Transgression (Prequel #1)

17 - Karma

". . . until that is resolved anyway. Moving right along let's finish the show with the weather. I hope you early-bird folks remembered your umbrellas because the clouds today are not looking too friendly."

"Weatherman said there's scattered showers the rest of the week so I'd pack one for the kiddos if you can. Don't want to be caught in the rain waiting for the bus."

"Absolutely not. Terrible way to start off the day."

"Coming up next is. . . actually, I don't even need to intro this lineup; you'll know it from the first licks."

Click

A low rumbling guitar riff snarled out of the little radio on his nightstand. The mono speakers in just such a position to direct all noise into his head, disturbing the blistering soup that was his stirring brain. As the slow melodic intro finished, the drummer kicked up the energy with some heavy stomping until the guitarist rejoined with a vicious squealing guitar. Simultaneously the singer chimed in with his first set of lyrics. By that point, Alex slammed his hand on the sturdy talking box and all noises ceased.

Silence is never more boldly apparent than in the morning; when your brain is mush and the world doesn't even know you exist. A magical time where most others have already gone about their starting routine and are well into the monotony of the day. Whereas he lay stagnant; cold and wrapped tightly with all the emotions, desires and fears coexisting within the damp shroud of evaporating heat.

Rolling onto his back, his forearm lay over his face and his chest rose inflexibly with every breath. The mucus stored deep in his nasal cavity prevented him from intaking a full breath.

Flash images from the night before all came rushing back; designating which mask he would wear today. Pieces of her smile, the trees, water and the lamps made a collage of urgent longing. Thinking back to mere weeks ago when the cold hand of misery dragged his limp body day in and day out. Those feelings had not been swept away; only softened as of now.

Another fragment entered his thoughts.

That kid. He thought to himself. Recalling the silhouette that made a very clear declaration under the shattered bulb.

"Matt." He whispered through coarse lips.

His stomach turned, forcing him to roll onto his side and grip the fabric. There was a nightmare. . . it drilled its way into his brain in the night, but he couldn't remember a single moment. Anger, resentment and fear all spun in his belly; leaving him to start the day with a mental limp. He was real, he saw Rachel. . . what happens next?

His bare feet rested on the floorboards, assisting in waking him from his slumber. Looking to the nightstand, his crusted eyes rested on the dirty ashtray with half a burnt cigarette on the edge. He extended one arm and retrieved the stick; placing it lopsided between his lips and holding It there while he searched for the lighter. The bed, stand and floor were messy but didn't conceal what he desired. Creaking as he stood, Alex took two steps to the doorframe and wearily retrieved his pants from the day before and searched the pockets.

In the right-side front pocket, he slid out a folded piece of paper, flicked away the lint and held it between his index finger and thumb. Clearing his throat, he shuffled the slip between the fingers until it was unfolded, and the phone number was legible. Blinking twice, he read the number many times; trying to memorize it. Then, he removed the stub from his mouth and set it back in the tray; clenching the paper in his fist.

The morning proceeded like many others before it, and similar as many to come. He got dressed then entered the bathroom to piss. A quick brushing of his teeth and check of his short hair, then off to the kitchen. In the fridge he searched for anything to satisfy his hunger, but after a disappointing search, he left without a meal. A knotted stomach was enough to keep him awake.