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Three A.M.

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Joined: 30 Mar 2004
Posts: 430
Location: Michigan
Three A.M.  Reply with quote  

I felt left out, so here ya'll go. Wrote this when I was uhh.....14 I think. Be kind, I don't usually post this kind of stuff.

Three A.M.

The city seemed cold, dark, harsh as Ryan looked out of his third story window. The glass shook slightly, wavering in its efforts to keep the noises, and the harshness out. It tried to keep him safe and sheltered. He found it amusing that people expected a simple pane of glass to do that. He didn’t care, it worked for him. He opened the window and stared at the street below. Somehow it seemed prettier from that height. Not a hint of the litter and filth that really resided on it. Everything looks better from a different angle though. Maybe that’s where they got the saying “The grass is greener on the other side”, maybe it wasn’t the side, maybe it was just the angle they were looking at it from. He laughed at his sudden burst of philosophy as he shut the window.

The apartment was cold. The glass, while doing its job at keeping out the harshness of the world, neglected to keep out the cold. He shrugged it off, he was used to it. He flopped onto his bed, which was little more than a mattress, and stared out the window. The neon sign across the street was blinking it’s usual “Vacant” message, the red light flooding his room. He hated that light, he wished someone would shoot the bulbs out of it. He would do it himself if he could afford a gun. But then there would be the dilemma, if there were no sign, what would he blame his sleepless nights on? Certainly not himself. It was against human nature to blame something on oneself. Perhaps he would blame it on the window, and its failed efforts to keep the cold out of his room. Perhaps he would blame it on his bed, and how the springs poked into his back, but certainly not himself. He sighed, lighting a cigarette, the little orange glow from it becoming the only illumination in the room, save the blasted neon light with its incessant blinking. He watched the smoke wind its way toward the ceiling, then seemingly disappear. He coughed. Those things were going to kill him and he knew it, yet he took another drag. He might as well know how he was going to die. He rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes as he flicked his ashes onto the floor. No need to worry about falling asleep and catching the dump on fire. He looked over at his clock, a long time to go, he thought. Morning’s far off, and sleep is too. He sighed. It was only 3 A.M.

He began to let his mind wander in that land of near sleep where all ones troubles and worries float away, carried on the wind like the scent of flowers. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to dream. He closed his eyes and imagined himself in a better place. Happily married perhaps, maybe a few kids, a job and certainly a nice house. The memories of this shack in the middle of the slums would be dissolved in the pool of his newfound happiness.

But reality would force its way back into his mind like a battering ram, forcing his eyes open to stare at the low ceiling with its cracked plaster. The cracks ran back and forth, creating some sort of pattern across the ceiling. Someone walked across the floor in the apartment above, showering dust and pieces of plaster down onto him. He coughed and wiped it off his face.

“Gotta fix that,” he uttered. His cigarette, hanging out of his mouth, bobbing up and down with every word. How unrefined, he thought, certainly not acceptable for a gentleman of his station in life. He laughed. He was so full of crap.

He closed his eyes again, wishing for sleep to find him, but knowing full well that it wouldn’t. It hadn’t found him in nearly two months. He was used to it, he wouldn’t mind if it weren’t for the mind numbing boredom he suffered each night between sunset and dawn, when everyone elses world was at peace and his was in torment. He wished for one night of sleep, just one night to have a good dream. One night to dream of something happy, of something better than this.

He rolled over and looked at the clock again. The little numbers seemed to mock him. It seemed like ages had passed, but it was still only 3 AM.
"During sex, I'm kind of like wet panties. Annoying, and you just want to get me off so you can go back to doing what you were doing."

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