The noon sun pierced through the edges of the light-bleached curtains, drawn to defend the sanctity of the man's sorrow from the unseen faces stalking along the pavements to whatever menial routine their Wednesdays consisted of. The beams of solar energy refracted through the plethora of beer bottles, casting dim colours and distorted shadows across the stained sheets of which he nestled. The elderly lady who inhabited the flat next door played the songs of a childhood long past, as she did every day, roaming the claustrophobic box to complete the same chores for the thousandth time.
He twisted under the sheets, stretching his pudgy arms towards an alarm clock cradled in a throne of takeaway boxes and cigarette packets. Even the slightest movement caused the hanging haze of smoke that blanketed the room to contort like a great writhing beast of the aether.
13:17.
Almost an hour earlier than yesterday, he told himself, a façade of comfortability to bring a temporary respite to the suffocating pain that coiled around his insides and yet he refused to acknowledge.
Lazily, he pushed the coverless sheets from his lower torso and slowly moved his legs from the bed, knocking the cracked picture frame he'd used as a make shift ash tray to the floor and spewing its contents across the turquoise carpet.
"Fuck" he scolded himself, before the blood rush to his cranium brought upon the throbbing pain attributed to weeks of exceedingly unhealthy drinking. He gently massaged his temple with both index fingers, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain. As the searing sensation ebbed away, he took a moment to reconcile his thoughts and readjust into his surroundings. The suitcase of clothes he had hastily assembled before exiting the home he had lived in for seven years had spilled its contents across the floor, and had scattered within the assortment of rotting food and used needles.
Slowly, he reached down to pick up the cracked picture that now lay face down on the floor. Wiping the grey stains left by the ash from the glass, his eyes locked with those of the newlyweds in the photo. A comely woman, adorned in a velvet dress and long auburn locks that trailed past her shoulders, clutched affectionately on to the arm of a young man he barely recognised. Their gleeful smiles failing to betray the trials they would endure. An inscription towards the bottom of the image listed the names of the two, words that now seemed almost alien to him, alongside the date '17th January 1997.'
Ripping himself from the bittersweet distant memories tainted by those more recent, he rifled through his bedsheets to find the outdated lump of plastic he now used as a phone. The bright screen of the device pierced through his retina and into his skull as he read the notifications he had received throughout his intoxicated slumber.
17 missed calls, 13 messages.
Almost all of them came the daughter who's face he now struggled to recall, accompanied by the angling hook of a loan shark company offering unrealistically low interest rates. He had no pictures of her, excluding for a poorly pixelated profile picture he had downloaded onto the device from her social media. But was somewhat able to recall her mousey hair and the beaked nose she had inherited from him.
He wanted to miss her, and had convinced himself that he was struggling without her, but deep down he knew she had had too much of her irreconcilable mother. Under the smothering tarpaulin of alcohol and narcotics, he had come to realise he relished in the lack of responsibility.
Carefully, he rose from the bed, letting the sheets fall to the floor about his cracked feet. For but a moment he dared a glance at the mirror, but was too disconcerted by the sight of the figure that stared back to hold its gaze. With every step he took towards the infantile kitchenette, his aged body creaked and cracked like the doors of a decrepit house. Whimsically, he flicked the switch to boil the kettle, carefully arching his back to reach the low-lying fridge unit.
