A Virus.1 Lost at Home

In the midst of a downpour, a man downtrodden by life and people finds shelter in an "abandoned" cinema.

I sought shelter from dampened streets and overflown gutters.  The static of rainfall whirled around me, drops sizzling on the neon tubes of signs overlooking the concrete.  Pellets relentlessly punched  numbered codes onto the back of my collared coat as I struggled to walk.  The collective of prodding dashes littering the air made each passing walker indistinguishable, save when a dimming yellow streetlight or a bolt of blue lightning would strike their face and light up a judgeful stare, which would quickly subside…and resume elsewhere.  I politely shoved and pushed through.  

Half-awake, I misplaced my step.  As my shoe submerged in a sewered trench, I lost footing and tore a hole in my jacket pocket.  Rusted coins plunked into the sea on the side of the street and then settled on the ocean floor.  Scrambling, I squatted to reclaim them.  The tips of my jacket’s bottom dipped into the salty pool while I carefully plucked out each valuable copper coin and crammed them into my pants pocket, disgustedly trying not to plunge my wrist in completely.  People glanced at me curiously and passed by.  

One fellow stopped and slung his bag over his shoulder.  He picked up and presented the last coin before it drained into the sewer.  My soaked, shivering phalanges grabbed and placed it in my opposite coat pocket.  I offered him a pleasantry of thanks and he offered me a pleasantry of humility.  Losing sight of him, I spied for a place of refuge.  Each and every similarly-dressed restaurant was packed to the welcome mat with dripping customers.  I paced past their windows, looking in on the uniquely dressed patrons, all eating and chatting into their phones or to a friend.  No matter the size, there was never enough room.  

Up ahead, as I glanced forward, I saw the burnt-out sign of a condemned cinema.  Absent were the vivid neon lights, but still the colorless tubing twisted and zig-zagged in extravagant patterns, once meant to draw in visitors.  Now they greeted no one.  I could spot from here the landscape under the balcony was vacant of both man and water.  Draping my coat over me as a damp umbrella, I stomped and splashed through weathered streets to the grand theater’s entrance.  Crossing into the dry reservoir, I gazed back at the walls of water encapsulating me, dripping off the folds of the balcony like waterfalls, converging at three separate angles, boxing me in.  My fingers still trembling, clutching onto my pockets, I sniffed my sickness back in and turned to inspect the theater.  The lobby was entirely empty.  Not a soul in sight.  

Not long after my body weighed on the doors to peer inside, the rusted hinges snapped off completely and the door collapsed onto the frayed, bunched-up carpet in a muffled but piercing commotion.  And I with it.  Outsiders curiously glanced in and continued walking.  I straightened up to the sound of crunching glass.  

“D****t all.”

I felt my chin and was met with a sign of blood mapped out across my fingertip, the crimson liquid seeping into every crevice of my prints, trapped by the grooves of my prunified hands.  I wiped them on my dress pants, but some had already dried, staining a red-orange epitaph.  My chin still bled.  I disregarded it and moved on.  

I passed the deserted concessions haunted by butter and grease long solidified.  The lights were out, their cords stripped and shipped elsewhere.  Entering under a cramped archway, I meandered through labyrinthian hallways, delving deeper and deeper into the theater. A set of strange, re-directed power cords were plastered on the walls, always choosing one path.  I let them be my guide.  

Through each crossing, I turned and turned until my head began to turn and followed suit.  Stumbling, steadying my hand upon the crumbling walls and squinting my ever-restless eyes so that any mousehole of light was hesitantly plugged, I heard a voice echo through the chambers.  Incoherent, but recognizable, with all the melodies of speech.  My world spinning, I cradled my head and sought a railing in the entangled cords.  But the residing energy housed within that rail pierced to the surface, its protective coating shockingly hot to the touch.  I retracted my plead for aid and instead used my ears to follow.  At last, drifting through the pulsing veins and aortic passages, the louder but just as unintelligible voices led me to the beating heart of the theater.

painting by Jeremy Mann   

Author's Note

Is the use of italics too much and make it hard to read, or does it give the writing a sense of personality (that was the intention)? Most importantly, is there enough here to pull you into the story and wonder what happens to this character, or does it elicit a simple "meh, who cares"? Be honest. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.