Day 326 - The World Falls Away - Chapter 1 - (1,521 words)

(I hate writing in first person, so what the hell right?)

©Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Wayne Webb and constantwriting.blogspot.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The World falls away

By Wayne Webb

CHAPTER 1

There is a tipping point in the middle of the night, it’s that spot where night becomes day, even before the dawn. A point where you look at the clock and realize you are not getting home tonight, there’s not enough time to sleep before work, school or whatever it is that takes your time.

The point of no return.

That’s where I was now at four forty five a.m. and the realization that even if I left now, got in a cab immediately (yeah good luck with that) and got on the road, in this minimalist traffic, it would still be well after five before I got to bed. It would be less than an hour to six a.m. and the alarm to get me up and out of bed again.

At the point of no return you have to realize that sleep is now your enemy, and a small sleep is the most dangerous of those enemies. A small sleep is a sneaking and destructive enemy posing as a friend, and you never see it at the time if you are not sober. Fortunately I was, though my companions were not in such a state.

There was not going to be any reasoning with them, even if there could have been there would not be any. I say companions because they are with me, but they are not my friends, how can they be? These people are a means to an end.

Cold?

It’s a cold mission. It has no time and no capacity for feelings; it can’t and therefore neither can I.

What am I doing here? I mean on one level I have a purpose, noble, misguided or insane maybe but a purpose nonetheless. This is not about the goal, the end point I am trying to get to, but why am I here? Here in this place and this time with these people?

An hour earlier I could have bailed and still got some semblance of sleep before getting up and grumping at work all day like I was somebody else. The somebody I really am, the one I wish I could be all the time, not the antithesis that I have to be to find what I am looking for.

So they are still drinking, but each draw on the their respective vessels is a drag, a slow swill that takes an eternity per each mouthful. That tipping point where they had drunk too much had passed hours ago and now they are only loosely in control of their bodies, minds and more importantly, tongues. Now is the hour where their words fall from their lips and scatter the nuggets of truth and hidden secrets desperately and drunkenly to the ground.

Where I can scoop them up, metaphorically of course, I am not that drunk. I am not drunk at all.

I am the sheep in wolf’s clothing.

They don’t spill the beans I am looking for, they drop morsels and clues in their speeches and their protestations and I am careful to steer the conversation near to the subject but not right to its door. How obvious would that be? Even a drunk can know when they are being pumped for information, being interviewed in that state would stand out. The next day the drunken flashes of exposed genitalia, the contents of various stomachs and the specific lines of questioning would all come back.

Which could catch the eye and alert the wolves to whom is in their midst, or perhaps just to check that the wolves are in their own skins, not borrowed ones to disguise who they really are.

So stay on the edges and drive them to the cliff, they have to jump on their own and not be pushed. If they stray lead them to a different edge and wear them down, but do not push them over. Gravity will do the rest.

Time moves slower when you are sober and the blurred lights and lines are straighter and brighter than through the filters of alcohol and smoke, things are visible and dirty. The smooth surfaces and comfortable chairs in the bars are in reality hard, pitted, scored and unforgiving.

Or maybe that’s just me.

The Open Late is as it’s name suggests, still open. The clubs have wound down but they are not all closed and there are places to go, there are places that cater to the people who recognize no tipping point, but instead see the line barred with tape and hear the starters pistol.

“We can get in, I know someone.” A voice suggests and I don’t actually know who this is, a hanger on? An addendum at some point that just appears to join the group?  Was he with one of the girls? One of the boys? Was he connected to my goal or was he just a happy coincidence.

“I think we should get to bed.” A hand is on my thigh and I don’t know who it belongs to and I don’t care to find out. I pat the hand and it tenses under my touch, light though it is.

What kind of person is so forward to sneak a hand up my thigh, resting and gripping lightly on the inside and inches from her (or his?) goal and testing the resistance of my flesh, yet recoils when touched? It can’t be rejection, because there has been none yet.

It is a desire for a physical connection and a fear of the act and connection itself. How messed up is that?

For a second I am distracted from my goal wondering how this person can put themselves out there and loathe the personal intimacy so much that they react so badly, so instinctively to the skin of their desire? I can tell from the way her hand moves that it is a “her”, the small delicate bones in her hand and the mositurised skin that covered them, the fluttering pulse I imagine I can feel betraying the thumping beat in her chest.

What happened to her to make her this way? What had she touched in her life that made her sought out the things she feared, recoiled from or was disturbed by and then threw herself at them. It made sense in some ways and a lifetime of being the thing you hate and being addicted to that, fulfilling your loathing as a promise that fed the ugliness inside.

How far would she go?

I turn my head to look at her and a truly uncharitable thought enters my head, that one more night won’t hurt.

Well it would not hurt me, and she was already damaged beyond the repair of one night’s attention.

Her eyes are piercing and blue, they are watery and glistening at me with a silent plea to take her home. Her home or mine? Did it matter to her, or did it even matter to me?

Definitely not mine, the illusion cannot be maintained if the threshold is crossed, there were too many triggers and too many negative influences that would change me in that place. And her place was an unknown element, it was hardly going to be the Ritz Carlton, her bruised ego that lead her to this evening and a man hiding sober among the inebriated was probably a good indicator of what her home was like.

A hotel? The money was not a problem, but the identity factor? It would have to be a fake name and a cash bond, which I can do … but there is the off books place calling me out as well.

She could be a pleasant distraction, but not right now.

“What is your name?” I ask and keep nothing warm in the sentence for her.

“Dottie.” She says, not looking upset but excited and eager for the direct attention.

“The night is still young Dottie.” I say, but as she looks crestfallen I hold an olive branch for later, work can wait and a day off won’t kill anyone. “Let’s see this place? See if it’s for real and then if it’s not, then maybe we can?” What we ‘can’ do is left open, and the gap that is left there is wide enough for her to sneak inside and loop an arm through mine.

We are connected now, and if this place turns out to be the real deal then this is as close as she is going to get.

If not…?

“It’s real.” She smiles, and I see something else there for a second, impatience or distraction perhaps?

“It is? You know what… ummm… “

“Merrick. His name is Merrick, and yes I know the place, but he can’t get you in.” she pouted and looked directly at me, and I feel that maybe this is not going the way I think it is. “But I can.” She licked her lips slowly. “Tomorrow.”

Then she shook her head, dusting the cobwebs mentally and looking around for a clock before amending. “Today, no I can get you in today.”