White Wide World

Evil World

                                                                                                  

Once again I stride down the long white halls. I'm still sweaty from my session and my run here. It's been a few days since I've been here. I wish it was longer though- God, I hate this place. The days I spend away have been used on training mainly. I guess you could call me a lonely man. Very few people are close to me. The word 'friend' is the word most likely to get you fucked over by someone. I learned that lesson long ago- there isn't anyone who fits the bill.

They might be all of those things, but I don't like to use the word friend to describe them. It'll just get men down me down when they betray me one day. And they will, I know it. Calling them friends would make them seem too close to me—that isn't only a bad thing for me, but for them as well. I'll always have to watch myself, not to let anyone get too close. Many people would also describe a friend as someone you trust. I show trust to no one —not even my old man. Trust makes you weak.

My sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor as I turn a corner. My sweatshirt is damp with sweat and a bit of dust rain. I feel around in my pocket to find my iPod. I find it in the left pocket of my sweatpants. While I walk, I turn off the Metallica and pull the headphones out of my ears. I look up and see my path is fairly clear, like usual. No matter how many people there are in this hallway, everybody seems to choose the overly crowded part of the hallway. I guess some people would categorize me as a scary guy. If I had to be fairly honest, I would be offended if they didn't. It's not a new thing for me. It's easier for me when people think of me as a monster. I have to beat up fewer guys because they think they can't possibly take me down. I've been fighting ever since I was born. Even before I graced this earth, my mother fought off my father to protect me, her unborn child. Fighting is in my blood.

The young nurse who helped me find my dad a few days ago is standing behind the counter looking at the telephone blankly while chewing on her gum open-mouthed. I guess the only good thing I can say about her is, that there isn't a cunning or sinister thing about her. I'm thinking about throwing myself on the ground just to avoid her she's so damn demanding. Before I have the chance, she's already seen me and hooks her arm in mine. I look down to glare at her with furrowed brows. I try to decide whether to just throw her off me, but I might need her later. She's forced to let go of me when we reach the door. I can barely get through the door alone, so getting through with her on my arm is impossible.

My old man is awake and clearly drunk, but what did I expect? If they had taken his Martini away at once it would have killed him. He's just sitting on the wooden chair in his underwear and a white t-shirt. The hospital is not even close to warm, so seeing him sitting here without any pants or sweatshirt makes me slightly concerned.

"They're taking my Martini away, Jason, they're taking it away!" he sobs pathetically. I look at him blankly. I mean, what did he expect? I sit quietly.

"It had to end some time," I answer him, not really concerned about his sobbing and drooling. It happens every damn time he drinks. He either gets sentimental or he gets angry—I enjoy neither.

"Pops, put on some trousers." I grasp a pair of sweats from the closet and throw them at him. He doesn't even try to catch them he just lets them hit him in the head and drop to the floor.

"Jason! You aren't the boss! The president is the boss!" he sneers angrily at me. I guess if you aren't used to it, you could easily take offense in some of the things my old man says. Me? Not anymore—I'm used to his words and his fists. I draw a deep breath, walk over to him, and grasp his shoulder harshly.