I'm taking out the garbage that's been piling up in my head for quite some time. I need to empty it, or this will just be another locked room in my imagination. It's the garbage ( and somehow only real fun anymore, sadly ) that I want to share. I'm going to be using a different type of writing style ( different for me ) and I'm hoping to have fun with it. I'm getting a lot of inspiration from Frank Miller for a theme, so be warned.
I'll just go into it.
Prologue
July 1st, ED54
The bar was quiet. He could hear the jukebox playing in the back of his head, the noises coming from the MadDogs' table, and the waitress asking the poor guy next to him if he wanted another round. But the bar was quiet. Every night was the same now and once he realized it it all seemed so silent. The things he used to love to hear weren't there anymore. No, they were there... they just weren't the same. Muffled somehow, like a speaker playing through a thick pillow.
He asked for another drink and barely heard the bartender complain about the ruckus lately. A scotch, with peppermint, and a bit of lemon was his drink. When it came he could only stare at it and try to hear what was going on, what people were saying, but couldn't. So he drank. Tried to listen. Nothing. Drank. Listened. Drank.
It was friday night and the young crew would be rolling in any second. After paying a tip, he walked out and casually winked at a waitress before going out the door. He had winked at her for five straight nights now and if he was lucky, maybe she would go home with him tomorrow. Maybe he could get lucky. But that was tomorrow, this was tonight, and the snow beat into his face like raining ice cubes. Behind him the door shut and the only light collapsed to nothing in the sidewalk. He walked home in the dark.
Before he got home he witnessed one mugging, two beatings, and one possible rape. But this was City, this was his home. It was hard, sure, it was wrong, most definitely, but what could he do about it? Nothing, that's what, and that's what he would do. He would do nothing. Because the world was dead and in a year or two so was he. The only thing he had left was his little girl, his little tiger. Here I come, Abigail, daddy loves you so much, as he opened the door to apartment number fifty two, and even if your mommy wasn't a whore she wouldn't love you as much as I did no one ever will.
Colder than usual. The air was thick. Abigail didn't like it thick, in fact he had to get her to close the windows before she left for school because the place would get so freezing, funny little Abigail and her hot flashes, he wasn't sure if they existed, but he was damned to laughing with her when she brought them up and--there was something wrong here. The window was shut, the refrigerator door open, the knives out. He called for her. No answer. Please, let her be all right, let it all be fine.
Living room empty. Her room empty. She liked to wait for him in his room when he was out, so he turned down the hall after tossing the blankets on her bed around. His room was dark. Darker than usual, and in here it was colder than it was outside. Stuffy. Thick air. Once hot, but now used up and no longer being used. The smell was that of the hospital, something that smelled like clothes worn but not dirty and rubber. No, rubber wasn't quite right. It smelled like old milk.
The lights didn't work. Neither did he, because he stood still for at least five minutes. Finally he called her name but there was no answer. Where was she? Was this a game? The train screeched by downstairs and the lights flickered on. There she was. Oh, Abigail, only sleeping.... Sleeping and waiting for her daddy. What a good girl. I love you, tiger.
He went to her, kneeled, picked her up. Put her to bed, fighting to see where he was going because he was crying. Everything was blurry. When he set her down he left to the bathroom to cry some more, maybe cut himself again because that always made himself feel better. The lights came on easily and he looked down - he had already cut himself. "No.. I haven't. Who's blood is this...?"
She had lolled onto the floor and he went to her, turned her over. Her eyes looked up into the ceiling, so lifeless. He screamed, but that night no one heard, because in City, no one hears anything anymore.
Life is hard. Everyone has their own. His was taken away. Soon he would find out - it only took one dark minute.
I'll just go into it.
Prologue
July 1st, ED54
The bar was quiet. He could hear the jukebox playing in the back of his head, the noises coming from the MadDogs' table, and the waitress asking the poor guy next to him if he wanted another round. But the bar was quiet. Every night was the same now and once he realized it it all seemed so silent. The things he used to love to hear weren't there anymore. No, they were there... they just weren't the same. Muffled somehow, like a speaker playing through a thick pillow.
He asked for another drink and barely heard the bartender complain about the ruckus lately. A scotch, with peppermint, and a bit of lemon was his drink. When it came he could only stare at it and try to hear what was going on, what people were saying, but couldn't. So he drank. Tried to listen. Nothing. Drank. Listened. Drank.
It was friday night and the young crew would be rolling in any second. After paying a tip, he walked out and casually winked at a waitress before going out the door. He had winked at her for five straight nights now and if he was lucky, maybe she would go home with him tomorrow. Maybe he could get lucky. But that was tomorrow, this was tonight, and the snow beat into his face like raining ice cubes. Behind him the door shut and the only light collapsed to nothing in the sidewalk. He walked home in the dark.
Before he got home he witnessed one mugging, two beatings, and one possible rape. But this was City, this was his home. It was hard, sure, it was wrong, most definitely, but what could he do about it? Nothing, that's what, and that's what he would do. He would do nothing. Because the world was dead and in a year or two so was he. The only thing he had left was his little girl, his little tiger. Here I come, Abigail, daddy loves you so much, as he opened the door to apartment number fifty two, and even if your mommy wasn't a whore she wouldn't love you as much as I did no one ever will.
Colder than usual. The air was thick. Abigail didn't like it thick, in fact he had to get her to close the windows before she left for school because the place would get so freezing, funny little Abigail and her hot flashes, he wasn't sure if they existed, but he was damned to laughing with her when she brought them up and--there was something wrong here. The window was shut, the refrigerator door open, the knives out. He called for her. No answer. Please, let her be all right, let it all be fine.
Living room empty. Her room empty. She liked to wait for him in his room when he was out, so he turned down the hall after tossing the blankets on her bed around. His room was dark. Darker than usual, and in here it was colder than it was outside. Stuffy. Thick air. Once hot, but now used up and no longer being used. The smell was that of the hospital, something that smelled like clothes worn but not dirty and rubber. No, rubber wasn't quite right. It smelled like old milk.
The lights didn't work. Neither did he, because he stood still for at least five minutes. Finally he called her name but there was no answer. Where was she? Was this a game? The train screeched by downstairs and the lights flickered on. There she was. Oh, Abigail, only sleeping.... Sleeping and waiting for her daddy. What a good girl. I love you, tiger.
He went to her, kneeled, picked her up. Put her to bed, fighting to see where he was going because he was crying. Everything was blurry. When he set her down he left to the bathroom to cry some more, maybe cut himself again because that always made himself feel better. The lights came on easily and he looked down - he had already cut himself. "No.. I haven't. Who's blood is this...?"
She had lolled onto the floor and he went to her, turned her over. Her eyes looked up into the ceiling, so lifeless. He screamed, but that night no one heard, because in City, no one hears anything anymore.
Life is hard. Everyone has their own. His was taken away. Soon he would find out - it only took one dark minute.
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