Oneshots

four am

The boy stares out into the night. There’s just a two inch crack in the curtains, but it’s enough for the city lights to leave pictures on the floor.  

Beside him, in the other bed, the girl sleeps.  At least that’s what he’d like to think.  She hasn’t been breathing for 48 hours now.  The boy knows this, but he pushes it from his mind.  He knows it’s his fault.  He knows he should have been watching her closely instead of sneaking out for a cigarette break.  He knows that he could have saved her.  

He rolls from his side onto his back.  He’s careful to not let his glance go too far to his right.  Instead, he focuses on the ceiling, and on the shadows the city lights leave on the plaster.  The boy likes the shadows better than the actual buildings.  There’s less detail in a shadow.  There’s less truth. 

And the boy wants anything but truth.  

In two hours, he’ll be expected up.  But right now, nothing is expected of him.  Four AM is the only real freedom found in his day.  At six AM, he’ll be up, showered and dressed in his customary flannel and jeans, but right now he can sit between the sheets in his boxers and pretend that the morning isn’t coming.  At four AM he can appreciate the scratchiness of the sheets on his bare thighs.  

Such behaviour isn’t acceptable from the boy at any other time of day.  

He’s heard it said before that two AM is the real hour of truth.  This the boy finds to be utter bullshit.  There’s nothing true about darkened streets and girls in glittery dresses trying to find their way home.  There’s no truth in that line of cocaine he’s just taken, and that’s exactly how he likes it.  At two AM, the boy is anything but truthful.  Following the girl into the musty backroom and watching her as she takes his clothes off.  The boy seems to be floating above his body as she does her work on his carcass.  He finds it wonderful, the way she can bring noises up from even the most guttural part of his brain.  The boy gives her a twenty and watches as she smiles in satisfaction.  

Three AM isn’t much better.  The boy is stumbling his way back out into the fog.  He hasn’t got any money left to call a cab, but he doesn’t have any other choice.  There is no way he’ll be able to make it back to the hotel room before they’ll start wondering where he is.  She’s been in there all day they’ll say to him. Are you sure she’s alright would you like us to check up on her for you, free of charge of course they say, adding two zeros onto his tab.  The boy pulls the cell phone from his pocket.  It’s dead, of course, but there’s always wishful thinking.  Sometimes the dead come back to life.

At least, that’s what he’s putting his faith in.  

Three thirty AM and he’s making his way back into the hotel lobby.  The marble is almost liquid nitrogen cold, and he can feel it through the soles of his shoes.  The night staff give him a weird look and he does his best to smile.  When he does, however, he can feel his bloody soul creep out through the gaps in his teeth.  The boy covers his mouth in apology and rushes to the elevator.  The buttons seem to be a million miles away and he leans forward in hopes of pushing the right one.  Here let me help you with that says a fancy set of freshly whitened teeth and a concierge cap don’t worry we’ll get you where you’re going what floor are you on.

four the boy mumbles without thinking room four oh six.

The smile is anything but genuine.  He doesn’t expect anything genuine at this time of night, and pulls from his pocket a handful of change for the dishonesty.  Somehow it’s enough for the smiling face and he takes it without question.  No appreciation either, but the boy didn’t expect that.  After all, he has to save his dollars for his next fix.