Diary of a Daydreamer

Psychological Thriller, Take a journey throught the eyes of an addict who quickly delves deeper into the interwoven realms of reality and fiction. Dark Humour.

Some editing still required.


9. Close Shaves

I sit up on my bed with only Anya on my mind not knowing how long I had been passed out. It’s time to clean myself up; with that dream fresh in my mind I have a reason why I should give a damn. What would Anya think of me if she saw me like this? I haven’t shaven in months, and I haven’t cleaned anything up in years. I spend the next few hours tidying. Emptying the overflowing ashtrays, I watch the butts pour into the bin, all the time wishing that I hadn’t decided to quit smoking. I wash my clothes, and attempt to throw the mould encrusted dishes into the trash. I move through to the bathroom where I smear most of the dirt off my mirror but it’s still in need of some industrial cleaning. A misty reflection of an unknown man stares back at me.  It’s been so long since I’ve seen my reflection in something other than an empty bottle. Who is this man I’ve become? I shower and scrub myself clean. I shave my face, and trim my hair, looking back in the mirror I can almost see an old friend that I used to be. As I open the fridge, a smell rips past my nose that in the right concentration I swear could be weaponized. I look inside, the unpowered fridge is bare except for a variety of condiments, an empty bottle of milk, and the source of the stench; a mouldy jar of something polish; I can’t make out exactly what it is but looking at the use by date, it’s two years out of date. As I attempt to clean the decay off the shelves, I see a small neatly folded piece of tinfoil in the fridge door. I open it up. Smiley faces look back at me, square pieces of acid invite me to another land. The night creeps into the apartment reminding me of my task ahead. After putting on smart clean clothes I grab my coat and put my newly acquired six-shooter in the back of my jeans and leave to The Crowbar. A queue’s forming outside the club. I join it, seems like the bouncers ahead are doing random searches. Guess I got two options, be calm or be lucky. Getting closer to the door, I feel myself losing to my automated fight or flight system. The gun causes my anxiety to shoot through the roof; I’m sweating and looking shiftier than ever, I get to the door - no turning back now. The bouncers tower over me, they can snap me in two if they want to. Without a second thought they take me to the side. Random search, don’t make me laugh. Questions and scenarios fill my mind. What if they find the gun, do these bouncers deserve to die? They’re just a couple of guys that are trying to make a living. If I shoot or not, it’s all been played out anyway, cops will swarm the street too quick to get away. What have I done? I can’t get taken to jail until all this is over.  As I raise my arms to get searched, time slows down, extending this torturous moment. His colossal hands search my arms, my chest, and then each leg. He mumbles something. In disbelief I ask him to repeat himself. But with no mishearing of words the second time he says forcefully, “go on in”.  Just as I walk through the door of freedom, the bouncer calls me back. I turn around slowly, expecting the worst. Has he seen my gun? The bouncer walks over to me grabs my arm and slams a stamp on the back of my hand; it’s a picture of a four-leaf-clover. My heart slows down, relief runs through me as I let out an internal sigh of relief. I walk back into The Crowbar, the sound of hardstyle surrounds me, deafening my ears. Captivating lasers of lights swish around the room. Wasted people barge through me as I head deeper into the crowd of raving loons. I’m in no shape to call anyone crazy, I’m looking for a man that I don’t even know the face of. I’ll keep an eye out for his crew, or what’s left of it. I head over to what appears to be a VIP area of the club. From what I’ve heard of Max he sounds like a powerful asshole that would hang out in the best part of a shit location. A troll is guarding the VIP area, I can’t afford to be searched again, and there‘s no point in even trying to sneak round or talk my way in. I have to create some kind of distraction. Luckily for me a loved up pill-head has bumped into a coked up hot head. As much as I want to hang around and watch the show, the troll has left his bridge to sort out the one way battle. With the distraction taken care of for me, here’s my chance to head through to wonderland. I enter the den of inequity with a variety of people who don’t seem to be able to fit in with normal society, so they appear to have shied away from it, yet to save their pride they created this self-proclaimed culture of the VIP room. Each way I look, I see people with animals thrown around every part of their bodies; alligators on their feet, foxes growling round their necks and peacocks sticking out their heads. Yet within this zoo of eccentric individuals, nude painted girls hang from ribbons from the ceiling and acrobatic dancers serve the drinks. My eyes turn back to the man with alligators for feet. I’ve seen those boots before. Along with the leather gloves he’s wearing indoors they belong to the man I saw earlier in my apartment corridor; Chief Superintendent M. Savage. The man responsible for my Danish neighbours’ deaths all because he couldn’t keep his wife satisfied enough to stop her shopping for a better time. As I look up to his face I see another face that I recognise sitting next to him. It’s the pretty young cop that I talked to just outside my apartment. She looks different now, she’s got her legs on show and looks like a bad girl compared to the quiet cop I saw earlier. I can barely keep my eyes off her jaw-dropping figure leading up past her cute face and blond hair. As she stretches her arms in the air I see she has the same tattoo as the skinheads from Lucky Louie’s on her left forearm ‘MAX’. Suddenly a realization floods into me as a giant piece of the puzzle falls into place. I look away from the sexy blond to the other side of Savage. There sits a man with a bandaged hand. I fear my eyes are misleading me once again. If what I see is true then standing in front of me is Whitey chatting away with Savage like they are the best of friends. How could I not have seen this before? Chief Superintendent M. Savage... ‘Max’ Savage.

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