Prompt: Feature a couple of your writing friends! How do you inspire each other?
So I have this friend. Well really he's my classmate but we've really bonded over music and writing. He's an insanely talented double bass player who ended up giving me an unmastered copy of his then-unreleased CD because of my presentation on how much I love to write with music. That CD really inspired me during NaNoWriMo. Since then we've really confided in each other and he's one of my best friends. He likes to write as well, so one time I gave him a Wordbound prompt. Here's what he camp up with. I hope he's okay with me posting this, but I think it deserves recognition because I really enjoyed it.
Alone. And dark. The faint light of the street barely slips through filthy, tattered curtains, past trembling strips of paint hanging on for dear life to rotten windowsills, softly defining shadows: the general dimensions of this room I am in, mounds of trash in the corners, a broken light bulb protruding from the bare socket in the ceiling.
Awareness seeps into my consciousness along with the pain. Each injury comes slowly into focus, waving hello with its particular unique little cocktail of discomfort as I sort through my memory. They got me good. Must’ve choked me out after I didn’t go down when they bashed the back of my head. Feels like they kicked a couple of ribs while I was down for good measure.
My wallet is gone, of course. And, unsurprisingly, my shoes. The thought of one of them walking down the street in size 13 wingtip oxfords gives me a faint smile, replaced quickly as the facial stretch of my smile slightly moves the lump on the back of my head. Is it bleeding? It’s not, but it’s getting larger by the minute. It’s gotta be the size of a grapefruit by now. Injuries anywhere on the head feel about a hundred times bigger and more painful than anywhere else on the body. I should know. I’ve been injured a lot.
Testing my limbs…I don’t think anything is broken. I push and groan myself into a sitting position and try to figure out what the hell I’m gonna do now. Can’t very well go all the way home with no shoes. And I (obviously) didn’t get the stuff. Can’t go home empty-handed or empty footed. Walking 60 blocks in my socks only to see her eyes when I walk in without it? File that in the “not gonna happen” drawer.
At least I know where I am. I was actually surprised when they led me here. There used to be a family that lived here. Little girl with red hair. It’s hard to be curious about their fate when so many have fallen. My friend Pete lives a couple of blocks away. He’s a tall guy. I bet I can borrow a pair of shoes that aren’t ridiculously small and get him to lend me twenty bucks so I can buy enough to last a few hours.
At least Pete lives alone. No wife or kids to be upset when I knock on his door in the middle of the night. He’s always up working on some project. Soldering impossibly tiny circuit boards or hammering out chess problems. When I’m around him I start to feel lazy. I tend to spend time carelessly, barely noticing as the hours turn into days, but Pete attacks the minutes as they flee past. Probably part of the reason I don’t see him too much anymore. That and the sadness.
Alright. I’ve spent long enough sitting here. It stinks, even though my nose had plenty of time to habituate to the fetid aroma of poverty and abandonment. I stand up slowly, allowing the dizziness to subside, and make my way down to the street. It’s quiet. Can it be that late? I wonder how long I was out.
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