Chapter Two:

A short Story.


Thomas looked around him, in a vague sort of attempt at disgust; turning his nose slightly to the seemingly carnivorous odours that attacked his senses, swirling throughout the dimly lit room about him.
The wallpaper was so drab, it could almost be considered its own form of art, and the yellowing blues of the cigarette-stained ceiling and cornices only added to the dullness. The room was lit by a single overhead bulb that glowed with a weird sort of green hue, and made his skin appear almost alien. The lightbulb hung straight down from a fibrous cord about an inch or so thick, and had a chain hanging beside it that one would presume switched on or off the light in question; but did in fact nothing whatsoever, upon closer inspection. There was little furniture about, the chair he sat in could have been better used as firewood, or locked away in a museum somewhere displayed as an ancient relic of forgotten times. A small, rather egg-shaped coffee table sat to his right; two things existed on this table at any given time, a cup of black tasteless coffee and a filthy brown ashtray that always seemed to be overflowing. The room was always hazy with smoke, even now; though he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d lit a fag, let alone what he’d been doing up until this point. He looked down and marvelled for a moment, he was wearing his running shoes; he noticed he was breathing heavily, but that passed. He felt clammy, and realised he’d been sweating, though Thomas reckoned he hadn’t run further than the distance to his fridge in the last 30 years. He reached habitually for his coffee cup, and bought it to his lips absentmindedly.
With a start, he threw the cup aside in disgust.
Dust had eaten away into the china, and what looked as if it had once possibly been a cup of coffee, was now a strange solid mass that glowed softly in the dim green lighting. If he had any sense of smell left, he might have been physically affected; but the odours in the room had dulled his senses to the point that he swore he could feel individual nose-hairs curling up, shrivelling under the weight of these acrid and
pungent scents.


The smokey haze had somehow thickened, a dense fog of cigarette smoke that seemed intent on stinging at his eyes and mingling with his oxygen. He had no idea what time or day it was, and no real way of knowing; Thomas had never worn a watch, and hated clocks and their endless tick-tocking.
He vaguely recalled an argument that he’d had with his landlord, which could have been last Monday, or yesterday, or even tomorrow. Perhaps he dreamed the argument, and it hadn’t happened yet. In any case, it was definitely not Monday. Preston was a right pompous prick, and arguments ensued regularly between him and his tenants. With a name like Preston, it was no surprise to Thomas; he’d met enough Prestons to know there was no point to these arguments, the argument was the point.
Privileged, living his luxurious lifestyle; he was one to look down on others, seeing money as the driving force in the universe. So Thomas paid him on time, every time, hoping he’d get left well alone in the process. Preston never so much as lifted a finger, and the apartments would fall to pieces if it weren’t for the people who lived in the building; who all worked together from time to time to repair or replace broken appliances or furniture, or install or fix structural and electrical issues.

There was the sound of some sort of contemporary jazz music playing faintly in the background, which he could have been imagining. It reminded him of a swanky jazz bar, the sort of place you’d expect to find 1950’s gangsters in clean-cut white suits; with short, combed-back, oily hair, frequenting. The room was beginning to feel smaller and smaller, or perhaps he was growing. His head was spinning, as he struggled to get to his feet; using his arms to propel his body upwards, the shock of the added weight combined with forwards motion hopefully springing his weary old legs into action. With a creak and a few cracks, he stood up rather ungracefully, farting loudly as he did so. He wobbled slightly as he gained his footing, breathing deeply despite the neo-apocalyptic smells around him. Quite suddenly, he is accosted by a sharp pain in his lower left arm. That’s odd, Thomas thinks to himself. He hadn’t had a left arm since ‘74, when disco was still a thing; he could still remember Felix putting his hand on his arm, shouting over the barrage of gunfire and cluster bombs “Are those mines? I think you’d better watch your st-“.
Before he exploded.

Damn Felix, getting in his head again. With a soft grunt, Thomas stretched and looked about him again; the room appeared to have grown back to size, and the smoke had cleared somewhat. Fumbling for his cigarettes, he came up empty, and decided that perhaps he didn’t need one after all. He strode; rather, gimped along in a peculiar fashion, to the front door and thrust it open in a sudden fit of rage.
There was nothing on the other side, though he wasn’t all too sure what he supposed he’d find there. Preston, perhaps, or another apparition to taunt him about his past.
He went to slam the door closed, when something caught his eye unexpectedly.
Or rather, someone.

The End.