There was that weight again, like an annoying sibling peering over one’s shoulder and nagging in a loud, annoying voice.
The man sat on the chair, his legs stretched out and his hands hanging along the arm of the chair, feeling numb now from how long he’d been in that position.
He groaned and tried to stand up—the third time he was making the attempt—and finally pulled his weight off the chair.
Yes, there was that sharp pain in his arm as blood began to flow, but that pain was nothing compared to the one on his shoulder, or that stabbing ache in his heart.

He dragged his feet across the floor and paused when the bulb in his room flickered and came on. Before now, the room had been in complete darkness, save for the soft light coming from the fading screen of his laptop. He looked up and the glowing bulb.

Power was back on. The stand fan by his desk creaked noisily as it started its monotonous whirl, only managing to turn halfway before it creaked and creaked and then, as if finally giving up, turned instead to the other side, blowing cold air across the room.

The man welcomed this breeze; the room had been sweltering hot moments ago, and it still was, and that had been one of the reasons he’d wanted to leave the chair he’d slumped on half an hour earlier.
He sighed heavily and pushed back the chair behind the desk and, as usual, sat on it and stared at his laptop. He wanted to write, he felt it deep inside him.
There were papers scattered over the desk; outlines and charts, and ideas which he’d scrapped away several times. A half empty bottle of beer sat on the only free space on the desk, the liquid still and relentless just like everything else—except, of course, the fan; that thing was shaking like an old man with arthritis, or perhaps some other relevant metaphor.

He sighed again, the writer, and squirmed on his seat. There were empty bottles around the foot of the desk, and also by his bed. It told a story, a miserable days and happy nights; the bottles, the alcohol, they helped; they spoke to him, and he to them. They were his friends, and yet they killed him, for he knew of how quickly they left once morning came.

Blinking slowly, his eyelids heavy, the writer shifted his gaze from the bottle to the laptop. He wanted to write, but he couldn’t. That was his weight. The words were in his head, but he felt tired; he’d been writing all day, all month, all year, but his story hadn't been told; not yet.

A few minutes later, the glow in the bulb brightened and the writer looked up, his eyes red and swollen. His hair was black and rough, and his eyebrows bushy.
He watched the bulb closely, the way the center seemed to hold some mysterious secret, and then it suddenly exploded and he shut his eyes tight, a heavy sigh building up.

A spark came from the wall socket and the creaking fan, as if relieved, let out a sigh and its hum became nonexistent. A voice echoed from along the corridor outside his room, and soon he heard a knock on his door. There it was, the heavy sigh, as he left his seat, the laptop still on and the page blank, and walked over to answer the door.

It was the landlord, who also happened to be his next door neighbor. He was fuming, this thin man with a cigarette clutched between his puffy lips. His eyes were little and dark, and very alive. His body, very lean, was veiny in almost every place visible.

‘Wetin you on?’ the landlord asked, his voice thick and his words accompanied by thick cigarette smoke.

The writer watched him, and he wondered, what will a cigarette taste like? I should try it. He said nothing as the landlord ranted on until, apparently, he ran out of air and started to wheeze.

The landlord said something about not wanting to be killed by his own tenant, and then announced that power would be out for the rest of the week, before storming off.

The writer sighed and started to head back in when he heard the landlord’s voice.

‘You say?’ the landlord barked and started turning around.

Realizing that this meant another few minutes of random babbling, the writer hastily said, his voice low, ‘I didn’t say anything.’

A low grunt and the man was soon gone.
The cigarette, the writer kept thinking, why does he love it so much. I should try it.

He entered his room and closed the door, breathing slowly.

The heat was back again, although the fan hadn’t done a great job of chasing it away before.

Moving away from the door, the writer went back to his desk, grabbed the half empty beer, raised his hand up and shook the bottle. The liquid swirled and foamed, and he smiled and drank from it. The effect was almost instant; the sudden confidence as that warm feeling rushed through his body.

