A world of blurs and pain

I didn't think I would end up here. Not in her position, a mere five years later. But, what else do you expect from a world of blurs and pain?
**formerly Pain Demands to be Felt**

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1. Chapter one

 

The world around me stills, leaving the vicarious pounding of my own heart the lone thing to null my ears. I lift the glass forlornly to my lips, reminiscing of the times long gone now. The lukewarm drink sends a new wave of numbing sensation to my already dull brain, and I’m washed away in a cloud of dark emotions.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to be a happy man living a somewhat normal life. I had a nice apartment, married with the prospect of children. It was a wonderful life, full of nothing but warm love and vivacious dreams as a couple.

But that was then and this is now. All I have left are few faded photographs and memories, a handful of crumpled bills in my coat pocket, and the drink in my hand.

I lose track of time as easily as a loose button or a small coin. The seconds and minutes mix together into a blithering blur, leaving my head spinning until a thin wiry man takes my glass and I don’t know why. I see the look on his grisly face and understand but I can’t make my limbs move. A beast in a t-shirt stretched taut round his bulging biceps comes over and pulls me off my stool and drags me over to my car.

I don’t know how it happens but I find myself in the sports car I blew all my money on when everything fell apart. And, I’m speeding along the same highway I do every day on my way home and somewhere midst the blur of streets and neon lights, I see this little rundown pizza parlor with a paper sign that reads Mario’s or Tony’s or something equally faux-Italian. Somehow I find myself turning into this strange little hideaway.

I sit down at a little rickety table with a sticky plastic checker tablecloth, leaving my skin uncomfortable akin to that of a scaly friend. Not long before I sit down a waitress in a commercialized t-shirt that rants about some sort of political position comes over. I look her up and down, fully taking in newspaper skin and small lips slathered in crimson and a short badly dyed bob, then look away, realizing that she can smell the booze radiating off my body like a cheap cologne.

She snaps her gum once at me before leaving and returning with a pot of coffee, pouring me a healthy glass into a porcelain pink mug. “Here doll-face,” she says in an annoyingly nasal dialect that leaves needles piercing my skull.

                It takes every ounce of willpower I have to mumble a slurred “Thanks” that fortuitously comes out hostile. And it suddenly hits me like an anvil that I’m turning into my father, that wretched man.

The lady, whose nametag reads Chloe or Zoe or something like that, frowns inconspicuously at me and all I can think is I wonder how many guys off-their-faces sat at this table and were scowled at by this lady. And, my mind is playing a furious Ping-Pong battle of topics that makes me dizzy.

To clear both my head and my instantaneous nausea, my gaze swiftly turns to the window filthy with dirt and dried rain. As I’m watching the traffic roll by at a fast pace, I’m mentally reliving every sickening little detail that the police described to me and every dark blue Chrysler is her car, rushing on in its daily routine, not realizing the crushing end that fate is tempting before it. The tears rush me, as fresh as those years ago when my life fell to ashes.

The walls are torture devices, stealing all the air from the stuffy room and chocking me and the waitress is the monster from the closet or under the bed and all I know is that I have to get out of there. I find myself pushing open the insistent door, ignoring the shouts of “sir!”, and I get back into my car.

And, I’m rushing, rushing down the interstate and I can’t think straight, my tears a thick sheet of rain. In the mess of droplets I see a pair of glowing orbs like eyes nearing my car and I know what’s going to happen as the tires squeal but not once do I think to stop it, not once do I want to avoid what’s coming to me. 

The black envelopes me like her favorite wool blanket.

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