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.

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2. Waking Strife

I awake to a knock on my door. I’m not ready to face the world yet. My mouth is dry and my head is pounding. I manage to lift my heavy eyelids open, only to see the same pit of an apartment. I glance over to the bird shit stain covering the window. The fact that I can see it means it’s daytime. The only thing that changes in this apartment is the mould gets bigger. It won’t be long before it grows legs and escapes this hell hole.

 

Three more thuds and I reluctantly lift myself to a sitting position. I lose more patience with each knock drilling into my temple. To calm down I reach for yesterday’s cigarette and stand up. The flint sparks as it quickly dawns on me that my gasless lighter has now joined the growing list of things that aren’t working anymore. I hurl it in the direction of the overflowing bin. I was planning quit anyway.

 

Pissed off, I make my way to the door. I stub my toe on the table leg, which causes the empty cans to fall like dominos. As I stumble onwards, I crush my feet on the stale crumbs that form the carpet, which soon wakes up the mutant cockroaches that I share the apartment with. A pungent odour follows me through the living room; an ironic name for a room that scarcely sees any living.

 

The incessant knocking tells me they’re not going anywhere. I was furious before; now I’m raging. I’m about to rip the door off my cage and throw whoever the fuck it is, out of my eighth floor window onto my neighbours’ car that’s kept me up for the last five nights with its relentless alarm. Two birds - one stone; three if it’s a salesman.

 

“WHO THE FUCK IS KNOCKING AT my door...?”

 

Swinging the door open, only to find a girl standing before me. I was not expecting an eighteen year old girl... I certainly didn’t order an eighteen year old girl... so what exactly is this eighteen year old girl doing on my doorstep?

 

She stands there swaying a little from side to side; the skeleton of an attractive girl. Resting on her bones is an assortment of dirt encrusted clothes; more dirt than fabric. A helpless and dependant expression rests on her pastel face.

 

I stare at her; she says nothing. She stares at the floor; the floor says nothing. Standing here in silence, my mind ticks over like a broken clock. Her underlying beauty leads me to thoughts of sirens - sirens who call men over with a soothing song; those that follow find a serene calm overcomes them, but at the end of that song - only death remains. Here I stand, in front of an eighteen year old siren, the noise has stopped; all is calm. Has death just knocked on my door?

No such luck, it’s just a hollow husk of a once beautiful eighteen year old girl that has been eaten from the inside by a mixture of incapable parents and smack.

 

She used most of her energy banging on the door, but manages to muster up a bit more to mutter the muffled word, - “smack”. Next to death and she asks for poison. I swing the door shut and go back to bed to dream of a tomorrow where I won’t be woken up.

 

I didn’t even get to finish that dream before I’m woken up by the sound of sirens; only this time it’s the police surrounding the building. I stash my pot and coke in a rat hole, I side-step the mountain of yellowed paper that used to be mail and bills and lean out my apartment door to catch all the action. Still half asleep I can make out five officers swarming up the stairs before pausing outside my neighbours’ apartment, three doors down the corridor from me. They signal to me to return to my apartment, which I choose to ignore.

 

A tall bald man dressed in a long black coat, scratched up leather gloves and alligator skin boots appears; if the job as a cop doesn’t work out he can always join the circus. He seems to be running the operation, barking out instructions to his minions. The cops are all fully kitted out in uniform, losing all identity of their true selves. They are supposed to be commanding and respected, but I find it hard to take them seriously. On the other hand, they are holding loaded guns, standing by the door ready to take down anyone and sort the paperwork out later.

 

The largest officer takes a few slow breaths, before bursting open the door and knocking it off one of its hinges. The others pile in after him, followed by startled voices shouting out. Three shots echo around the apartment and an eerie silence ensues. A pretty young police officer comes over to tell me my two Danish student pill popping neighbours, ‘Karl’ and ‘Sberg’ are dead. All I can think is how I hope they tow their car. I tell her how they seemed such quiet neighbours, and how they would never hurt anyone; only the latter being true. She asks me if I’ve seen a girl wandering about these halls, I tell them nothing, poor girl had troubles enough. She tells me how my neighbours were wanted drug smugglers, and had been involved in a murder. I can tell she’s lying, but not because she was deceitful, but because everything she got told to say was a lie.

 

As they leave I notice a police badge glimmering in the corridor. I walk over to it and pick it up. It reveals one of the cops name as Chief Superintendent M. Savage.

 

I notice the number 6 on my door has twisted round the screw now looking like a 9. That’s another thing that won’t be fixed round here. I shut my door and walk over to the rat hole to pick up my bags only to realise that the rat had been busy; must be having the party of his life. I role a joint with what the rat was kind enough to leave me. I light it on the grill and smoke it till my eyes collapse. I attempt to drift away.

 

No such luck, I can hear the rat; sounds likes it’s dancing with the cockroaches, all the time ridiculing me with unerring confidence. It continues for one hour before I manage to understand what the rat is saying, but to tell you the truth it was talking shit.

 

 

 

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