|Three Oclock (standard:drama, 1181 words)|
|Author: BENTLINK||Added: May 08 2008||Views/Reads: 1627/896||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Your soul knows what what you need even when you don't.|
Three O'clock Three o'clock in the morning is a gritty awful time to be awake unless you are half drunk or about to be having sex. It's a god-awful time that won't lie to you with promises of getting a night of sleep like one or two o'clock often did. Three o'clock just stands up on its back legs and tells the truth, “You're a big person now so stop you're incessant whining suck it up and grind it out till quitting time.” If you had to say something complimentary about three o'clock you could speak about its arrow straight honesty and the fact that the pain it inflected on your body made the seven AM quitting time seem a lot better than it was really going to be. How a person could grow from infant to child and then on to young manhood without experiencing even an occasional faint brush with the joy of living worth remembering would seem impossible and yet there he stood by the time clock punching out. Seven o'clock in the morning would for him just turn out to be the start of another crappy day in a week filled with similar days that when stacked one atop the other became the shit pile that was his life. This had been his life story so far and he had seen no reason to expect anything to change. Since early childhood, his mission in life had been to numb down his mind by rutting out any hopeful thoughts that might spring up. He had managed this pretty well and thought himself immunized against hurt and disappointment. He had far less success training his disgustingly buoyant soul. Every time he felt he had it beat down to match all the other parts of his useless life his high minded soul came running out of hiding. It might show itself long enough to grab up the image of a pretty flower that had sneaked into his mind through the corner of his eye. His maddeningly disobedient soul had mastered the trick of tirelessly repeating the words of only half heard love songs again and again. Never songs of death or destruction never once picking a song about lost love nor the pain of betrayal or separation only those songs that promised magical meetings, sudden enchantment around the next corner or though the next open door. He knew better than to buy into that crap but his idiot soul would not be quieted and constantly tried to set him up for major disappointment. He liked cloudy overcast days because his itchy sleep starved eyes did not have to deal with even brief exposure to bright sunlight also they matched his perpetual dark mood. He had stopped removing the ear protection required by his job in the net weaving factory when he finished his shift. Not being able to hear the rest of mankind further insulated him from a world he hated. Now if he could only get his soul to shut up he would have the total isolation he craved. After punching out he made his customary after work pass into the side door and out the front of the Black Rose Bar and Grill picking up a bacon and egg sandwich and two beers as usual. Black Rose number three smiled at him this morning like ever other morning. He ignored her like always paid cash, took all his change, and exited without speaking. Risking arrest for doing so, he as usual drank the first of his breakfast beers in plain view as he finished his half minute walk home. Home what a joke; home was a nasty pay a week in advance hotel half a block east of the net factory. Some more or less clean towels and sheets he had to pick up at the front desk once a week and on average a twice weekly visit by police investigating the crimes that seem to always take place in rent by the week hotels. He kept his few clothes on some rusting metal hangers in the door less closet and the rest of his possessions in a cardboard suit case under the swaybacked bed of his single large windowless room that fittingly was at the dark end of a long dingy hallway. He trudged up the three flights of sagging stairs and down the hall to his room only to find his doorway blocked by the carcass of a young girl folded into a fetal position. He poked her with the toe of his steel toed boot and was surprised to find she was not a carcass after all but just sleeping or passed out or some shit. She was curled up like a big cat with her back towards the last working light bulb in the hallway. So when she moaned he poked her a little harder with the same boot. Click here to read the rest of this story (34 more lines)
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