a short story by ShanQo

I slowly push the door to my room open, exhaling the last of the Marlboro lights in a breath of resignation. The dimly lit room carries the scent of day-old incense. The thumps of bass from the speakers match the thumps in my chest ... all the caffeine seems to have accelerated my cardiac functions...I walk over and turn up the music, while what was left of the cigarette flames away between my fingers, the burning sensation slowly creeping through the skin on my index finger, blistering it. It was Curtis Mayfield ...

Eyes closed. Ears open. I absorb the lyrics with a grin on my face, my head slowly bobbing back and forth with the bassline, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end with a surreal sense of excitement. Music for the soul. With my eyes still shut, I slowly walk over to the lamp, feel for the switch, and turn it off. The glow from the nearly-extinguished cigarette butt creates a halo around my left hand. My eyes only half-open, I take one last, long, desperate puff, and put it out on the blackened corner of the wooden desk. I stifle a hoarse cough and exhale the smoke slowly, almost painting an illusional cloud in the darkness. By now, my pupils are acclimated to the murky darkness that envelopes me. I look at the silhouette of the extinguished butt...it is to be my last one. Really.

Again, I lean over to the speakers and turn up the volume just a couple more notches, and then slump my exhausted body into the hard and unreasonably uncomfortable chair.

How did I get so far gone...Where do I belong...And where in the world did I ever go wrong?

The wind outside is howling in fury, knocking the weak windows around with an aggravating din of clatter that stirs me out of my melancholic peace. I slowly turn around and with glazed eyes, and notice that my curtains billowing about. Maybe the same wind that dislodged my window open would knock it shut.

The soulful rhythm and consoling bassline gently wind down to oblivion as the track comes to an end. The tingling feeling in my spine slowly subsides as the silence becomes too overbearing to handle. I fidget. Restless. I keep the tune alive in my head. The wind is tormenting my weak windows, while the curtains demand attention as they flail about, hanging on for dear life. My safe haven is beginning to get violated. The only rescue comes from the speakers again. One thump. Then two. A discernable rhythm makes my head loll backwards, oblivious to the vicious howling wind outside. Bilal's "Soul Sista."

The darkness comforts my desolation. The music lulls my misery to sleep.

Rewind. Let's go back three hours. The rooftop.

It seems like I had spent hours sprawled in that wooden chair before I decide to get up and turn on the lights again. The wind has calmed down outside. Just occasional whispers and whistles of persistence. I open my eyes slowly to the blinding light from the lamp I'd just turned on. The brightness seems strange ... almost alien ... to my eyes that have grown accustomed to the comforting darkness. I walk over the window, close it shut, draw the curtains, and then I wander off to the bathroom.

Leaning over the sink, I watch the cold water run for a while before I look up to face myself in the mirror. The image that confronts me is as frightening as looking down twenty-four stories. I stare in shock at the haggard face. Tears are inevitable. I could make out Jill Scott's encouraging "Try" coming from my bedroom. I wash my tears off without taking my eyes off from the man in the mirror. Still on the edge, I walk back to my lit room, and dust off blackened corner off my table. Sweeping away that last cigarette butt, I open my window just a crack and threw out the handful of dust and ash. The wind devours it all too eagerly.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my watch. Oddly enough, it reads 1:37am. I look up at the clock on the wall. 1:37am.