I’m lost without you baby.
Like Bambi in a dark forest. Surrounded by wolves and lions and leopards and … I just can’t… –
“God this is fucking shit.”
It was 4am.
Dan was sat in his cherry red boxers at his desk-cum-dining table surrounded by potato chip bags and discarded words. He twisted lazily, lobbing the scrunched up paper over his shoulder. It landed with a satisfying clang in the near-empty paper basket surrounded by a host of other missiles that had struck with the accuracy of a Hamas bottle-rocket. He tore off another sheet and slammed it into the table staring into the blank abyss. What am I doing with my life? His pen hovered over the page but every time he went to write his hand spasmodically pulled away. The words didn’t want to come. Was he afraid? It was never this hard before. Ever since she left his head felt empty – his muse had abandoned him.
He would have lost himself staring into oblivion at the unwritten letter if not for the twin dazzling rays of light that peeked through his Venetian blinds.
“Shit. Another wasted night.”
There was something about sunlight that just pissed him off. It felt like God was shining a big ol’ interrogation light down on his kids just to make sure they were behaving, ‘Night’s over, better not be sinning down there!’
Dan rolled off his stool stumbling through the mess piled up around him. He grabbed a pair of blood-stained jeans, and a once-upon-a-time white T-shirt with Love’s a bitch emblazoned on it off the back of the nearby sofa.
“I need a drink” He mumbled while lurching into his clothes. The kitchen of his apartment was just a tiled corner of his living room not much bigger than a police chalk outline doing starjumps. He took a few steps towards the fridge and stopped, staring at a Polaroid pinned onto it. The girls sweet smile and sun-kissed blonde locks brought tears to Dan’s eyes. He shook his head violently.
“No, not tonight – today, whatever. Just. Need to. Forget.”
He swung open the fridge door to reveal the empty mold-encrusted shelves. A single Frankfurt lay curling up at the back of the fridge coated in more hair than a Mexican wrestler.
“Guess I’m going out…”
Thank you for reading this canto of Sin City.
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