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Jordan Newman Jordan Newman
Recommendations: 15

Butterfly's In My Stomach, Cement Boots for Shoes (Chapter 2)

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i see angels above me, i see demons below me, fighting over heaven.
i loved her more when i was sober.
i don't want a second chance.
love starts with that of a flickerin' cigarette
i swear i could feel your love before i knew your name.

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Under the Double Star - Chapter One

“Bill, pleassse,” I slurred almost incomprehensible to the waitress. Some days my life feels as if it on repeat, Groundhog Day over and over. I've seen this waitress (the one of whom I can never recall her name) grow old. Her once youthful face now just a memory; but I suppose it works in reverse as well, she has seen me go from health to resembling death knocking at my door.

“Of course, Kris,” and she always seemed to not only understand my unintelligible slurs but remembered my name; because of this, she always has me leaving this diner feeling like such a prick. “No tab tonight, sweetie?” I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic, referring to my clearly depleting career; and with it any money I once had (suddenly I felt less like an asshole.)

With another fifty-five dollars added to my almost maxed out credit card it was time to start my walk of stumbling-shame home. The three blocks from Last-Chance Diner to my apartment never seemed like such a journey. My three step forward-two step backward waltz was more obviously annoying today than usual. When I had came earlier it had been at least some what sunny out; but now it was dark and gloomy. The hint of twilight was already becoming the day's fading memory; yet i didn't mind the cool breeze that kissed my exposed skin with the threat of frost bite. With nothing else to do (besides my conscious effort to not fall down as I walk) I began to decipher what time it could be. The diner was an all night diner; but they stop serving booze at the same time as clubs and bars. How long ago was my last shot? Suddenly a howling explosion echoed down the empty streets, bringing with it an unexpected downpour of rain. The speed in which it soaked my clothes was comparable to diving in a pool while, well, still wearing your clothes. Suddenly, the time seemed irrelevant as I attempted to speed my arrival time up so I didn't die in my t-shirt and jeans on a street corner (fulfilling everyone's prophecy of how I will die).

I barged into the lobby of my apartment building like a cowboy into a salon during a shoot out. I dived into the elevator like I was taking cover from a barrage of bullets. I laughed as the lift elevated me up past the other floors I have never seen. Life was completely a haze of colourful blurs and attempts to swallow my stomach's attempt at spewing up my dinner.

After twelve attempts (new record) at inserting my key into the door, I was successful. Instantly I could no longer ignore my body's demand; and like many nights before, I went into my bathroom to pay tribute to the porcelain God (my toilet), I could hear it beckoning for a sacrifice. A donation of my fluids; and who am I to ignore a deity’s cry of pain?

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At what time I do not know; but the sunlight had been peering through my blinds, caressing my body for a while. I awoke sweating, not from poisoning but from heat exhaustion. The sun rays were similar to a molester because it wouldn't let up. It molested my body with persistence; and I, like a sedated victim, I just moaned uncomfortably as I tried to shake off the bad-touch.

Refusing to awake to the nightmare that is my life, I tried to crawl away into a darker corner, somewhere light couldn't touch me; however like that child trapped in a stranger's car trunk, I came to the realization that I had very little room to maneuver. That's when the reality of life decided to once again slap me around into consciousness. Stripping my now damp and clingy clothes off, I got in the shower to wash off the filth. It took so much soap to scrub even a layer off I was dumbstruck as I tried to calculate the last time I even had attempted to preform personal hygiene.

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Sporting a pair of boxers, I engaged once again into the perverse depths of my simplistic mind and obeyed the addictions that control my life. COFFEE.

Once the coffee machine was started and I could hear the mechanisms turn, I went to my bedroom where I debated what to wear. It was always a toss up between my plain white t-shirt collection with a pair of old denim jeans, or of course, my plain white t-shirt collection and a pair of old denim jeans. In the end I settled for a plain white t-shirt and a ripped pair of old loosely fitting jeans combined with socks that smelt as bad as my clothes. An Italian Shower was in order (along with a mental note of DO SOME FUCKING LAUNDRY).

Walking back into the kitchen like a reanimated corpse, I poured my coffee and drank back the cup full black (not because I prefer it that way but because I was confident I had no sugar or milk), then as I went to refill the second cup of my Java I opened the cereal cupboard. However I don't have the per usual collection of morning treats. In there was a few empty boxes and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

As a preemptive qualification to myself I glanced at my clock: 10:45am. I shrugged and thought, the hell with it, pouring a few shots in my coffee. Smiling and smirking as I amused myself with some internal banter.

Next step of the day was to peel open the blinds to my living room. It often felt like a vampire awakening from his coffin for the light illuminated my apartment in an eeriness only old horror flicks could mimic. Stains on my furniture glistened, along with the dust sparkling as it danced through the air.

Alas, the final step before I got drunk as fuck again was to go to my desk and check my messages on the computer; however today I noticed a beeping light from beside the phone I had disconnected. Tracing it back, I found the cord plugged in and discovered an answering machine flashing: ONE...ONE...ONE; so I hit play and once again was greeted by an automated robotic voice. At least this time it was a female, that was a little comforting.

“One new message. Sent yesterday at 10:43 pm.” Goddamn these machines sounded like a retarded kid with down syndrome as they tried to pronounce words properly. “Hi, Kris,” PFFFFFFFFT (I spit my drink out). “Why did you hang up on me?” It wasn't the fact I had a message that surprised me; or even the fact that it was clearly the same lunatic who had been bugging me but, “That wasn't very nice, Kris.” But simply because it dawned on me, 'I DON'T OWN AN ANSWERING MACHINE.' This guy had crossed the line from annoying to complete creep.

“Since you didn't have the patience to hear me out,” The voice was still robotic but it was slower than before; therefore I imagined him stifling back his rage as he left this message. “I came to see you in person but you were already getting drunk at that diner. So I figured I'd wait around a bit; or at least leave you a message but your apartment is so Goddamn messy I thought I'd get sick waiting; and I definitely was unable to find a pen, pencil and/or any paper to leave a message if I wanted (I was grateful he didn't make cracks to how I could be a P.I and journalist with no writing utensils of any kind).” Although he was extremely considerate about all this, I stood still, frozen like a deer in head lights. “And with work being so slow I see you can't even afford an answering machine so I took the courtesy of getting one for you. I hope you don't mind?” I kept expecting a friend to come bursting out of my closet with a camcorder screaming, “Got ya! Fuck you should see your stupid face!”

“You can go ahead and keep this Kris, but please,” But then I remembered, “don't unplug it this time though. I will be in touch with you soon.” 'I don't have any friends.' “I just have some business to take care of, I'll tell you all about it in a few days.” Silence. Both on the machine and in my head. “Or you'll see it on the news; but still, I would like to explain it to you. It'll be good for your career, it'll help you be revamped.”

“End of message. Save or delete?”


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