Sweet William pt. 1

Sweet William

by Ryan K.
Young man I think you're dying...


There is a peculiar point in every day when the world seems to be at a subtle pause. Every sense still lingering but now appearing completely ceased; perceiving to be unable to move into the future. Thoughts becoming so slow that one would almost assume his or her mind is literally frozen. The storm has finished running it's chaotic course and all of its helpless victims, defeated and bruised, wait in silence before accepting their new reality.

The stench of cheap beer and the callings of Earl fill the morning air. Empty vodka bottles, cigarette butts and scatters of half eaten fast food from the nightlife, now lay lifeless on the ghostly streets. Buildings still sleep in the clustered clouds, while the rising sun gleams from window to window. On the curve of two street corners sits a young man. His clothes are slightly torn and his feet bare the nakedness in which they were born. His body, planted on the hard cement as if he had always been there and the city was built around him, is long and scarred with tattoos. His eyes, black and blank, stare down upon the broken rocks beside his feet. He picks them up one at a time and lightly tosses them into the road. The repetitive action served no significance for his mind wonders to a place beyond the lonely street corner in the middle of the towering city.

Slowly waking, the city yawns and cars carrying the tired and weary begin their daily routine. Approaching a street light, a vehicle mutters to a complete stop. The hissing of the engine awakens him from his daze. He turns his head high and looks toward the sun. The youthful spirit of the new day glows around the buildings and streams of light illuminates the man's hard, yet sad, face. He rises to his feet and stares down the road, now infested and alive. His steps start off unsure and weak like a toddler who no longer chooses to crawl. As he continues, his legs find meaning and guide his feet as he picks up his pace and walks toward an alley. Through the filthy alley, where beds made of boxes and old blankets lay, he enters another street. Long and as hypnotizing as the one before, the road echoes through the city. If his eyes were unfamiliar with these paved streets, he would considered his journey to be endless. But his eyes are not unfamiliar and his destination is engraved into his mind. There was no other place he could go or would want to go as far as he was concerned.

The rough bare two feet ignored the sticks, rocks and spontaneous wetness of his path as he journeys from street to street and along side railroad tracks to empty parking lots. Finally, the young man stops in front of a tall building. Using his hand to shade his eyes from the beaming sun, he looks up to the top floor.

The elevator is cold and metallic. A small obnoxious beep reoccurs with each new floor the elevator reaches. The young man stares at the numbers above the door as they change. Eighteenth floor. The elevator gives a quick forceful shake before coming to its final stop. A bell rings and the automatic doors open. He walks into the hallway and briefly stops to collect his thoughts. Slowly, he begins moving to a room at the end of the long and plain hallway. He stretches his arms to touch both sides of the walls as he approaches the door. He reaches to turn the knob, but to his surprise the door is lock. With a displeasing sigh, he digs into his pants pocket and pulls out a set of keys. He opens the door without making a sound and quietly steps inside.

The immediate aura of the apartment is dull and dense, smothered by an awkward silence that makes him stiffen and become nervous. A nervousness that scared him because he has always been familiar with this place. On the floor by the entrance of the apartment lie a pair of women jogging shoes. The strings of the shoes are still laced tightly and dirty socks protrude from the mouth. The living room, straight ahead of him, is cluttered with pillows, a blanket, and scatters of used tissue. A tissue box sits on a table next to the couch. Precise patterns of water drip from the sink in the kitchen to his left. Following the sound, he enters the kitchen and looks into the echoing sink. A plate, knife, fork and empty glass rest in a small pool of soapy water. Continuing his way through the apartment, he walks into a hallway leading to a bedroom. The door is slightly opened. As he gets closer to the room, the door swings open and a woman rushes past him and into a bathroom. A bit startled and confused, he watches her as she splashes steaming water on her face. After drying her face, she heads to the living room. Her movements are swift and uneasy and her eyes never meeting his as she transitions from room to room.

The young man can not remove his eyes from her as she picks up the tissues, blanket and pillows in the living room. She manages to carry all of the items back to the bedroom. He is slow to follow. His face no longer expresses the same nervousness that made him uncomfortable before, but now a deep sadness that can only be fueled by shame and guilt. Before he could reach the bedroom, she storms back into the hallway in the same fashion as before, and walks into the bathroom. Only a towel covers her body. He peeks his head into the bedroom before following the sound of the shower that has just started in the bathroom. He sits and waits outside in the narrow hallway. The back of his head presses firmly against the cold white wall.


to be continued...