Tunnel Vision

Chapter 1

I always keep my briefcase close to my person. In my hand, between my legs, on my lap. People can't be trusted. People are selfish. Self-serving cogs in the corporate machine who only desire the green grease of cash. They lived solely for the deposit of money in their bank to spend aimlessly or save until they were a rotting corpse in the dirt. Sitting at a desk merely to type reams of everything to do with nothing in some high-rise down town. These people lived from train to desk to train, spending money to gain more money to spend. Cyclical, simple-minded cretins, suffering from an acute case of tunnel vision. They could list the and detail every aspect of the economy but can't list and detail the complexity of human emotion. They lived for greed and greed lived in them. Green, like their money.

And yet I had the nerve to judge these people, despite my being a simple worker ant in the ongoing circle of capitalism, blinded by the farce of freedom of thought; a mere restriction to satisfy the ever-demanding needs of automative husks. We are all alike- suit, tie, wallet, keys, desk. Train. Public scrutiny and governmental regulation prevented freedom of expression by pretending it was allowed. You never know what others were thinking. Hmph. Ironic isn't it? Here I am, sat on a train, judging those around me dressed in the same attire as I, doing the exact same as I. I'm as much a hypocrite as my briefcase an anchor. An anchor to my real purpose. At least, that's what I convince myself. Convince hope. I refuse to be another soulless rind searching for bitter pith.

Screeching, whistling... Stopping. A gush of air, absence of pressure, signalled the release of the doors. The crowd thinned. Soon enough, the last stop. All that were left were myself, an unconscious drunkard and...a child? Let me guess, an immigrant. Let's add more tropes. Excuse my flippancy, but let me guess, if I talk to this child, we'll go on some unravelling adventure where I'll learn of other people's hardships, experience a train crash and witness some woman give birth to a child she'll name in my honour who grows up to achieve status of certified cog. Next. The drunkard. Balding, gaining weight, losing life. Let me guess, comes home late every night to a wife who can't cook and burns through more cigarettes than men on the side, whilst he spends his nights stumbling from bars hitting on women whose only interest is getting the hell away from him.

Regardless, my briefcase gave me purpose and individuality. Just like myself, its appearance was unassuming. Brown, stretched leather embroidered with black decals and studs across the seams and a black handle above a silver buckle that kept its insides in. Beneath its exterior lied secrets of unparalleled, infallible secrecy.

Flickering lights, squealing steel, roaring releases. The hinges spread, the doors parting like the legs of someone dealt a bad hand. Dirt. Infesting the air, invading every surface, staining metal like rust and corroding concrete. The familiar groan of metallic steps beneath my shoe was cathartic. Home time. The sky had been black by now, casting its omnipresent shadow across the derelict, better-off abandoned town. Warm flashes of a broken yellow illuminated what was left of the cracked pavement, shattered glass and bulbs from streetlamps strewn across the ground, discarded like the the fragments of individuality.

Ambient sounds of gunshots, punches and barking culminated cacophonously, the resenting birds crying on in abhorrence. Yet, the streets were empty. Every was home by now. Houses lit up like Jack-O-Lanterns, juxtaposed shadow puppet silhouette's bleeding from the light in a dance of desperation and death. Gunshots, punches and barking. Desensitisation is a skill you pick up on pretty quickly in downtown Alandris. The whole place is more rundown than a pair of athlete shoes. More broken glass, more violence. Home.

The building before me stood tall- brown brick bathed in black and striped in yellow. The desk empty as usual, the stair climb a mindless movement. Suit, tie, wallet, keys, de- Nope. Just that last one. The door swung open hastily. Silence sweet home. Living alone is honestly a blessing. No competition for space, not contrived comments about your lifestyle, no clothes. Just kidding about that last one (on the weekdays). Suitcase, down. By the door as always. The jacket hung just above it, a silent guardian and watchman. Tie across the chair, shoes- Who cares. Point is, I'm home.

Unwinding has never been a speciality of mine. Neither has working. Nor travel. Whatever. Flicking through channel to channel, trying to find something to fill the void of eerie quiet. The whole apartment was illuminated by the blue screen of the television, from the hallway to the kitchen. The compartment was dense and small, the hallway leading directly into the main room. To the right of the front door was a door to the bathroom and opposite such was a door to the only bedroom. At the end of the corridor was a living room and behind that a conjoined kitchen. Aside from the festering mould and decay from the moisture, the room was pretty clean. What? Just 'cos I'm a guy I can't be tidy? Whatever.

My stomach began to gurgle in protest. Whether it was because of hunger or the fact it didn't like Brooklyn 99 didn't matter to me. I wanted to eat anyway. What will it be? Leftover Chinese food from two days ago or Pot Noodle? Let's try the tap. Oh, the water's brown. Dead body in the tank again? Oughta go to the well then. Suddenly, the thought of aged noodles and chicken with hardened sauce in a malfunctioning fridge seems more appealing. Leftover Chinese it is... it tastes terrible.

A rapid knocking penetrated the air, disrupting the now indiscernible blaring of the television. Begrudgingly raising from the torn sofa, I make my way to the door and opened it up, looking down upon the girl from the train earlier, hair dishevelled as before and ill-fitting clothes hanging off her ill-fitting skin. Her eyes were sunken and dull, staring aimlessly at me. Let me guess, she wants something from me. Or, she wants to take me on an adventure of a lifetime...

"Come with me."

For fuck sake.