermin,” he attempted to kick one but hit the air, losing his balance and bracing himself against the dumpster. Vince brushed his sleeves and ran a greasy hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair. He shook his head to try and shake out the headache but it wouldn’t budge. “God damn, I’m thirsty…” he mumbled, “I suppose I should get out of his alley and just go home,” he said as he started to walk out of the alley. He stood at the edge of where the sidewalk met the street and looked around. He knew where he was but it was a long walk back home, five miles at least. He checked his pocket and found his wallet. “At least the fucker left me my money…” Vince attempted to hail a cab. He got one after a few minutes and before long he was outside his flat.

He found his keys still attached to a belt loop, where they always are. He opened his door and stepped in, grasping for the entry-way light. The light flickered on and cast a dingy yellow tint on his scuffed hardwood floors, the beige couch he had found on the job, the beaten up mahogany table that Mort had helped him drag back from the west side one night. Vince threw his keys on the table and fell onto his couch. Alex, his tabby cat, wandered into the room from the kitchen, where he liked to sit in the window and drink the water from the dripping sink. Alex meowed quietly and pressed his face into Vince’s hand. “Hey kitty kitty,” he grumbled, “I bet you’re hungry. No telling how long I’ve been gone. I’ll feed ya in a minute, Alex,” he said, petting the cat lovingly. Vince sat on the couch, dazed and confused about his life. “I don’t know what happened to me, Alex, but I feel like shit,” he said, finally forcing his aching legs to work and his tired feet to move him to the kitchen. He dug around for the can opener, which was never where he last put it, and a can of cat food. Alex jumped on the counter and rubbed his hands as he opened the can. The cat dove right in as soon as the lid was off and Vince leaned onto the sink.

Think I’ll take a shower, Al, I smell worse than death.” He trudged down the hallway to the bathroom, grabbed his towel off the door, and stripped off the torn uniform. His arms were covered in bruises. There was blood all down his neck and shoulders. “Jesus Christ…” he swore, turning around to see his back in the mirror. His hair was matted and had leaves and dirt stuck in it. He turned back around to inspect his neck. Upon further inspection he could see two tiny pricks where the blood had clearly come from. It looked as if he had been bitten by a snake. “What the fuck,” he swore loudly, staring at the holes in his neck. They were scabbed and had dried blood surrounding them. “Well, I might as well get the dirt off,” he muttered, turning on the water to hot and stepping into the shower.

It was the straight up the best shower he had ever taken. Forty minutes later he stepped out onto the mat and dried off. “Well, at least my hair and body are clean,” he said, looking into the mirror again. “Damn bruises won’t go away for awhile I’m sure,” he mumbled, going to his bedroom. He threw on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that had been lying on the floor, some socks from his drawers, and he tossed his hair about for a few seconds to shake out the water, much like a dog would. Alex padded into his room and meowed loudly. “Always making an entrance, Al,” Vince said, reaching down to pet the cat. He groaned as he straightened out again. “God damn back hurts,” he grumbled. Vince found his watch on the bedside table and saw the time. “Christ, its eight o’clock already. Where the hell did…oh, right. Behind the dumpster...” He put on his silver necklace, a present his now-deceased mother gave him a few years ago. He recalled having protested that she spend what little money she had on him, but she had said, “Boy, you’re my only child, I have to spoil you sometimes.” He smiled at the memory. “God I miss her…” She had died two years ago when the pancreatic cancer she had been fighting for three years came back in full force before the medicine and chemotherapy could do anything. She died a few months after her relapse. “God rest your soul, Mum,” he whispered. “Shit, I should call Mort, I bet he wonders what the hell happened to me!” He went to get the phone.
 


 

Post a Comment