Ambition

Chapter 5

Harry

When I wake up, my face is smashed in the carpet of what appears to be my bedroom and a book is objectively draped over the face of my hand. I raise my heavy head, acknowledging the pounding inside it and scan the walls for familiarity. Yep, I tell myself, at least I made it home.

The events of last night appear as cloudy bits and pieces. I remember drinking at some old bar downtown, and leaving my car there. Shit, my car. I jump up and force my way into the kitchen, searching the countertops for relief. I find a bottle of aspirin and pop two in my mouth before filling a mug that looks clean enough, a quarter ways up with milk and then topping it brim high with coffee that must have finished brewing hours ago by the looks of it.

My mother is nowhere to be seen, which is a relief. I'd rather avoid lectures first thing in the morning. The kitchen clock that somehow became a priority over the all the utensils, reads just before noon from the plain cream walls.  

Some curious markings on my arm catch my attention, and a few more images of last night sink into place. They are the directions from the bar to the Metro station. Since they're still on my arm, that probably means I haven't showered and smell like crap, so I walk into the single bathroom our flat offers and strip the dress clothes off my body before turning on the hot water.

I'll have to remember to get those washed before placing them back in my car again, recalling how I changed before my meeting with the counselor yesterday afternoon. Stepping in, I adjust the nozzle to my height, and work to remove the lettering from my arm. I faintly remember telling that guy, Skip I think, that I'd come back and play for him tonight. Hopefully I can talk my way out of that.

I take the time to really soak my hair with shampoo, the curls straightening under the hot water. I scrub over my torso, tracing the lines of my tattoos as I go. Most of my friends back home similarly resembled me in this way: lanky, heavily tatted lads with big aspirations contained in inconsequential bodies. None of us were perpetually angry, but the cocksure atmosphere we'd all emitted is what kept our small group from expanding. Yet although we'd spent that majority of our time downtown at local bars and crashing parties, I don't think any of us could have listed five facts about the other outside the realms of smoking and drinking. We all figured we were just enjoying the wild days of our teenage years, jauntily taking life day by day. Good lord I miss those days.

I search the side of my arm for one of my favorite tattoos, remembering well the night I'd added it to the growing collection of ink taking over my body. I'd gotten the small black triangle the night my dad had come home to tell mom and I he was taking the house, and shipping us to the flat he'd bought in Dallas with some fable promise to join us there eventually.

That was the night I finally decided I didn't give a shit about how I was supposed to react, what society was screaming at me- the acceptable things to like, what to do with my life, and a bunch of other shit I no longer gave a fuck about. I could no longer live under Floyd's dark side of the moon. Life wasn't supposed to be so miserable, we all have the choice to live or exist and I was tired of the existing part. In the back of my mind Heathcliff's famous lines plays over in my head and I mumble it softly to myself, "I cannot live without my life. I cannot live without my soul."

I know he hadn't meant the line in the way I meant it now; I wasn't comparing my experiences to that of needing a lover of any sort. To be honest I was never good with girls back home- they were all too easy, and what fun was that. I want a girl who actually respects herself, meaning her standards are high and if I fit in them then I'd be honored. If she's easy then what does that say about me?