The Blues

Prologue

My steps were the only sounds to break the silence and city lights were the only brightness to break the darkness, but as I walked straight on the road ahead, past the neon street light and the blinding store sign, they lessened. Trees crowded into a dark forest on either sides of the road and the tall street lights that leaned over me, shone the way. I felt heaviness in my chest, a loneliness that men before me had and men after me will. Hands in my pockets, I watched as even the street lights began to get fewer and at last, I was left with almost total darkness. The cold, sharp, evening air of the rough October nights gave me chills, yet it didn't bother me. A small café lit the way ahead. It was a little, barely a floor building, with light of pink and blue hues and a tall, broken street light whose bulb twitched repeatedly, leaving the area dark for a second before shinning again. It looked almost abandoned except for the man behind the counter. Tiredly, with a sigh, I sit at a table slightly outside, with a view of the darkness ahead and watch the chubby man come over to me with a little pad. 

"What would you like, Sir?" His voice is thick and weary but so is mine when I gather the power to let out a few gentle words.

"Scotch on the rocks." I murmur as I roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt, watching him nod and head back over to the counter. Meanwhile, I observe. I look around and see the tiles that have been chipped away and smeared with ink and mud. I look around and see the way some bulbs are broken, some shinning dimmer, and the way some flitch. I look around and see the booths and the leather couches ripped slightly at some edges to reveal its stuffing. I can imagine this was a very popular place at some point. It was probably a huge buzz and everyone just loved coming here. I can imagine that at an earlier time, this hour would be the busiest. Waiters would be running around to take orders, steaming dishes whooshing across to tables and the happy sounds of a party. Up front there was a poorly lit sign that simply said "The Blues". That must be the name. The man shuffles back over with my drink on a tray, handing it down to me. I mutter a soft Thank you to him and proceed deep into my thoughts. Once, I had been a mighty man. I was one of the most important people around. Army generals, colonels came to me with issues and problems and I gave solutions. My empire was building and somehow, in a single night, it all collapsed. One of my men yammered or something and put all the blame of all crap in the world on me and to save his ass, the ones behind him turned in fake proof to clean their boss up. So, my empire fell within weeks of my leaving. They couldn't handle it, nobody trusted them. I became a prisoner, and just like that, I lost everyone I had ever known and everything I had ever cared for. And here I am, 5 years later, alone and in the cold, lost into my dark thought of how I lost everything during 1286 days of pure torture. After all that, my hormones were raging and all I wanted was a vulnerable pussy to take each and every miserable minute out on. I needed a real woman. I dreamt about it every night in that cold, dark prison cell. I need a perky, tender body that I can toughen with helpless, sad eyes that I can light up. And I need her to be there in the morning. But a woman the way I want it is not easily found. And most of them won't go for me, at least not for more than a night. But whatever, I'm used to such loneliness. It has made me the most hard-hitting man around. Yet as I sit there with a heavy heart and my seventh glass of liquor in hand, looking at the darkness and wishing it'd swallow me whole. I pull out a couple bucks and leave them on the table before waving at the little man and leaving. And so, I walk the roads of New York, slowly entering into the noise and the roars. Men and women dancing in the streets, cheap beer all over with screams and laughter. And though I'm surrounded, I still feel alone, and with every step I take, I realize how invisible I am. And so, I make it back home. The huge building that waited for me every night back before my imprisoning waits for me now. The same hundreds of stairs that lead to the same hundreds of rooms. Yet that one on the third floor, that ninth door, is where that same warm bed awaits for the nightmares ahead. I fall onto the pillow, my ridge body onto the fluffy sheets. And so ends another empty day, only to start another empty night.