Me, My Cigarette, and The World

1- Graham, the 24 year old hermit.

Graham

Why does the world have to be against me today?

I've run out of blue paint, my tv finally broke after months of clinging to life and the people in the apartment below me are apparently planning a massive party tonight that none of the neighbors are all too thrilled about. I guess I'm being a bit dramatic, but the owner of the apartment has been boasting about how he's hired a live band and I don't really fancy listening to loud guitars and drums past 11pm.

I didn't do anything to fix the problems that I could though. I'm still out of paint and my tv is still broken. I didn't even get dressed today. Even if I did, I probably wouldn't have mentally prepared myself to to leave the warm small space that is my bedroom until the shops were closed.

I can hear people talking beneath me and I roll my eyes before checking the clock. It's around 10pm, so the party down there is probably starting now. I want to call the cops and just report them right now so I won't have to deal with the noise for the rest of the night, but I kind of want to stay on Alex's good side as he bakes sweets for all the neighbors come Christmas time. It's just about the only think I have to look forward to around that time of year, so I'm just going to have to tough out this one time.

It's only a matter of minutes before the band starts up. The guitar is sloppy and the drums are mediocre at best, but that voice... It could really take them places. It has a unique lightness to it that I'm not even going to try and explain. It's just simply beautiful. The first song finishes, and there's a roar of approval that surges though the apartment. The band blasts into another song. It's a lot more intense than the last.

Instead of listening more, I move back to my painting and stare at it in disdain. It's only half done because I was a complete idiot and didn't double check if I had enough blue. Spoiler alert, I didn't. The painting isn't all that spectacular. It could be a lot better, but I brought my client in to see if they liked it so far, they had no complaints. They must have low standards for art.

I put on a Talking Heads record before grabbing a sketch book and sitting down in my bed. I don't remember the last time I just let myself draw things from the depth of my mind. I'm pretty much always busy with commissions and even when I'm not, I'm numbing my brain with the television until my eyes are sore and my head swirls. You could say it's an addiction, but it's really just boredom. I don't talk to anybody other than the friendly old woman that I have tea with on Sundays who lives next door. That reminds me, I should probably make something to bring tomorrow so I don't seem rude.

Grace is an all around lovely woman who cares for me like I'm her son. Her own children never visit her so she enjoys my company and it's nice. No one ever enjoys my company. Maybe I'm too awkward or shy, but I've never really got on with other people.

I draw random faces that I see on the backs of my eyelids so I don't forget them. I always do this. Certain facial features from different people will mesh together to create a brand new person who stares back at me from the paper. Harsh lines and eraser shavings line their face, but I don't mind it like that. I miss when I could be complimented on my detailed sketches and not just the random lines of splattered paint on canvases that I sell for hundreds of dollars. It makes me sad that people eat it all up and fork their money over for it as they claim they can see every emotion in each brushstroke. What a load of pretentious bullshit.

The time is nearing 1am now and the noise is beginning to become insufferable. It's still quite early, but I'm tired after a day of doing nothing. I want to get to bed. The band doesn't sound as pleasant as when they first started. The vocalist is slipping up now. I presume he's beginning to feel all the drinks he was yelling about in the previous hours. Serves him right.

I nearly laugh when I hear someone from downstairs yell about seeing cops. They all sound so frantic, running around. I wonder who called it in. It was probably Jamie. He always has work really early in the morning and I wouldn't be surprised if he was just as fed up with the noise as I am.

Everything is loud and hectic, until it isn't. The police must have finally gone in to sort out everything. I close my sketch book and turn off my lamp, listening to the crackling sound behind the music. I would die happy if I were always listening to that sound. I lay there for a few songs before I have the urge to go for a smoke. I sigh and get out of my bed.

I live alone so smoking in the house wouldn't be a problem, but I hate not being able to feel a slight breeze on my face as I smoke something that could potentially kill me. That breeze makes me feel alive in ways I never thought I could.

I make my way to the balcony and pay no attention as I step out onto it. I have a few seconds of silence where it's just me, my cigarette and the world, but something pulls me out of my calming trance.

"Hey mate, do you think I could bum one of those off you? I'm fresh out."

What the absolute fuck?
***
1006 words.
There are nowhere near enough Gramon fics on here.
(This is also really short. The next chapter will be longer.)