Broken
As you get up you totter some more, rub your forehead, shake your head and head towards the shower.
If you didn't have to pay the water bill you would spend a lot more standing in your bathtub. You like the hot water running down from your head to your shoulders, down your back, down your legs, down the drain. It's purifying. It cleanses not only the body, but the mind as well. Showering is one of those things that granted you escape from other people. A place where you were alone. Alone was good. Alone was safe. No need to witness the meaninglessness. No need to play dumb. No need to please. A solitary cage of safety. After a while you feel a lot better.
You step out of the bathroom and dry yourself with an old, dirty towel. You look down and realize that you're slowly developing a belly. Your body used to be in better shape, but after your last period of "emptiness" (as you call them) you don't have the interest to be in top condition any more. In pop-culture, professional murderers were always in the best possible condition both physically and mentally. When they weren't exercising or practicing martial arts at the gym they were studying close combat tactics or popping some rounds at the shooting range. It wasn't entirely false, in order to stay alive and make a stable living in this line of work you did have to be 100% prepared for every gig, but you don't have the enthusiasm anymore.
You aren't looking for anything, searching for a meaning in death doesn't seem worthwhile anymore. A few years (which felt like a hundred) ago you felt so frustrated with your life and your difference in contrast to other people that you sought desperately for something, anything that would make you feel like there was a reason or at least an excuse for you to live. When you saw life escape from the eyes of a man it was like opening a door of a cage you were imprisoned in. There was something liberating in it. The essence of something meaningful could be perceived when you watched death. It fascinated you in a macabre way. When you started working you practiced and planned every job with devotion. You quickly became very good and known as one of the best in your trade. But now there isn't anything to find in those eyes. Not anymore. You've lost it. It is gone. You are helplessly alone again.
In the fridge you find a carton of long ago spoiled milk and some orange juice, partly full. You drink what's left of the juice and throw carelessly the container in a corner of your kitchen, which is close enough to your garbage can. You walk to the window and look outside. There is a glass ashtray on the inner window ledge with some cigarette stubs in it. It seems to be a cloudy day. Some people and a rusty pickup transit aimlessly under your third story apartment window. You wonder what time it is, but not for long, as your blue desktop phone starts ringing, which must mean its five pm and Don is calling.
If you didn't have to pay the water bill you would spend a lot more standing in your bathtub. You like the hot water running down from your head to your shoulders, down your back, down your legs, down the drain. It's purifying. It cleanses not only the body, but the mind as well. Showering is one of those things that granted you escape from other people. A place where you were alone. Alone was good. Alone was safe. No need to witness the meaninglessness. No need to play dumb. No need to please. A solitary cage of safety. After a while you feel a lot better.
You step out of the bathroom and dry yourself with an old, dirty towel. You look down and realize that you're slowly developing a belly. Your body used to be in better shape, but after your last period of "emptiness" (as you call them) you don't have the interest to be in top condition any more. In pop-culture, professional murderers were always in the best possible condition both physically and mentally. When they weren't exercising or practicing martial arts at the gym they were studying close combat tactics or popping some rounds at the shooting range. It wasn't entirely false, in order to stay alive and make a stable living in this line of work you did have to be 100% prepared for every gig, but you don't have the enthusiasm anymore.
You aren't looking for anything, searching for a meaning in death doesn't seem worthwhile anymore. A few years (which felt like a hundred) ago you felt so frustrated with your life and your difference in contrast to other people that you sought desperately for something, anything that would make you feel like there was a reason or at least an excuse for you to live. When you saw life escape from the eyes of a man it was like opening a door of a cage you were imprisoned in. There was something liberating in it. The essence of something meaningful could be perceived when you watched death. It fascinated you in a macabre way. When you started working you practiced and planned every job with devotion. You quickly became very good and known as one of the best in your trade. But now there isn't anything to find in those eyes. Not anymore. You've lost it. It is gone. You are helplessly alone again.
In the fridge you find a carton of long ago spoiled milk and some orange juice, partly full. You drink what's left of the juice and throw carelessly the container in a corner of your kitchen, which is close enough to your garbage can. You walk to the window and look outside. There is a glass ashtray on the inner window ledge with some cigarette stubs in it. It seems to be a cloudy day. Some people and a rusty pickup transit aimlessly under your third story apartment window. You wonder what time it is, but not for long, as your blue desktop phone starts ringing, which must mean its five pm and Don is calling.