The Things That Wither

Love

At a brisk, midnight hour, the cobbled streets of a town grow busy with restless nightwalkers. In a townhouse, a small, decrepit pub sits sandwiched between a locksmith and a boutique. A few rusted lanterns hang at odd places in the lobby, hardly luminating much and leaving many shadowy corners. Just front of the entrance rests the pub's bar, a flight of stairs to the right of it. More flights follow, up to the third floor, where you lie, in your room, wrapped in your bedsheets. 

A mix of champagne and rosy perfume swirl in the air, a hint of tobacco as well. The atmosphere in the candlelit bedroom...suggestive. The faint musk of his cologne radiates off the bedsheets, though only traces.... It feels as though he's present. A warm, fuzzy- tingly feeling rises- then subsides in an instant at the sound of his voice. The noise assaults your ears, you shut your eyes, briefly, brushing a hand against your temple. At some point in the past, you loved this voice, when it would call your name, and whisper sweet professions into your ear. 

You rise from the bed as he starts his griping, facing his direction but not looking at him. He barges in, his words spewing out endlessly as he rummages through the drawers and closets. You pay no mind to what he's saying, the same way he pays no mind to the setting of the room.

What do you want? You ask impatiently.

Cigars. He says. Benny sold mine to some lass' mum.

You stare at him ruefully. Benny is your son, 14 years old. You wish you never had him with this creature- you wish you never met it, fell for it or stayed with it either. Not much you can do about that now. You watch him insouciantly search for the box of Cubans you keep stashed. Ever since you two stopped talking to each other you've moved them somewhere else, just in case he comes looking. He pauses, scoffing and turning to look at you with sunken eyes. You gaze back at his skeletal face, then scan his form. His shirt looks like a parachute on him, the suspenders on his trousers only worsening the look.

Finished?

He doesn't answer you and leaves to the room across the hall from yours. He reappears from behind its door with a suitcase and a smoking piece of parchment in his blackened lips. He drops a poorly wrapped package in the doorway.

Rent. Somethin' extra for Benny. 

You stare at the package as you sit on the bed eating a toffee from the pile on your bedside table. How kind of him to share a cut of his riches with you and his son. You hear the old steps creak under his weight, then the front door open and slam shut. You move to look out the window where you see a wealthy woman dressed lavishly throw herself onto him, her sultry voice shouting his name in excitement. They, then stuff themselves into the shiny little Porche, Charles glancing up to your window for a final time.

"Charles! Oh Charles, it's good to see you~", you mime once they've left. 

That squeaky, plummy mouse paying his grimy arse to go live with her. You almost say you've never seen stupider but think of yourself and decide to put aside your thoughts. You're sure Benny won't be impressed that his father finally left. 

You move yourself to sit at the vanity, peering into the mirror to look at yourself. You tug at the dark circles cradling your eyes then pull a strand of hair from the tangled mess that sits on your head. Your eyes sweep over your neck and chest, observing the trail of hickeys left by the gentleman you met with a few hours ago. You become a little flushed thinking of him. You'd like to see him again. Perhaps chat a bit next time. However, your thoughts are interrupted by pandemonium; the clangour and clamour of furniture, people and what seemed to be everything imaginable. Your flight from your room landed you a spectator on your stairs and amongst the 9-ish brutes brawling in your lobby you spot your son.

You skip over the little bastards tossing each other around on the floor and dip your hand into the pocket of a coat hanging at the entrance, pulling out your beloved revolver and firing twice. Some curses and scrambling later, and your lobby is empty again. Lest for one lad dragging himself to his feet. 

You whack him across the back of his head with the grip of your gun. Go clean your arse up. Can't even swing your fists and still getting into scraps.

He clasps a hand over the spot where you hit him, casting you a sideways glance as he hauls himself over to the bathroom. You turn around to look at the damages, gazing out the broken window, finding- to your embarrassment- the gentleman from earlier.

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Hello, Author here.

I had a sudden midnight craving to write something and this is what it is.

Will I continue? Who knows, probably not tbh.

If i do though, just know everything here I'm making up on the go, so I apologise if somewhere down the line something doesn't make sense.

Anyway that's it, thank for reading and sorry for wasting your time if you see no other updates. 👋