The Taste of Chrome

A Story by Fugazzi

Lonely Perspective

The Taste of Chrome

Its nights like these where you truly feel alone. Nights you wish you had a gun to put in your mouth, maybe shed a tear or two. You will eventually puss out because that’s how it goes. It’s a performance without an audience. Alone, in this s**t hole room, in this s**t hole city where you spend so many hours. I can almost trace each crack on the ceiling from memory. It’s only six pm and I have only had one beer; and that’s scary. Usually when I contemplate offing myself, and I assume most disturbed normal people do; it’s after sipping a bottle of whiskey silently around 2am.

The phone hasn’t buzzed in years on a weekend. Why should it? I can’t tolerate the thoughts in my head. Why would anyone else put themselves through the agony of hearing my thoughts rambled out of my voice box like a schizophrenic heard of words huffing it’s way in no particular order straight for normal, loved ears?

Growing up I never understood how people could love their work so much they would go in on weekends. Now I know why, It’s the lonely disease. Why stay home when you can go to work and fool yourself that you’re a normal, productive bee helping the beehive. The beehive is worthless, we all die and eventually so does the beehive and that b***h of a queen.

During the week I must fool my co-workers, put on a happy face, a normal face. Then just maybe they won’t sense my loneliness. They always do because there is nothing worse smelling then the dreaded stench of desperation and lies. But, I don’t care I must still act, maybe if I act good enough they will like me, they will invite me into their circle of friends. They rarely do and if they do they learn the real me and regret being fooled or taking a chance or both.

I pass by restaurants full of people, couples, friends, groups. I never had that, how do they pull it off. Maybe they were loved in a normal family? That’s the lie I tell myself to make my self feel better about being solo. I know deep in the back of my mind, the truth is whispering in a shaky unconfident voice, “Someone in that warm restaurant had it worse then you and learned to change and be better, steady at peace.” Me, I’m too weak I guess, so I yell and bite the voice like a ravaged beast of my ancestors and I spit that voice back into the corners of my brain. The voice is abused and quiets for a few weeks.

Now tiredness, eventually sleep.