He went back to the door, bottle in hand, and opened it. The corridor was empty and cluttered with boxes and bags, and random stuff from the other tenants in the tiny apartment. The landlord was gone, and good thing, too, the writer thought; he was sure he would have told him a thing or two, like how his landlord reminded him of those skinny fowls his mother had once owned, the sick ones whose feathers had peeled off their necks giving them a shrunken look.

He laughed at the thought of this, for in truth he’d actually written something like that before; he’d written stories about his landlord, and every other person who lived in that apartment.

Another swig from the bottle and a satisfied sigh, and the writer smiled. He was happy once again, the bottle had come to his aid. There was that lingering feeling, however, and he wanted it off his shoulder. He needed to leave the house, talk a walk perhaps.

‘Besides,’ the writer said to himself and stared at the bottle, ‘you’re empty and I need another.’

There is a beauty to the world outside the writer’s grim world, and he saw it each time he stepped out of his room. Of course, the beauty didn’t start until he passed the old, red house he lived in, and its broken, rusted gate.
The sky that evening was purple and the clouds pink. The writer stood and admired it; also, he stood because walking seemed a bit stressful at that point. He swayed and staggered, and the images around him seemed to move around with him.
The air was cool against his skin, and pleasant. The world—the one he saw—was silent and captivating. There were people moving around, and they all had smiles on their faces and a bounce on their step. Across the road, a beautiful woman—perhaps the most beautiful he’d ever seen—waved at him.
He straightened up, frowned, looked around him, and then back at her. She waved at her again, and he slowly waved back.

She gestured for him to come over and he pointed at himself, still not sure he was the one. She nodded and smiled; a sweet smile, her lips spread wide showing glimpse of her teeth, white as can be.

He crossed over and met her. She was even more beautiful up close, her skin dark and reflecting the moonlight—for it was night already, and the writer wondered about this—her legs long and her skin, when he touched it, smooth.

‘What are you searching for?’ the woman asked the writer.

That’s a weird question, the writer thought, but he told her. He said to her, ‘I don’t know.’

She smiled and reached out for him. Her fingers touched his arm and slid lower until she held his hand, and the bottle fell off it and hit the ground, the glass shattering and the liquid spilling.
The writer looked down and watched the foamy liquid, catching the smell of beer, as it evaporated off the ground.

Her hand was on his now, this strange, beautiful woman, and he smiled. He liked it.

They said nothing as they walked around the night, taking in the world around them. The air was pleasant and fresh, punctuated by soft conversations and laughter.
The writer walked along with the beautiful woman by his side, and he felt proud. People left their business to gaze at them—maybe at her, but he was with her so it made no difference—and some of them smiled and nodded, and they seemed to approve. Their nods, to the writer, felt like a collective ‘you have great taste’ compliment.

He was soon alone with the woman, and he turned to her. It never really did occur to him that she had no discernable features, except her lips.

He knew she was beautiful, there was no doubt about that; it was one of those natural things, but when he looked closely at her face he couldn’t see anything else.

‘Who are you?’ he asked her.

Her lips spread into a smile and she squeezed his hand.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she answered him and rested her head on his shoulder. The writer frowned, but he let it pass. It didn’t matter who she was, he just didn’t want her to go. He’d never felt happy before, but he was sure he’d be happy with this woman. Her voice cut into his thoughts.

‘What are you searching for?’ she asked once again.

He knew now. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew what he’d been searching for all this time.

‘My story,’ he said and looked up at the moon, ‘I know I’ll be happy once I find my story; once I tell it.’

Her voice lingered in his head as she said, ‘then tell it. Tell your story. You have story, it’s in there, just tell it.’

The writer smiled and turned to look at the beautiful woman, but she was gone. He sighed and closed his eyes, and when he opened it he found himself in his room, his head on his desk.
He blinked his eyes rapidly and raised his head, a piece of paper stuck on it. He peeled off the paper and looked at it.

Scrawled in his own handwriting were the words ‘tell your story’. He looked around the room—still in darkness—and once again looked at the paper.

‘Okay,’ he mumbled and pressed a key on the laptop.


END

nice

oloyedprince1:
nice

Thanks.

Read my other work on here, it's an episodic story. Check my profile. You'll love the story.