View topic - Chapter 8: Home Front [solved]

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Forum index » Archive » Archive: Deus City » DC: Deus City

Chapter 8: Home Front [solved]

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TGI Fridays
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Joined: 12 Jun 2007
Posts: 123

Chapter 8: Home Front [solved]
Northside Row in Grey District

The shabby wooden door slams as I reach up to my head where my hat should be, then cringe in not finding it. I instead take off my trench coat and hang it on the empty coat rack, then flip the light switch by the door. The single shadeless lamp stand in the corner flickers to life with its forty watt bulb changing the gray of the walls to a slightly brighter brownish gray instead then flickers out again. Not that it matters. I know every inch of this place. "Home sweet home", right? The place where we keep the proverbial closet. Home to skeletons and other secrets. The place where you keep your worries and your nightmares, and whatever it takes to keep them away.

My tiny, untidy, dark third floor efficiency apartment is pretty spartan, containing only a sagging loveseat, a scratched and beaten coffee table with a full ashtray as the centerpiece and a half-full bottle of brandless whiskey on it. Modern art. A hotplate and a bathroom sink pass for a kitchen, while a thin partition badly hides a dirty toilet in the corner. My shabby mattress lies against the wall on its flimsy metal bed frame � unmade but unused too.

There is no electronic appliance or device anywhere within the confines of my four peeling walls, and I like it that way. There's one tiny window that overlooks the dark skies of the hard and fast late morning storm. Water flows outside on the glass slickly obscuring the apartments across the street with its vomiting gargoyles and sweating gray stone as more lightning flashes, bathing my dark room in melting white strobes followed by rolling thunder.

I slosh over to the center of the room and kick something metallic and full of water, where drops of water are dripping from a leak in the ceiling. The leak - I'd forgotten about that. Under it, my one small tarnished pot overflows with water onto the creaky wooden floor. I empty the pot into the sink and replace it under the drip. The pan begins to fill again with a metallic

"plink",

"plink",

"plink"�

Sighing, I float over to the table, grab the half empty bottle of illegal hooch, and collapse into my dusty chair. Whatever it takes to keep them away.

I take a short drink then look at the bottle. The rotgut burns in my mouth and throat, then hits the one cup of coffee with a vengeance and I remember more things I had forgotten. I watch in detached fascination and surprise as I throw the bottle against the far wall, shattering it into wet shards and exploding its contents all over the cracked paint of my home. One tiny fleck of glass hits me and I reach over to scratch and flick it away. I can't help but notice that the shard of dark stinging bottle sticking out of my wrist is right where my own identity chip rests under the surface of my skin.

And for some reason I laugh.

And laugh.

And laugh.

Sometimes you break through the rose-colored haze of your own dreams long enough to catch a glimpse of yourself. And for one shining moment you think you'll never need to fear sleep again, because nothing could be worse than the nightmare you live from day to day. Still laughing I close my eyes and lean back. A few seconds later my head drops to the side and I sleep. Of course, that's usually when it sneaks up on you from behind.

I sit up in a start as lightning crackles and thunder rolls somewhere very close by. As the thunder fades I realize that someone is pounding furiously on my door and shouting in a deep resonating thickly accented voice.

"Wake up Se�or! The building is on fire!"

It takes me a second to rearrange the words in my head. Wake? Building? Fire!

I jump from my chair and yank open the door, accidentally kicking over the pot in the process and spilling yet more water onto the wooden floor. The old hallway is lined with wooden doors. Covered teardrop sconces cast dim light into the peeling, stained wallpaper. It has a tattered strip of carpet running down the center.

The hairy, fat, man giving the warning is wearing a tank top and boxers. He's already at the next apartment over pounding and shouting the warning to whoever else might still be in there. Behind him at the far end of the hallway, rain cascades down a third floor window identical to the one inside my apartment.

I sprint down the hallway, past where the man is standing, towards the stairs. The entire central stairway is engulfed in flames and smoke. It surges and leaps at me. I cough, fall back, turn on my heel and race back the length of the hallway, grabbing the fat man by his elbow and steering him towards the fire escape at the other end of the hallway � my end of the hallway, kicking out the window and squeezing the corpulent bastard through it to the metal walkway beyond. The impossibly fast flames follow me out the hole as I too launch myself onto the fire escape.

I ride the ladder down to the alleyway, my fat neighbor right be hind me. Then it's across the street to watch my building burn away into a glowing shell until the corporate authorities can scramble the right human countermeasures.

An hour later, it is still raining softly, but in the distance the clouds have rolled back to reveal the sun setting in a golden and ochre explosion behind the smoldering black three-story skeleton of my burned apartment building as the darkness of night creeps in. As I stand there in front of my favorite place to not-sleep, I realize exactly how sleazy and run down my neighborhood truly is. The edge of old downtown is obviously a part of my beloved trashy grey district as evidenced by the slapped-up advertisements on the mostly grey brick and cracked concrete, with its brownstone style row houses and apartments.

I notice that the larger, sleeker mega skyscrapers of the newer section of town can be seen in the far distance, great towers of artificial light stretching to the sky. The Transcorp Firemen and Medicorp paramedics are slowly picking through the wet wreckage of my apartment building. They are illuminated by the flashing red lights of two old-fashioned dirty red fire trucks and a Red Medicorp Ambulance. The firemen are no longer scrambling around like ants, but instead are standing around in strained silence in their stylized firemen's outfits complete with badges and helmets, all waiting for the order to pack it up and go home.

I stand awkwardly in the drizzle without my overcoat or hat. A group has gathered including the man I saved around the Culturecorp news truck which is recording stories for posterity and the evening news feed, but I stands away from the rest, in the light of a nearby lamppost, watching.

The firemen finally begin coil and stow their fire hoses. A paramedic zips up the last black body bag. I can see the face of the dead woman inside, she is a large but not unattractive woman in her late fifties. My landlady Mrs. Miller I'm pretty sure. She has dyed brown hair and is wearing that padded powder blue fuzzy bathrobe with fluffy trim. I notice that she has not been burned but her lifeless eyes stare skyward. She has an odd "Mona Lisa" like smile on her pale lips as the zipper cocoons her away.

"What started the fire?" Somebody asks.

"Faulty lamp," I hear someone say.

"Damn tragedy," says another.

Then from nowhere, thunder rolls and I sit up violently from my nightmare, startled out of sleep by the growling rumble as it fades across the city. The storm is in full force, water flows against the window and also

"Plop",

"Plop",

"Plops" heavily into the now half-full pan in the center of my room across from the shattered whisky bottle shard, the contents of which have stained and run down the wall. Not even midnight yet.

Reality?

Dreams?

Is there even a difference anymore?

Yes is no and no is yes... Life is but a dream?

Spoiler (Rollover to View):

No is correct, maybe yes is too?

Posted: Mon Nov 12, 2007 9:27 pm

Transtar
Decorated

Joined: 01 Jun 2007
Posts: 165
Location: Annapolis, MD

Yes is correct also.
Positive Karma and 16 prestige.

Posted: Tue Nov 13, 2007 10:11 am

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