Alex and the Atlas

A short, unfinished piece. One of my first stories.

Alex stood there, resigned to the fact he was a prisoner of the grey, impenetrable walls of himself. The walls stood higher than any humans range of vision. He was free, but trapped, there he stood, a victim of his curiosity and the ambiguity it served so bitterly.

   Alex woke most mornings next to another indifferent stranger; she always seemed to be cold, colder than the room after a window was left open, which he despised so well. Today, Alex woke up to the piercing, shattering drone of birds on his apartment balcony, another day he thought, “Why?” he chuckled viciously to himself. Alex often questioned his own existence in this manner, he didn’t understand life, how it was chosen, it wasn’t due to a lack of trying as a child dedicated it to studying to his father’s horror, his father had dreams of him taking over the small mechanics business he had set up from scratch on the other side of town, his father still alive and well runs it to this day. Alex studied Mythology and Religion at a young age, he could tell you more about your religion than any Pastor could, although this was out of intrigue not belief. Alex saw religion as a weakness, another reason to want to die he thought.

   Eventually he climbed out of his linen sheets and slid into a reasonably expensive pair of slippers, he pulled a white tee over his head, require a small amount of force. Walking over to the kettle, he turned on the T.V in the far corner of the apartment room, knowing what channel would be on, the news, it always was and always would be as Alex liked the feeling of being engulfed in the troubles of others, indulging in their misfortune, not out of malice or in a sadistic manner, simply to escape his own apathy, it made him feel real and somewhat worthwhile which was partly the reason for him undertaking a career in psychotherapy. Not for the diminishing paper that had some sort of value to society, for something far more valuable, an equilibrium, a calming to the storm that was his genetics. The television glared into the darkened room, he glanced at the clock, 05:00am, it blasted out a story regarding a small family off the coast of California “The father of the Conan family was believed to have been heavily in debt and this is the suspected motive of him murdering his wife and twin three year old children.”

   “Poor b*****d” Alex replied, it didn’t really bother him as these stories were similar to the thousands that rattled his unconscious mind, you see he was used to sob stories, he heard them every day, Alex had become desensitized by his childhood, his hidden past, everything about him was, his personality, his grey bed, white walls, black quilt, grey cooker. Alex craved simplicity unlike most of his patients. So much so in fact that he considered himself a pretender, when he was a child he used to pretend to be something great, usually Superman or Spiderman, bouncing from car roof to car roof slinging his silky transparent web, it kept a spark inside of him, smaller than a match but there non-the-less .

   Early New York mornings were weird Alex thought, it had the density of traffic and population outside but the silence of the night still remained, the indifference as if the world were still awaking, the sense of sound universally still, yet to acknowledge its existence and put itself into use, much like he did most mornings, except it was Alex’s vision that failed him for the first ten seconds of his consciousness. The office was a reasonable distance away from his apartment, walking terms ten minutes maximum; Alex preferred walking as opposed to driving, he enjoyed the reality of the brisk, cold air hitting his sharp, stubbly, course face, seemingly worn by years of stress though he never was visibly stressed, not that anyone was there to notice him. His mornings always worked out the same minus the odd collision into another passerby, but an apology usually was suffice, allowing Alex to move on trouble free. Whilst Alex strolled in a typical fashion - a black collared coat with shoulder straps, messy/controlled hair, black pinstriped trousers with shoes and a messenger back sat contently on his hip - a average sized man brushed shoulders with him, he felt a whisker, no apology needed he thought and continued his walk to work but almost immediately he was greeted with a tap on the shoulder digging deep into him, almost touching his collar bone, reaching for his soul Alex surmised, it annoyed him. Upon turning around Alex noticed a man with shoes much like his own, worn, possibly due to excessive walking, his trousers were dissimilar to the shoes though, a trench coat covered thirty percent of them, the man wore glasses and a bowler hat, “Where the f**k is my apology you f**k?”

Alex instantly defended himself “I guess in the same place as your manners you delightful gentleman” his sarcasm never failed him, he thought it was the greatest form of wit and complimented him perfectly.

  “I wouldn’t push me.” Replied the darkened stranger.

Author's Note

I wrote this on holiday a few days ago, took me about 20/30minutes. Any constructive criticism would be appreciated.

Reviews

[Hellslastwarrior]

loved it exelentay! I wana see where this thang goes! Oh i would change the second f**k tht he says it sounds strange to the tounge if ya know whts i mean. And loving the new pic u got lmao how u got the sun like tht is epic :P
Really enjoyed the description and the feeling we were learning of a persons life ina small story.
Ted