A story. (Pt. 2)

     The swirls of paint began to move like waves on the ceiling. Crashing, winding in and out of one another, exploding with more and more color. The light fixture pitched and rolled. It was almost too much, but to me, it was brilliant.

     The grain of the wooden floor writhed; like interpretive dancers; like buckets full of worms. I looked up at Sam, who was sitting on the edge of the couch. His mouth was moving but I hadn’t heard him talking.

     “…et outta this man?”

     His face was pulsing. The hairs in his beard looked like thousands of waving arms. I stared at him incomprehensibly.

     “Did you hear me man? What do you get outta this?”



     “What,” I screamed at him, thinking that he and the couch had been moving away. The green of his eyes spilled out to his face, to his hair.

     Fuck, “Fuck!”

     “Calm down. Calm down man,” he half-heartedly pleaded, pushing his glasses back on his nose.

     He’s pushing his glasses up, “He’s pushing his glasses up.” Oh shit, I’m talking to myself out loud, “Oh shit, I’m talking to myself out loud.” Stop it, “Stop it!” What the fuck are these things doing to me, “What the fuck are these things doing to me!?”

      “You’re gonna be fine. You just need to lay off that shit. We just gotta find you something to keep your mind occupied.”

     Liar, “Liar.” He’s fucking lying to me, “He’s fucking lying to me!”

     “Hey, I seen that they got some new stuff on the menu down at Goodah. Come on man, ‘Good for everyall!’ Some good food might take your mind off things. I’m gonna go get my shoes on. Come on, let’s go,” he slapped me on the back of the head as he stood up.

     Thirty-nine stairs, three doors, fifty-one slabs of concrete, one crosswalk. Two locks then we would be in the safety of the car.

     Sam looked like a giant in that Festiva. His six and a half foot, two hundred thirty pound frame heavily contrasting the tiny American car. It looked like he could have carried it if he had wanted to.

     I watched the nighttime reflections of the city in the puddles as we drove; the faces of people being too much for me to handle. Bursts of neon signs and street lights amid the sea of black. Focusing on them was the only thing I could do to keep my mind from trying to kill itself with the poison creeping up to it from my stomach.

     We took the two seats at the counter that were nearest to the door. A tactic for a swift retreat from the restaurant. A tactic for a swift retreat from society. A tactic we had developed some time ago after a series of incidents involving myself, various forms of narcotics and public areas. None of them had ended particularly well.



*To find the other parts of this story/some other stories, click on the tag "Story" near the bottom of this post.