Homesick

Nothing felt quite as satisfying to him as emptying his pockets after a long evening. From his lint-filled pants appeared a bulky wallet, fuller of change than cash, a set of car keys, some chap-stick, and a receipt he didn’t even remember having at any point that day. It seemed strange to him that only hours ago he was having the time of his life, laughing and cheering his friends on as they improv’d their way through a maniacal scene. He could feel the alcohol drifting out of his system, his vision focusing ever so slightly upon the suddenly very comfortable bed that awaited him. He smirked at the fact that pillows looked deceivingly plusher, and blankets more welcoming when the day prior was particularly shitty. He played the image of him sinking into his bed frame over and over again in his head, but in reality was just staring at it longingly. It looked to him like a woman out of his league. 

His bed-side fan whirred uncomfortably, chucking more dust than air around him. He realized how mistaken he was to close his window earlier that morning - all because the trash trucks were being “too damn loud.” Now his room stunk of stale clothing and dated cologne. It didn’t even occur to him to use air freshener because the bottle he had was rotting away on a shelf above him. He had a pitiful light fixture along his ceiling, only in two-thirds working condition. The light emitted from those bulbs was so yellow it actually hurt his eyes. He knew some new ones would be a great investment, but reconsidered when he realized a decent breakfast would be a better one. 

After finally deciding to sit down on his mattress, he got into thinking of what to eat the following morning. Cereal always worked, but his stomach wasn’t holding milk too well. Bread and butter would have been an easy pick but it only satiated him for an hour or so. He would cook but his only pan was caked in dried oils and onion peels. The wooden hilt on it was so chipped and boney that it burned his hands to even hold it while he prepared food. He would, of course, apply a Band-Aid to the coincidentally recurring wound, but he never thought those were worth the money. He hated taking off his bandages only to find a wrinkled, ointment-soaked finger that looked less human than it smelled. 

He finally let his head rest on his nearly featherless pillow, forcing what little air was left into the already misty atmosphere of his room. It was too hot for a blanket, but he knew he would wake up freezing in the middle of the night, so he peeled his sheets over him like the sardine he imagined himself to be. He also knew he was easy to start sweating and could feel the small droplets fall from his armpits onto his chest. Each drop left a tingle in him that only made him hotter. He closed his veiny eyes and let out a long drawn-out breathe, reciting in his head the words of a doctor talking him through stress exercises. He licked the now settling dust off of his lips and stared with dread into the pale ceiling that overlooked him. “How did I end up here?” He wondered. As he keeled over and curled into a pitiful rendition of a ball, he pictured one of Mom’s bowls of chicken soup in front of him, tingling his cheeks with its steam and healthy ingredients. He drifted off into his dreams just as he opened his mouth to take a bite of home, and it burned his tongue just enough to ruin the flavor.

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