The Facility: Chapter 2.
The day it happened couldn't be separated from any other, except for being a spike in the slurry of monotony. This fly (me) waded through the ointment of an overrun cage, littered with the budgie shit of Job Centre letters, dirty clothes, discarded seed husks of beer cans and fag boxes. A dull ache thrashes to a frenetic pulse, it's own comedown from the mad rush of last night's drink and handfuls of E's. The death throes of partying drummed away to a banal residual drumbeat of last night as half of me wished to pull the duvet up and hibernate... a coma that would inevitably be punctuated by the impending Dole appointment.
Ritual forced it's hand. The drudgery of "needing to rise at a reasonable hour." Sleeping past midday was a crime in the capitalist, 9-5 world. So up I rise, zombie from the grave, outcast from the hive, recollection of another life, and ghosted across the cream carpet and walls. A spectre of misplaced duty tugged like an invisible rope to the scrutiny of the bathroom's sharp lights. My reflection glared back from the harsh mirror, my fuzzy eyes retreated from the stare, which demanded something I couldn't give. I offered up a half-arsed sacrifice to that expectant image, returning the scrubbed up version back for inspection, it didn't squander the mirror's distaste. I gave myself the middle finger and staggered back to my hovel/bedsit.
Already the day opted for the standard model of cruelty, heat had put a straitjacket over my naked body, only sweat managed a bust from incarceration. I found some blue cargo shorts and threw on a vest and shoved old trainers on, not more willing to anything more than this, that would be an admittance of ambition, of existence of purpose amid the mire. At least the worn MDF wood chip cabinets approved, anything as ugly as them ached for a soulmate. Several minutes later, I had a cuppa in hand and was staring, bemused, at the din gushing from the telly. I tried to wonder how any of the noise, lights and information coming my way applied to me. I was a prodigal missing puzzle piece, we all were down this street, thrown together to create a landscape no cunt wanted to admire! A fragmented portrait of unwanted masses worse than slaves. I had to get out!
That's when I saw it! A grey slab under the grey sky, an oblong of bureaucratic righteousness, a giant breezeblock to stave in the resolve of the underclass' will to carry on. I stood, gaping, still a little shellshocked from the trench warfare of smashing away sobriety last night. The humidity alive with curiosity. To my right, down the road, other dossers convened like pigeons, whispering at the construct glaring down disdainfully upon them. All things faded other than that block blotting out liberty on the horizon, it sucked more from me than being destitute ever thought possible... and this was only the fucking beginning!
© Brad James, 2014.