(Start Of) Drowned Beneath a Bleeding Sky

Roger awoke. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, morning grogginess clouding the picture, he wanting only to fall back into sleep. In this semi-conscious state he remained for an undetermined passage of time. With each tick of the clock, a new day's clarity only crept more into form. Roger groaned dejectedly. There was no way around it, a new day had indeed begun.

He sat up on his bed, placing his feet on the ground. He grabbed a piece of a cigar from his nightstand, He put it in his mouth and lit it. He took a long drag then released a thick plume of smoke into the room, as it hung within the still air, amorphously shifting and spreading out, the morning sun poking around the curtain that covered the window, creating a kaleidoscope of light and shadow within the room.

Roger listlessly stood up from the bed and, with the cigar in his hand, walked across the small room in which he lived, over to the window. He pulled open the curtain. The window was raised and a light breeze blew into the room through the screen. Roger looked out the window. He exhaled a disgusted sigh. He noticed an open bottle of vodka on a small table by the window. He let the curtain close and picked up the bottle and took a long swig then set it back down. He pulled open the curtain again and looked back out the window and shook his head. 'First morning light. Oh how I do so loathe thy sight.'

The picture was as it always was when Roger set eyes upon the world. An ugly portrait enclosed within a wicked frame, ambushed by a grotesque, the artist a madman, infatuated with their own power and greed, fulfilling a narcissistic, selfish need. People traveled within the same stream, of a jagged, twisted, broken dream. Pedlars held out all of their three hands with two behind their back, counting the money they possessed while the masses remained obsessed, with their petty, gutter goals, so goes the marching of the trolls, empty vessels without souls. So thrown the fist, so struck a hand, so erupted the flames as they were fanned, so billowed the smoke that choked the lung as everything remained undone, thimbles of gold to say they'd won. Zombies to masters who didn't give a damn, servants to some pointless scam. Petty aspiration, comatose masturbation, empty life vacation, decipher the translation, no words were being said, by the already dead, within the pit of depravity, so take a look and what you will see is, ugly.

Roger shook his head again. He let the curtain close and took a drag from the cigar piece then picked up the open bottle of vodka and took another long swig. He turned around, holding the bottle and walked over and sat back on his bed which was in the far corner of the room against the wall. He set the bottle down on the floor. He sat there smoking the cigar piece, staring ahead with a vacant gaze. He took another drag and put the cigar piece out in an ashtray on the nightstand, the ashtray being an empty can that was filled to the top and overflowing onto the nightstand. He picked up the bottle of vodka and filled a small cup on the nightstand. He set the bottle back on the floor and picked up the cup and took a drink. He exhaled a weary sigh.

"Well, guess I have to figure out what I'm going to do today." he unenthusiastically stated out loud to the empty room. He exhaled with antipathy and began assembling the things he would need for his shower, picking them up from the floor where they were scattered and placing them in a plastic bag. He realized that his options of things to do were not exactly bountiful and settled on just going out to run some errands, a tedious, familiar process, the destinations always the same. He picked up and lit another cigar piece that was atop the nightstand. He took two long drags and put the cigar piece out in the makeshift ashtray then picked up the bag and exited his room, closing the door behind him, walking to the bathroom to take his shower.

Roger was walking along the sidewalk, wearing the clothes he had slept in, a change of clothes to commence a new day really wasn't something that was given any thought. He was wearing a pair of black shorts and a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, his customary attire, temperature permitting. He was also wearing a black backpack, a useful accompaniment when running errands that made getting the items he had purchased back to his room a far less cumbersome process. Discordant noises from the traffic grated within his ears, a cavalcade of sirens cutting any pretense of serenity, seeming as if in an uninterrupted flow. An ambulance would race by to pass off the screaming baton to a police car speeding from the opposite direction which would screech around a corner with a fast turn to then pass the baton to several fire trucks barreling down the street from the direction the police car was heading so that there was not a moment of silence that wasn't immediately shattered by blaring sirens. 'Lovely' Roger thought to himself. 'I was thinking I really could go for some peace and quiet.' Roger sluggishly continued walking along the sidewalk. At some point he happened upon a bench and sat down. He pulled out a plastic pack of five cigars, took one out and lit it, put the pack back in his pocket then just sat there on the bench, smoking and looking around at the area.