The Country from Hell
By the time you arrive home, you can practically taste the sweet bite of custia on your lips. Throwing the door open, you utter a grunt of surprise when you see that your mother is home.
She is sitting on the floor, clutching a full bottle of something cheap, her eyes shifting nervously from side to side. She seems to be simultaneously aware and unaware of your presence. She begins speaking to the air,
"This is shit to me. It's all shit. I was so pretty once. Do you have any idea how pretty I was? Certainly the prettiest in my class. And the smartest. Look what misfortune has done to me! I said to look, you little shit! You don't realize it now, no, you're too young. You don't realize anything until it's too late. That's just how life works. That's life, right? That's life. We keep walking around like zombies here in this fucking hell saying that's life, that's life, pissing our lives away until we finally do get lucky and die. Don't you walk away from me you nasty little fuck! I raised you to care about your mother! Burn in hell, you ungrateful bastard you "
You don't hear the rest because you have slammed the bedroom door shut. Seeing her in her starched blue cleaning uniform dribbled with alcohol, it is hard for you to imagine her ever having been pretty. But then again, now that you think about it, you do vaguely remember a time from your early childhood when your friends had come over just to see her that soft sweet face bending over, the outstretched porcelain hand offering up a sweet or two... She looks so old now. You shake your head and towel off, changing into a tattered pair of jeans and a white shirt. You slick your spiky black hair back. Glancing briefly in the mirror, you try to assure yourself that you are in fact a good-looking guy.
"Those skanks don't know what they're missing."
You pick up your moist money and push past your mother, whose head is lolling upsettingly against her shoulder. You slam the apartment door and hurry outside.
"Hey, Gypsy!" a voice shouts to you. This is doubly insulting because the person calling you a gypsy is himself a gypsy. It's Paganini, a regular fixture of Block F5, so named because he plays his old three-stringed fiddle like the devil himself. Though you won't fully admit it to yourself, you actually like Paganini. His real musical talent would have taken him places if he hadn't been born a filthy gypsy. For a brief second, you consider asking him to come to the pub with you so you won't have to drink alone.
But he's a gypsy.
Which means he has no money.
And you've only got enough for yourself. You have to think of yourself first.
You dismiss him with a backward wave and half-laugh that doesn't sound very convincing. As you direct your steps to the pub, the street looms wide and empty before you.
She is sitting on the floor, clutching a full bottle of something cheap, her eyes shifting nervously from side to side. She seems to be simultaneously aware and unaware of your presence. She begins speaking to the air,
"This is shit to me. It's all shit. I was so pretty once. Do you have any idea how pretty I was? Certainly the prettiest in my class. And the smartest. Look what misfortune has done to me! I said to look, you little shit! You don't realize it now, no, you're too young. You don't realize anything until it's too late. That's just how life works. That's life, right? That's life. We keep walking around like zombies here in this fucking hell saying that's life, that's life, pissing our lives away until we finally do get lucky and die. Don't you walk away from me you nasty little fuck! I raised you to care about your mother! Burn in hell, you ungrateful bastard you "
You don't hear the rest because you have slammed the bedroom door shut. Seeing her in her starched blue cleaning uniform dribbled with alcohol, it is hard for you to imagine her ever having been pretty. But then again, now that you think about it, you do vaguely remember a time from your early childhood when your friends had come over just to see her that soft sweet face bending over, the outstretched porcelain hand offering up a sweet or two... She looks so old now. You shake your head and towel off, changing into a tattered pair of jeans and a white shirt. You slick your spiky black hair back. Glancing briefly in the mirror, you try to assure yourself that you are in fact a good-looking guy.
"Those skanks don't know what they're missing."
You pick up your moist money and push past your mother, whose head is lolling upsettingly against her shoulder. You slam the apartment door and hurry outside.
"Hey, Gypsy!" a voice shouts to you. This is doubly insulting because the person calling you a gypsy is himself a gypsy. It's Paganini, a regular fixture of Block F5, so named because he plays his old three-stringed fiddle like the devil himself. Though you won't fully admit it to yourself, you actually like Paganini. His real musical talent would have taken him places if he hadn't been born a filthy gypsy. For a brief second, you consider asking him to come to the pub with you so you won't have to drink alone.
But he's a gypsy.
Which means he has no money.
And you've only got enough for yourself. You have to think of yourself first.
You dismiss him with a backward wave and half-laugh that doesn't sound very convincing. As you direct your steps to the pub, the street looms wide and empty before you.