The sunlight fell upon his hands

The sunlight fell upon his hands. He felt the warmth extend up his arms, the blood growing in his biceps, triceps, his shoulders, his heart. He had been here as the sun grew large, out of the all-encompassing darkness. Shadows grew large, in the hours past. The past came to him in shadows, vast, threatening, ever present, then gone, suddenly in the blink of an eye, an eye not mine. An undefined eye.

 The warmth stirred him. It woke his blood and stirred his feet. He breathed a depth of air that cleansed his mind yet gave forth only two degrees.

 "I need to piss and I need coffee".

 

Mort brought his ample frame to something close to inconspicuous, his fallible legs conspiring against him. He laid his body against the wall of the hospital corridor, knowing that he had two choices. One was to relinquish himself into the care he desperately needed. 

The other were the two green bottles in his dirty leather coat inner pocket. They sang like sirens. They spoke so sibilant, so sensual, like sirens on the seas. 

"Take my pleasure, take my peace, you need bought but me.'

Mort lifted his head, a burden he would give away, if that was just the price to pay.

He stumbled on and found the nurse, a symbol of hope, behind a bench that smelled simultaneously of hope and indefinite physical capture, a state where he would relinquish control with the aim of regaining control.

He managed to utter only a few words.

"Can you help me?"

Her face did not respond. Not a twitch, not a pursing of the lips.

All that occurred was a stretch of an arm and three buttons pushed.

"Security."

He saw her close her arms before her chest, and was briefly reminded of his mother, and withdrew the concentrated opiate from his pocket. He had made it into a volatile state through what he termed a colleague. The ketamine he shoved down his pants. His last thoughts were, 'M***********s, you will help me on my terms."

Events proved him wrong. Such is life, hey Mort.

He turned and made it out into the light. It stung his eyes and reminded him of another time that he had done this, the last time, that time when he...His mind chased the memory but nothing happened, other people, other addicts, family members, friends telling him, everyone always telling him...it was the one thing he could count on. He made it out onto the street and got knocked onto the pavement, the light brighter than he could ever imagine possible...where to now?

 

He stood and looked back but there was no-one. Here he was again, back out on the street, without money or food or shelter, the usual predicament...He started walking, the traffic and the sound of the city roaring. He made it to the underground, then fell down the steps and hit his head and just lay there, the smell of women's perfume and then the smell of urine. He lifted himself and just sat there for a while, looked around at the workers walking past, what to make of it, this life. He thought about his options: the mission would still be open; he reckoned that he could still get there before five, before they would shut the gates; he would get there, get a hot meal and sleep on one of the benches, then think about what to do next.

 

He made it onto his feet and looked up at the sky then down at the steps and started them, held his balance and kept walking, felt the sweat in his arm-pits, the tiredness coming on again. He made it onto the platform and stood along-side of them, the workers, men and women dressed in suits, looked around and saw a seat and took it, felt his head spinning again. Got to get to the mission, if he could do that, he'd be home free...

 

The light buzzed and flickered, made his head worse. He held it in his hands and counted the stops then stood and made out onto the platform and walked the street in the twilight air, felt the cramps in his stomach. By the time that he made it a fat man in uniform was closing the gate and the man recognised him but he couldn't remember his name.

 

'Back again, Mort.'

 

The courtyard held the usual selection: an old guy passed out, a woman in tight leather smoking a cigarette. They looked up at him.

 

‘Hey, Mort.’

 

‘Hey.’

 

 

 

Reviews

[roarke]

I really dug this write. Coming in and out of cognitive awareness as defined by indications of his surroundings. Is this an excerpt from a longer story? I think, if written in first person, this could stand as is. But in third person, just a sentence or two at the beginning to orient the reader?? dunno. Still its a cool piece.