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.


3. Fix For Fights

Not asleep yet not awake, I stare endlessly into the spiralling void of nothingness. My mind wanders from thought to thought as my conscience grows ever more unforgiving. An unmanaged mind can lead to madness. I have to get out of here; a fight between me and my mind will always lead to the shit being kicked out of me. Most people would have been driven to madness by now - if only I were so lucky.


I throw on my coat over the clothes I’ve been wearing for days and move to the streets, hoping the noise will drown out the pain. The streetlights flicker on as daylight gets slayed by the dark night’s sky, with society’s forgotten shadows lurking amid the flashes of darkness. I stroll along the frozen footpath while trying my best not to slip, when a single flake of snow falls at my feet causing me to raise my hanging head.


Through my exhaled mist, I see an outline of a woman across the empty road. I slow my breathing and as the haze clears, a familiar face comes into sight. It can’t be her, can it? She glances at me for a moment with those unmistakeable eyes. It is her! She turns away and hastens her step. I rush onto the wide road when suddenly countless cars appear from nowhere. I have to find out if my eyes are deceiving me. I dart across each lane as the cars swerve on the ice to avoid me. With the piercing sound of screeching, horns and collisions, I make it to the other side. I run as fast as my smoke-damaged lungs will take me. She is only meters in front of me now as I follow her into an alleyway only to find no sign of her. I jog round the next corner; she’s gone.


I fall to the ground as my knees drop into the newly fallen snow. I kneel here alone, no-one except my own shadow to share my solitude. She leaves my life for a second time.


I need to get a grip, she couldn’t have been there, and there’s no way that was real no matter how much I hoped it was. I lift myself up and take a seat on an old rusty bench and attempt to make sense of what the hell just happened. I run my hands over the engravings of the people who have sat here before me, wondering if any of their lives have been so convoluted, or is it just me that’s tortured this way? This pain is too much to bear; I really need to see my doctor.


I head to Lucky Louie’s to pick up my prescription. It’s an odd name for a bar, Louie’s not lucky, street smart and primed, but far from lucky. Walking inside, it takes me a few seconds to focus through the dust which catches the light from the three remaining light bulbs dangling off the ceiling by single wires. It’s not the most sanitary setting, but if you’re used to fighting cockroaches for the last of the mouldy crumbs, this place isn’t so bad. To regular folks they might call this the tenth circle of hell, but despite the dim setting, I feel relaxed here. I’m comforted by the same six songs that loop round the jukebox, the dependable regulars who attempt to prop up the bar and even the musky smell that assaults your nose as you push through the rotting door.


Louie’s standing behind the bar with his arms folded and talking intently to an Asian man. Trixie’s with her apprentice - ‘Sum Yung Thai’; together they’re working some carry-on with a couple of business types. I look around the rest of the place and apart from Harry, who’s deep in a solemn reflection of ineptitude supported by the drink in his hand, there’s only a group of overexcited skinheads in the corner. I walk over to the bar; Louie stops talking to the man for a moment and without request pours me my whisky. I knock back the first. He leaves the bottle. It instantly warms my insides, counteracting the icy outside world. A drink born of the Irish, stolen from them by the Scottish once they'd had enough. Spelt 'whisky', because the hard men of Scotland believed more vowels waste good drinking time. After my second, I break my endless eye contact with my drink to see Louie discretely handing over a briefcase to the Asian man. He leaves bearing a satisfied smile. Louie returns to wiping the spilt drinks off the surfaces and then serves the already inebriated Harry another double.


Half a bottle later and the skinheads are becoming more rowdy, which doesn’t bother me as it all helps drown out my psyche. Louie mutters a sigh that says it all as the jukebox restarts with the same songs all over again. Sitting with my back to the skinheads I hear them smash a glass against a wall and seconds later another flies over my shoulder; I feel the air brush past my ear. No need to do anything; it missed. Louie tells them to shut the fuck up and calm the fuck down. They don’t take kindly to his words. Through the filthy mirror behind the bar I see the pack leader striding towards Louie with his chest puffed out before stopping just to the left of me. That strut is asking for trouble.


