Twitch.
That twitch,
under the flickering lights. That was it.
That little
muscle under his eye, twitch. That's where it started all that
time ago. Before his waist started to expand and his once-dark
hair crept away from his brow.
Lit with a
dimly flickering light, just enough to brush at the dark shadows
creeping along the edge of the room as they crept their way
through piles of old electronics and mouldering magazines.
Stained carpet, worn to the matting in spots, yellowed plaster
and sagging furniture. Remnants and news from decades better left
forgotten.
That was why he
was here, remnant among remnants.
Last of the
night's programming ended, the room is lit with the harsh, steady
glare of the station logo over a field of blinding white and
accompanied a the high pitched, incessant whine. Their wakeup
call for the world's downtrodden, the passed out and fallen. A
public service one might think, to wake them and remind them to
save power. Like maybe one might care.
The harsher
lighting chases all but the most resilient shadows from the room,
and brings to like the crumpled paper and styrofoam food
containers. Crushed and forgotten beer cans, a dozen at least.
Maybe two. Testament to years of neglect that kept his waist
spilling over his belt. A wet looking deep crimson smear across
the cracked plaster walls.
Who's to say it
might have been different, had he not ended up in this government
sponsored, rent-controlled shit hole in the middle of what had
once, a very long time ago, been downtown Chicago.
Yeah maybe once
he had held some hope for the future, like maybe the world once
did. Maybe even gotten to retire in Miami or California. Everyone
wanted something like that, some time.
Air, heavy
and stale whafted out following the path of the door, wrapping
around her face and filling her nostrils. A pre-dawn glow set
across the city and skeletal highrises behind her, casting a
faint redness to the harsh glare being thrown out of the
television in the far corner.
She stepped
carefully into the room, edging around the heaps of junk she
constantly nagged at him to get rid of. Edging her long legs
around an old broken table, piled with boxes, moving slowly
toward the ancient green recliner facing the television.
"Dad?"
Her voice soft against the harsh tone accompanying the still
graphic on the screen. "You said you were going to
clean-," her voice caught as her eyes slid past the seeping
red stain on the wall, almost directly behind the recliner.
She stood,
stock still. Eyes riveted to the wall for long minutes. Jumps and
squeals at the brush of a fur lined glove at her calf, a
plaintive whine coming from beneath her feet.
Bending to pick
the pathetic, matted looking creature in her arms. Butting it's
head against her chin. Small and under-fed, she could feel the
poor cat's ribs under it's dirty fur.
Moving forward
again, her eyes tracking along the edge of the chair's
overstuffed arms where she could see his massive form. Her eyes
coming to rest on his, meeting his blank, indifferent gaze
punctuated by the dark, tiny hole, barely the size of a pencil
eraser just above his cheekbone. Looking past her, through the
roof his eyes seemed to stare into the heavens. Silent, pleading.
The cat jerked
slightly, held against her chest.
"mrrow?"
The television
flicked over to the endless electron blue sky. Her eyes trailed
down his arm, falling on the dulled metal of an ancient gun. A
relic, like him, like his junk.
"Shit."
--------
Like why he shot himself, why he used an ancient weapon, why he did it know his daughter was coming over soon, why his cat wasn't ever bathed, why he never cleaned up his beer cans! Lots of questions! :)
Sorry, that's a short ... critique-ish thing from SD, former villager in his encouragement to get me to continue writing it. I found it odd he assumed it was a suicide too... one day I'll think about that.
Oddly, it's been almost two years since then, and I've still never thought about it.
