Road to Damascus

Chapter 2 - Inexplicably

^ Anthony Duke

The ceiling was a stark contrast to the cleanliness of the room. It was clearly water-logged, and even without the singular drip-drop, anyone could tell. The murky brown stains seemed to be making a continuous progression to no point in particular. To make matters worse there would be a cockroach scampering across the length of the ceiling every few minutes. It was disgusting but it sure did beat the cat-sized rats that would scurry less than a few feet away from the dining hall at the shelter.

Anthony had barely slept at all last night. It was a combination of voices outside his window, the constant shuffling from across the hall, and the fear of closing his eyes. Truth be told, he couldn't decide what pissed him off the most.

Sprawled face-up on the bed, the man just stared at his dingy view.  A scowl made its way onto his face as the tawny ceiling seemingly stared back at him. The color was so inexplicably depressing - a reminder of his life. 

What a fucking joke, he thought. 

Just as the thought passed, a drop of the ceiling piss-water landed smack on his forehead.

"What a fucking joke," he muttered, as he languidly rolled to his side, and sat up on the edge of the bed.

The drop of water remained untouched, as it made its way down his forehead, down his nose, hanging off the tip of his nose before landing on his top lip.

The disgust of not knowing the source of the god-forsaken water sprung the disgruntled Anthony into action - one long drag of spit onto the wooden floorboards.

Where the little spat of spit sat, Anthony noted that the floor of his room had been polished. The contrast between the nasty view above and the polished wooden floorboards made him roll his eyes. His mind flashed to the dark-skinned woman just across the hall from him.

His mood darkened.

He honestly didn't understand what he was being punished for. He also honestly didn't understand why felt so much contempt towards her. There was nothing for him to feel towards her - the situation, on the other hand, he had a lot to feel and say about.

Closing his eyes, he began counting to three before making a move to stand up.

One.

Two.

Three.

Caught off guard by the disequilibrium, Anthony found himself staggering forward towards the wall. Catching himself with his right hand, he paused for a moment - shocked. 

He then chuckled.

What a fucking joke.

The beds at the shelter had mobility railings. They were tiny and rigid but at least they were "disability-friendly".  This bed was king-sized, and the mattress was decent, but here he was struggling out of bed.

Anthony chuckled again. 

He straightened up and ran his hand across his face. 

It wasn't the bed's fault. He had just simply forgotten he didn't have an arm. An occurrence that he just couldn't seem to escape. Every time he got up, he was granted a few minutes of delusion. In those moments, he could allow himself to be angry at anyone and anything. The fucking bed. The fucking piss-water. The fucking floor.

And as soon as the realization hit him, his anger deepened, directing itself at him. 

This time around, in his brevity of self-hatred and seething anger, all he could do was chuckle.