Louie doesn’t confront anyone without every possible scenario planned. I can see Louie’s hand is beneath the counter - it’s where he keeps his Benelli M3 Shotgun, it’s not stashed away there, it’s already pointing at the Neo-Nazi standing in front of him. The shotgun holds a maximum of seven shells and uses the proprietary Benelli semi-automatic system. The M3 allows Louie the choice of semi-automatic or pump-action operation. It’s reliable and versatile, and Louie’s finger is firmly on the trigger.


‘Whitey’ doesn’t know how close he is to death, Louie isn’t afraid to shoot - he’s done it before. No-one in the bar would care; just be one less speck of dust on the street - no one’s keeping score. As Whitey leans onto the bar I notice a tattoo on his left forearm; it’s a swastika with the words ‘Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer’ written around the outside, with ‘MAX’ written down the middle. Whitey is about to do something stupid; he’s about to pick up my whisky bottle, smash it on the table and attempt to shank Louie with it. I stand up. Whitey’s anger turns on me. I take a shot of whisky and before he can say a corrupted word I hit him, one punch, knocking him out clean. My hand is pulsing but at least I’ve still got my whisky.


If only that happened; as the stand-off between Louie and Whitey intensifies, I am still glued in this state of paralysis, not held by fear, but constrained by the inability to make a choice. As long as I don’t choose, everything remains possible.


An empty whisky glass beckons to be filled; I reach for my whisky bottle. Whitey is startled and I feel a hard shove knocking me off my stool crashing onto the cold hard ground below and my wasted whiskey pours over the bar and joins me on the floor.


In a flash Louie grabs the emptying bottle and smashes Whitey in the side of the face.  Turns out his three friends watching this from afar aren’t happy and decide to get involved. They can’t seem to figure out which one of them is in charge now their leader’s knocked out cold. They shuffle over, pushing past each other with a farce style comedy that I’ve only ever seen in The Three Stooges.


As ‘Larry, Curly and Moe’ prepare themselves to get revenge for their unconscious boss, Louie lifts his shotgun out from under the bar and points it at the centre skinhead, knowing that if he has to fire it will easily hit the other two as well. They don’t seem to be able to muster any more than vacant looks of panic and stupidity. Louie repeats his sentiment by telling them to pick up their friend and fuck off. As they bend down I notice that they all have the same tattoo on their left forearms, all with the Nazi propaganda round the outside and all with ‘MAX’ written down the middle.


Quiet night for Lucky Louie’s. I get unglued from the unwashed floor, hearing the Velcro sound as my clothes peel away from the years of spilt drinks that have created an unparalleled adhesive. I pick up my stool and take my time to finish my freshly poured glass of whiskey before helping Louie clean up the bar. I settle the tab with the last of the loose change in my pocket and return to the shaded streets.


All the demons come out at night. During the cold walk home my mind begins to wander back to the incident involving the cops. Two loved up pill-heads accused of murder now dead, and a girl who didn’t have enough energy to wipe a fly off her face being hunted by the police. Not sure why it’s on my mind. I can’t see the whole picture, not even the frame. I take the long way home to give myself more time to clear my head. I pass countless lawless cretins running riot on anyone too weak or innocent to get away from the chaos of this broken society.


When I finally arrive back to my cave I find the door is open; I didn’t leave it open. What unlucky cretin has found their way into my lair? I look inside, its pitch black. It’s a bad combination of faulty electrics and not paying the bills. Complete silence as I step into the darkness. My other senses become heightened as my eyes refuse to adapt. I feel the cold draft of my apartment drift over my spine. I hear my own hurried breaths and my heart pounding profusely. I hold my breath; I still hear breathing. Someone’s here, footsteps moving towards me, running at me... I get ready to take a hit...



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