One Night

The door was locked and bolted from the inside. I slammed my shoulder against it, barking orders through the door but she did not respond. I could feel her breathing through the aged wood that filled this crappy apartment complex. I hate it here—but it was worth it to be with her.
“I don’t ever want to see you again! How ‘bout that, you bitch!” I yelled through the door, rephrasing her own words, spitting them back at her to see how she liked hearing them. How childish I am. “If I am then you made me!” I yelled again then stumbled back, slamming against the wall. The bottle in my hand fell to the floor with a clank, a dark red liquid spilled onto the rug that lined the entire hallway. It was a terrible drab looking rug; blue with a white design that I would be able to see if I hadn’t already had two bottles—the third was slipping away from me, turning the drab rug into a drab rug with a big red spot on it. The spot resembled blood too closely. I had to get out of here.
The stairs were difficult to descend. I don’t know why I didn’t take the elevator. I don’t want to see anyone, especially the snobs who live here. Even though they were my neighbors, until tonight, they aren’t anymore. I shouldn’t care what they think anymore. I know the rubbish they talk in the lift, I’m sure it’s about me. It shouldn’t bother me, why does it? They give me looks. I can see them. Everyone looks at me. I can feel their eyes follow after I leave the elevator and head toward my room.
Outside the air was nice; I lit a cigarette and dragged in the tobacco until I burned half of the cig down, the nicotine hit me sharp, striking against my lungs like an ape playing bongo drums. I felt the blood from my heart trying to push through a vein, with a bit of difficulty. That hurt too, but I kept walking. I wanted to be away from here.
Soon my legs were tired. I tilted the wine upside-down, feeling the last drops reach my tongue. After licking the neck of the bottle I discarded it. The clank, clank, clank of glass on concrete echoed behind me as I stumbled along the street. As I reached Huntington Avenue I stopped short of the street, lined up with the cross-walk but I had my heels on the curb, my toes stuck out into the street.
For a moment I teetered back and forth; then, lifting both my arms out to my sides, I waved them trying to push against the air to make myself steady again. Forward toward the street, that was the direction I seemed to be falling, but at the last moment I caught the curb solidly with my left foot and pushed myself backwards, luckily away from a speeding cab but unluckily into a trash bin which fell over with me and let me roll with it for several feet.
I stood up, cursing my bad luck and the damn bin that God must have put in my way to spite me as He always does.
People are watching me. “Go away! Leave me be!” This only made them stare more. I began running. “Stop looking at me!” Another cab slammed on his breaks, the car screeched to a stop. The noise was loud, too loud. I held my hands over my ears as I ran across the street then faster down the sidewalk uncaring of anyone who happened to be in my way—I was not aware of them until they saw me, they saw me and did not look away.
Why am I out here? I should be at home, in that crappy apartment complex with the drab rug. That was where I belonged; in our bed, in her arms. I wrapped my arms around myself, my eyes were closed. I imagined being home. Why did I leave?
It began to rain. The drops slammed against my skin and t-shirt like shards of ice, although it was august and it never snowed during the summer in Boston. I remembered that I was holding myself. Her image flashed before my eyes. She was the one I hated, no, that was not true. But it felt good to say.
“She threw me out, that’s why!” I grabbed the fellow walking beside me and told this to his face. I held his shoulders forcing him to look at me, to see my words, I had to be sure that he could hear me.
“You damn drunk, go find a river to drown in!” He threw me away from him. I tripped as my momentum thrust me over a curve and I rolled into the street.
I lay there thinking about my life. Tragic, I suppose. I could always stay in the street, right here where I lay. “It was only one night; why was she so hurt?” I said these words out loud, even though there was no one to hear me. “I didn’t do it to hurt her, honest.” Still I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
A car would be by soon enough—maybe a truck would come by, that would be better. They would not see me. The rain was falling heavy now, but I cannot feel it. I cannot feel anything, not anymore.