The Red World

The crystal-clear vision of high hopes guides my way through this cloud of cancerous smoke. I contemplate my existence and crush the remainder of my cigarette in the ashtray. There is no purpose as to why I do anything anymore, but I still do it. Day in...day out, it's the same cycle; wash, rinse, spin, and spit out the dirt. There is no time to dry out and rest is no longer an option.

So I sit in this lounge, which defeats its very own purpose of being a lounge, thinking, sipping over what to write next. The furniture is uncomfortable, the lighting is cheap, and the bar is set way too high, figuratively and literally. The music is borrowed and people dress their fake best to be a part of it. High heels and disco balls. Yet for some reason I still come here every night, not necessarily hoping to belong, but simply just to be in one place, not spinning, just for a drink....or six.

Something hits me....in the left arm. Johnny had suavely stumbled in and punched me in the shoulder while laughing. He slops himself down on the stool beside me and spins around. The cherry had fallen off the end of the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He would be a good looking guy, tall, dark haired and blue eyed if he didn't drink himself sober every day (not that I should be one to talk). Although he suits a few days of stubble, a clean shave wouldn't hurt once in a while. He has on the same brown leather jacket he always wears, with his grey derby hat, corduroy slacks that are always half an inch too short, and the same faded, scuffed dress shoes.

With times being as hard as they have been, people are sinking lower and lower, and jobs are becoming fewer and fewer. The town is on the brink of dry, yet somehow Johnny always manages to be high or drunk. I'm always wondering where he gets the money, but it's probably better to not know. Yeah, it could look bad on me at the office to be associated with this guy, but there is something about him that I just cant put my finger on. For being so fucked up all the time, he has this way with women, but I digress.

Johnny is now leaning backwards on the bar, smirking at me, "Well aren't you gonna ask?"

"Ask you what, if you want a drink?" I sigh while rolling my eyes, and yell for the bartender.

"I like your sarcasm, but this time, no! Unless you are actually offering, then I'll take one in celebration." That smirk still lingers.

"I am not falling for another one of your scams to get rich, nor am I lending you money for another poker game." I crush out another cigarette as the bartender approaches with our usual double rye and cokes. 

The bartender scoffs, "Hey Johnny, isn't it about time to get your head out of your a*s? No wonder you cant keep a girl for more than one night. People can see right through your bullshit!"

I saw through it months ago, but when push comes to shove, Johnny always has a connection to get information, or a way to bail a friend out of a tight spot. This serves me rather well, as I am a freelance writer in my spare time and detective by profession. But I haven't been entirely 'with it' since 'the incident', as my boss says. I guess I got stressed out or something. With the crazy workloads, I just collapsed. I don't remember much about it other than everything turning red right before I blacked out, and waking up in the hospital. Boss-man tried to tell me I was taking on too many wild goose chases, and that I was starting to see things, so now I have a lot of spare time on my hands.... with a writer's block. It's kind of hard to publish something when you can't get past the first five paragraphs. Character development, plot, anti-depressants, fail.

"Well don't you want to know?" Johnny's half drunk grin, and loud, wet burp that just escaped him is enough to destroy any thought of him being potentially classy.

I shake my head no, and finish my drink as I put on my coat. I step out of the back door into the damp night with my head in a haze. I can hear Johnny walking after me as I meander my way through the alley. The click of my heels echo off the bricks. Thankfully, my apartment is only a block away. My s****y, dusty apartment built into the attic above the pharmacy. 

Ugh, my head is spinning and I yell back to him, "Don't bother, Johnny 'cause I don't wanna know!" But I can't hear his footsteps anymore, and his voice is fading behind me. My head is too muddy to concentrate.

Using my hand as a guide, I drag it along the walls to keep stable. I feel a quick breeze, and brush of cloth. I think I just bumped into someone, but I'm too drunk to notice any details. All I can see is a dark figure with a long coat disappear into the shadows. Probably just a hobo. I don't think much of it and head up the rickety fire escape to my apartment, locking the door behind me. 

I search through my wardrobe for a nightgown, but the pounding in my head gets worse and worse. My eyes start to blur and the room spins. I probably shouldn't have had that last drink. Too queasy to stand anymore, I head to the bathroom. 

I catch a glimpse in the mirror as I fumble through my medicine cabinet. I look awful... My red curls straggling, damp from sweat, are no longer pinned back, and my makeup has run.  I look like an animal with the black rings around my eyes. 

There are dozens of bottles in the cabinet. Panicking to find my migraine prescription, I knock them all over the floor. I finally find the right bottle, my hands shake as I pop the lid. Pills fly out of the bottle..."S**T!" I try to grab them before they roll down the drain, but all I can hear is this pound, pound, pounding noise. It's so loud that I can't tell if it's even inside my head anymore.   Is it the door?   "Johnny...is that... " 

My body aches violently as I hit the floor, pills strewn all over the bathroom. It hurts and I can't stop screaming. Next thing I know, everything is red....and then blackout.

............................................................

I wake up on my bed the next day in my nightgown with a massive hangover. I raise my hand to my head (as if that would stop the world from spinning) when I felt the gauze taped there. A pile of bloody clothes are tossed in the corner, and everything had been put back where it belongs. I look over and see a glass of water on the bed-stand with my pills back in their bottle. What the f**k happened.... I couldn't coax the words out of my throat. How did I end up like this?

Someone was in my apartment, obviously.  I just don't remember anything other than trying to find my pills and hitting the floor with my skull instead. My front door locks from the inside and my window is closed. It happened again...   but what?

I call my doctor to look at my head injury and decide that I had suffered too much to be able to figure anything out right now, but should I report all of this to the police or be thankful?