In Hell We Dance

Breathe

-Connor-

Breathe. They tell you to breathe. I'm breathing alright.

OK screw breathing; enter full-on panic mode.

I'm just a freaking kid. I mean I'm twenty, but I'm still a kid. I don't know how to put the trolley back in the trolley rack, let alone manage my own...

My own freaking property!

OK... O..... K...

I run my hands over my eyes and up through my hair. Breathe. Breathe...

It's a pretty dull fricking place, in the middle of a shitty area. I can hear the seagulls screaming just over the next building. There's a bridge back there that looms over a dingy river, a tattered limb that seeps into the ocean. The docklands are sooooo pretty. Right.

And it's my warehouse. Oh, here you go, Connor. You're my son; you'll know what to do. Biggest freaking lie. Ever.

It's freaking cold.

Do I say freaking a lot? Fricking, freaking?

Aargh! I'm doing it again.

Well, Connor, I suppose you should, I don't know, step into your new investment. What a stupid word. Investment. Like I'm actually going to make this place anything of worth. Now if dad had given me a charming little coffee shop, somewhere in the heart of the city, lovely pink walls—a lot of plants. Now that would be freaking sweet.

But no, that would be a poor investment. Coffee isn't going to keep his empire running. I don't know dad: have you tried it? It keeps a lot of us from dredging back into that horrible zombie morning state.

God, I feel like a whiskey or something. Jack Daniels. Heck, I'll ever settle for a shot of vodka. I don't drink. Not often enough anyway. I just can't see myself in those places. You need friends. Money isn't the issue, but you just look fucking sad drinking on your own in a nightclub.

A truck coughs and wheezes behind on the street and I jump. It sounded more like a gunshot. God, I scare easily.

I suppose it's a sign. Stop being a little baby, Connor. You're a man now.

Sometimes, hell, I might even believe that.

So I dip my feet onto the grey tarmac, speckled with black spots of insanity. Are those paint stains or blood?

I shiver.

Did I mention it's cold? My hands are practically dead in my hoodie pockets. I might have to set them in the oven for an hour to restore some feeling.

"Hello."

My voice fills the silence, finds a shape and comes back to me, distorted. Yep, no hobos living here. Good, I don't fancy a fistfight where one of us has lost the use of his hands, and the other has nothing left to lose in life. Plus I'm a pacifist.

Well, I guess I am alone. Literally and figuratively. Haha, it's great when you can laugh at your own miserable existence.

"Oh god, why am I such a loser?"

You know, maybe I can sell this place. The docklands are fricking cold as hell. I mean, everywhere here is cold as hell. But the air drifting from the salty grungy blue is like an icy dagger drawn up your spine, a thousand-thousand pricks across any inch of exposed skin. I wrap myself up tighter and congratulate myself on good fashion choice. I mean, barring my gloves which Oscar 'misplaced', little bastard... my beanie is like a snug blanket over my ears. So there's that.

I pace slowly, gazing into the dark corners, pressing through the shadowy doorways into more empty rooms. It's a pretty large place. Fucking grim. But large.