My Story Begins

HOW FITTING TO BLEED HERE

TO COME HERE IN DRUNKEN STUPOR

ONLY THE FINEST OF INK TO

NARRATE THIS PATHETIC STORY

~

So this is my story? Fine then. It starts here.

A young man sits cross-legged with elbows on his knees, hunched over a tiny lined book he holds against his flannel pillow with three splayed fingers, the remaining two curled under to hold the lid of his pen as dark red words slowly fill the page. He is mid-twenties, with a trimmed beard and short dark hair. Heavy eyebrows rest expressively above his thick rimmed glasses. By the way he leans toward his writing, it is easy to assume his eyesight is weak.

Wearing only boxers and a loose t-shirt, he occupies a cot in the corner of a wood paneled room, small, but a comfortable size for a single occupant. It's a mess. From the bedside lamp's illumination, piles of bedding, stacks of boxes and other haphazardly placed belongings visibly fill the space. That's why he has his back to it, so he can focus.

Tomorrow is kind of an important day.