They say by the stroke of midnight all the dark ethereal forces of the earth stir within the air creating the perfect concoction of mystic ire for the witching hour. Probably explains why I was up at 3 am trying to exorcise the demons from my mind. The punching bag that violently swung from the ceiling had served its purpose but at the expense of bloody knuckles and cuts that were now covered in dried up blood that crusted over the bandages on my hand. It had been more than two hours since I last had a drop of liquor and the most agonizing part of my days were when I was either sober or consciously aware of my pathetic existence.
I ripped of my shirt and stuffed it into my duffle bag. I stripped off the gangly strands of my bandages and tossed them into a near by bin. The mirrored walls of the gym mocked me with the reflection of someone I could not bare to acknowledge and in haste I ran out the building, belongings in tow. From the fog of my labored breaths I could tell that the temperature was a bit low so I pulled on a grey hoodie that lay at the bottom of my disarrayed bag. There probably was no place open at this time so I decided to pay my old friend Giovanni a visit. He owned a small coffee shop, conveniently located within the neighborhood. The walk was quite a distance but I didn't mind. After a few minutes - of what seemed to be aimless wandering- I was greeted by a neon sign with Giovanni's name. It hung above the shop's patio shinning with a faint glow while some of the letters frantically flickered, accompanying it was the occasional buzz and sparks of electricity.
The yellow light emanating from the coffee shop confirmed that the shop was indeed open. I pushed open the door to be welcomed by the familiar interior of green wooden chairs with checkered cushions at black tables. Aerosmith, Kenny Rogers and steel cage panther's vinyl records and posters hung askew from the ivory painted walls that had begun to peel off and fairy lights were strewn across the walls haphazardly. Surprisingly, a few customers whose lilting voices created a calming ambience inhibited the shop. Not wanting to interact or draw any more attention to my disheveled appearance, I made a beeline towards a high stool at the breakfast bar. That very moment, Giovanni appeared from a door that seemed to have led to the kitchen. His greying mane was slicked back into a style that resembled that of a vehement firearm's aficionado in the 1920's. Something I frequently observed in the films Damien watched. He wore a black shirt and jeans, which he used to dust off the flour on his hands. His eyes quickly averted to mine and he broke out into an infectious grin.
"Lightwood, its' been far too long mi figlio. What brings you here?" He inquired.
"A burdened soul I'm afraid as well as a favor that you owe me."
Giovanni smile vanished replaced by his lips forming a grim line. His grey eyes turned into a death black. He turned away and brought two shot glasses and a bottle of moonshine which he slammed onto the table. He then poured himself and I a shot, shoving mine towards me.
"Start talking." he demanded.
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It was now 5 am and the cafe was still open but the number of customers had dwindled down to a goth girl who sat in the corner curled in ball sipping on coffee that she not so discreetly laced with vodka and a shadowy figure that sat next to the window on the opposite end of the cafe. The moonshine sat in between us and we had managed to get through three quarters of the bottle, at least I did. Giovanni wimped out after his third shot. I on the other hand had developed a high tolerance for alcohol and was about to pour out my fifth shot but was quickly stopped by his hand gripping my sleeve.
"I think that's more than enough. Moonshine is some pretty strong stuff."
I nodded my head and put my shot glass down and ran my hands through my hair. The alcohol gave me a buzz that warmed my skin to the touch that made me feel somewhat happy.
YOU ARE READING
The Last Hallelujah
Fantastik"We are the forsaken, we are the damned, the unloved and the forgotten. We are bound to the chains of our sins and guilt held by our betters. A constant reminder of our wrong doings. Why should they care about us? We have been deemed unworthy, unfit...
