The mouldy floorboards were covered with cockroaches.
Someone had knocked a half-empty bag of crisps off the counter
And the vermin were enjoying their feast, salt & vinegar
Remains of someones breakfast or lunch or whatever.
The flat was cold, the heating had gone off long ago.
At the far end corner, on a rugged mattress there was a
Shivering, tired ruin of a young man crying.
He did not mind the insects, that were crawling on his floor,
He did not mind the cold, he did not mind the fact
His life had had no meaning in a long while,
He did not even mind the fact that he might be about to die.
Actually, that was the only portion of his life
He seemed to wait anxiously.
Death seemed like an first price on the sucking competition
He called his life. It seemed like every single decision,
Usually a bad one, was leading towards this final culmination point:
Dying in a rented apartment at some suburbia,
With his veins so empty of drugs he could feel the
Cold in his bones. Not on his skin, though.
It seemed like his skin would be on fire, stung with thousands of tiny needles,
Like all the cockraches would be right there under his skin,
Like all the knives in the world would be stored inside his body.
He felt kinda bad, but he could remember one morning worse than this.
Although it seemed distant now, when he was wallowing
In his current ocean of disgust and pain.
It was rare that he could actually remember feeling worse in this sort of state,
But you can understand it feels like the worst hangover ever, when you wake up
Without three of your toes and out of money, food or drugs.
Young man turned around on his side, watched the cockroaches devour his crisps,
But didn't know what to think of it. It had been his last money, but it was yesterday.
This was a new day. A new beginning. A new hell.
He tried to get up, but he couldn't. His body was too weak and the pain was overwhelming.
He made a noise of some sort, it was a long, moany groan, and the cockroaches fleed.
They had learned to avoid his wrath, his leather boots made messy remarks of too slow
Insects on the floor. "Note to the rest: Run faster."
He was sure he would die, he would freeze and starve to death.
But eventually the knives under his skin smoothened their edges,
Sharp pain became blunt pain
And his eyes adjusted to the painful light.
He gathered his strength and rose to his feet, like the first mammal ever to attempt
Walking on two feet, out of balance, disoriented.
He took slow, careful steps and crushed the crisps on the floor.
He got out of the door, in to the small corridor, went to the first floor
And out of the door. He went outside, and saw a homeless guy on a dirty street.
There was graffiti on the nearby wall and the wind was restlessly kicking around
Yesterday's newspaper. He passed the homeless person who was left staring at his back,
He passed the graffiti, he passed the newspaper, he crossed the street and went to a nearby shop.
He stole a Kitkat and ate it as soon as he got out.
It tasted better than anything he had ever eaten before.
He looked down at his shoes. They were almost worn out,
They wouldn't crush insects for long.
He sighed. His life was way too hard to be dealt with right now.
He wanted nothing more than a fix. A justification for his guilt, anything at all.
He felt sick, he felt like he could not live with his self.
He could not live without a fix and couldn't live if he got one.
He'd probably just overdose and get it over with.
Life, when did you become so intolerably miserable, he thought to himself as he
Crawled back into his hell.