Clark Baxter
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- Jun 1, 2013
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His nerves are shot. His heart is racing. He’s staring straight in front of him. He can’t see anything. He’s staring, staring. He can’t feel his body. His eyes are shot red. His mind is lost, not in control.
He gets up from his chair. His mind and body both swing for a second. It takes him time to regain his balance. His vision is blurred. He tries to concentrate his vision, it helps but for a second only.
The streets seem way too bright. The roads seem to reflect the glare of people, radiating their façade of purpose. He shuts his eyes.
He’s doubts his intentions and doesn’t know why he’s in the streets and forgotten how he got there.
His hands suddenly feel the pack of cigarettes. He lights one. His mind regains a sense of control. He’s been standing at the same spot for more than ten minutes, but he’s lost track of time. Through the cloud of smoke, he spies a park on the other side of the road. As he steps off the pavement, the cars seem to race across faster. The ash flies of the cigarette, and falls on his feet. He looks down and realizes he’s wearing slippers, jeans, and a shirt.
It takes him a while to cross the road. People don’t seem to stop. He staggers to the park, and sits on the bench farthest to the gate. The sun blazes against his skin, and moisture seems to evade the plants and his mind. He drags on the cigarette; the smoke seems to flow in without consciousness.
Children are playing in the park, kicking a ball indiscriminately under the supervision of a teenage boy/ caretaker. The children seem to concentrate all their wishes on the ball, their desires in their movements and their energy revolves around their innocence.
The phone rings. He picks up.
The voice on the other side doesn’t sound familiar. A girl rambles on about a dream holiday. The voice trails off in his mind as he stares at the entrance.
He notices someone familiar entering. He doesn’t move, just keeps on staring. He wants to avoid him or anyone else. The man begins to walk in his direction. As every step gets the man closer, he gets more agitated. He can’t recall his name or from where he knows him. A smile seems to spread on the closing face with eager steps.
He wants to ignore the man, but the man has seen him. As the man gets closer, he can discern his clothes. He’s wearing jeans and a jacket and his hand is in his jacket pocket. The plastered smile seems unsure but calm and the stare becomes steady. The man takes out an automatic pistol and pointing it towards the head, starts running at him.
His eyes open to darkness. He’s been lying in the bed for the past 14 hours. Not a morsel in the mouth, just whiskey and coke and lots of smokes. Maybe this would get him sleep. He looks at the clock. His sleep lasted for 27 minutes exactly. He keeps staring at the ceiling; he can faintly hear the fan spinning but he’s too cold to make it run faster.
Out of the darkness, he can make out two perfectly round eyes. He sees a tear fall from one but he doesn’t move. He fumbles in the dark and lights one. His exhalation seems to fill the small room with smoke. Getting up takes all his strength, managing he goes to the loo. He switches on the only dim light in the bathroom. He sees his unshaven face in the mirror, disgusted he looks down at the basin.
He looks up again at the mirror. The shirt seems a little dirty but his clean shaven face radiates hope. He quickly changes to one that has no doubt and ties a tie that matches the shirt, while his head shakes to the rhythm of metal music. He looks at his watch, he’s running a little late but he isn’t worried. This is his day, not theirs. His bag pack is packed. He picks it up and then loads his laptop and his car keys. Before stepping out of his room he takes one more look at the mirror and jokes, “**** did god do a good job.”
The roads seem busy, but he weaves through it deftly. The weather is pleasant enough to keep the windows down and life is happy enough to blare out some music he thinks, as he turns the volume knob to high.
She’s been waiting for him for half an hour now. He races through the streets, a minute more and he’s messed and he knows it. She’s grumpy. Her cheeks are glaringly red. She doesn’t say a word, just opens the door and sits down. He doesn’t want to irk her, fearing her ire. But then he’s the only one who could make her smile when she could eat someone’s head off.
He gets up from his chair. His mind and body both swing for a second. It takes him time to regain his balance. His vision is blurred. He tries to concentrate his vision, it helps but for a second only.
The streets seem way too bright. The roads seem to reflect the glare of people, radiating their façade of purpose. He shuts his eyes.
He’s doubts his intentions and doesn’t know why he’s in the streets and forgotten how he got there.
His hands suddenly feel the pack of cigarettes. He lights one. His mind regains a sense of control. He’s been standing at the same spot for more than ten minutes, but he’s lost track of time. Through the cloud of smoke, he spies a park on the other side of the road. As he steps off the pavement, the cars seem to race across faster. The ash flies of the cigarette, and falls on his feet. He looks down and realizes he’s wearing slippers, jeans, and a shirt.
It takes him a while to cross the road. People don’t seem to stop. He staggers to the park, and sits on the bench farthest to the gate. The sun blazes against his skin, and moisture seems to evade the plants and his mind. He drags on the cigarette; the smoke seems to flow in without consciousness.
Children are playing in the park, kicking a ball indiscriminately under the supervision of a teenage boy/ caretaker. The children seem to concentrate all their wishes on the ball, their desires in their movements and their energy revolves around their innocence.
The phone rings. He picks up.
The voice on the other side doesn’t sound familiar. A girl rambles on about a dream holiday. The voice trails off in his mind as he stares at the entrance.
He notices someone familiar entering. He doesn’t move, just keeps on staring. He wants to avoid him or anyone else. The man begins to walk in his direction. As every step gets the man closer, he gets more agitated. He can’t recall his name or from where he knows him. A smile seems to spread on the closing face with eager steps.
He wants to ignore the man, but the man has seen him. As the man gets closer, he can discern his clothes. He’s wearing jeans and a jacket and his hand is in his jacket pocket. The plastered smile seems unsure but calm and the stare becomes steady. The man takes out an automatic pistol and pointing it towards the head, starts running at him.
His eyes open to darkness. He’s been lying in the bed for the past 14 hours. Not a morsel in the mouth, just whiskey and coke and lots of smokes. Maybe this would get him sleep. He looks at the clock. His sleep lasted for 27 minutes exactly. He keeps staring at the ceiling; he can faintly hear the fan spinning but he’s too cold to make it run faster.
Out of the darkness, he can make out two perfectly round eyes. He sees a tear fall from one but he doesn’t move. He fumbles in the dark and lights one. His exhalation seems to fill the small room with smoke. Getting up takes all his strength, managing he goes to the loo. He switches on the only dim light in the bathroom. He sees his unshaven face in the mirror, disgusted he looks down at the basin.
He looks up again at the mirror. The shirt seems a little dirty but his clean shaven face radiates hope. He quickly changes to one that has no doubt and ties a tie that matches the shirt, while his head shakes to the rhythm of metal music. He looks at his watch, he’s running a little late but he isn’t worried. This is his day, not theirs. His bag pack is packed. He picks it up and then loads his laptop and his car keys. Before stepping out of his room he takes one more look at the mirror and jokes, “**** did god do a good job.”
The roads seem busy, but he weaves through it deftly. The weather is pleasant enough to keep the windows down and life is happy enough to blare out some music he thinks, as he turns the volume knob to high.
She’s been waiting for him for half an hour now. He races through the streets, a minute more and he’s messed and he knows it. She’s grumpy. Her cheeks are glaringly red. She doesn’t say a word, just opens the door and sits down. He doesn’t want to irk her, fearing her ire. But then he’s the only one who could make her smile when she could eat someone’s head off.
