Trudge

He was kicking stones down the alley — heading towards his one friend who everyone seems to stay away from — misery. Reminiscing all the days when he had plenty a reason to plaster a smile on his face, never a cause to frown upon the world. Lo, things have changed — for the better for the world, for the worse for him. Things that happen for a reason or so the world presumed…

Alone he trudged, remembering how he exhausted his vault of friends. How each one made their way towards new meaning and purview. He watched the links break one after the other, leaving him with nothing more than his own name as the one he could recall.

Abandoned, he skips past thoughts of his parents. “Bloke is a fucking lost cause”, they said. “Success just isn’t a word in his definitions to go by.” A stray now, nothing more but acidic memories of their faded kindness for shelter.

He takes a few more steps before fate trips him to the ground where he was destined to be. Another wound on his knee, just another day, another pointless milestone to his life. Still exhaling the alcohol embossed inside him over the last few years — recluse helps him up in order to continue their hollowness.

A girl in his life no more — she left him for more riches, more conversation and more worldly pleasures which presented bouts of momentary happiness. He hadn’t seen anyone more beautiful than her, he never will but he will never see the same happiness that he saw with her either — an addiction to which the withdrawal had no cure. He couldn’t move on, yet he moved on.

No occupation, no purpose. Nothing more than a name to himself, his overused syringe, wounds clotted over and tourettes of soliloquy. The flashing neon sign seemed to blind him invitingly and he walked into his favorite bar. His confession box.

He scattered what remained of his scavenge for the day which he had saved up to buy a length of rope just enough for his deliverance. The bartender counts the nickels patiently and pours him the fair measure. As the glass slid towards his bandaged palm, an inconsiderable bit of the good whiskey splashed out upon the table. He picks up the glass unsteadily and takes a good look at the measure which seemed yards away from the brim. Disappointed with the pour just as much as life, he takes a long breath, sighs and says to himself, “Well… at least it’s half-full…”.