Bleak Trackside Apartment

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Bleak trackside apartment

Somewhere in a low socio-economic area of Sydney stood a shabby trackside apartment, the kind some people are vaguely grateful to have taken out a mortgage for. The bleach-white, paper thin walls hardly muffled the chirping of birds who'd woken up to another sunny day. Their joyful cries sounded far off as if from a place unreachable.
The man in the bleak trackside apartment who had observed all this was hopelessly struggling to keep hold of sleep. It'd been at least 15 hours now since he collapsed into his uncomfortable fold-up, spring-laid bed. He surrendered, irritated, to the rays of morning light, which crept up from the most unwelcome angle and became progressively more annoying as the morning drawled on.
The man, who hesitated to even call himself a man, was staring now at the sterile white ceiling, thinking unpleasant thoughts. The birds had stopped singing now and the sun would only get more intolerably hot and bright. There was a deep, humid silence which represented sheer loneliness. Anyone who thought oneself mentally well-adjusted had shuffled off to work, leaving him alone to endure the rest of the day.
But a thump and a clatter reminded him that he wasn't alone. Someone hadn't gone to work today. The very same person who'd thought it wise to take out a mortgage on the depressingly flimsy and bleak trackside apartment in which they resided. It was his mother, the person to whose patronage he, a 26 year old man, was helplessly bound, lest he should spend each and every one of his supposedly precious days pretending to enjoy being a complacent sycophant.
The man crept into the kitchen, hoping to sneak back to his cell a cup of coffee and a buttered piece of bread before he was discovered and harassed. Too late: a deer caught in headlights. The joyless, neurotic hag, who was always unashamedly spiteful, had made brisk pace for the kitchen and in her characteristically piercing tone which never failed to demonstrate her irritation, abruptly questioned as to whether there were any eggs. Normally, in virtually any other scenario, he'd have been more than happy to assist with her query, but faced with such unapologetic disrespect, he mumbled a quick "I don't know", gave up on buttering his toast and immediately made his way back to solitary confinement.
Making sure to dominate the atmosphere with sullen pettiness, she called after him "and you're using my cup for tea!" The man made it back to his whitewashed cage, closed the door behind him and with some relief embraced the discomfort of his uneven mattress. He might have felt secure in his discomfort had she not followed him, opened that squeeky door and in her horribly shrill voice, expressive of endless vexation, reprimanded him for hoarding on his windowsill all of three tea cups, including the one he'd just gotten. As that soulless banshee finally took her leave, almost succeeding in closing that door behind her, which seemed to be made of the cheapest of plywood, the man involuntarily shuddered and reluctantly began to plan his escape. He had intended to wallow today in silence and that dream had promptly been squashed as soon as he'd noticed the presence of that unpleasant woman who at this very moment was needlessly making a commotion in the kitchen, as if bored and making her own drama. She made sure to make a show of gathering glass bottles as if to say "all you had to do for me to not be horrible today was take out the rubbish you needlessly created by shamefully drinking alcohol".
The man laid in silence, not bothering to drink his tea, and watched a small insect steadily traverse the ceiling. The prospect of brushing his teeth flitted through his head but he dared not leave his cell again. He listened blankly to the creaking of the apartment and the occasional far off chirruping of some bird who must have slept in. He apathetically endured the dull aches in his head and throughout his body, vaguely wishing for any reason to rise from his bed but all the same not really caring. Trapped, he thought of reading a book but couldn't be bothered. Instead, he drearily pursued scraps of sleep and began to daydream. As he waited for that witch of anxiety to leave, he surrendered to morbid listlessness.

Bleak trackside apartment

Somewhere in a low socio-economic area of Sydney stood a shabby trackside apartment, the kind some people are vaguely grateful to have taken out a mortgage for. The bleach-white, paper thin walls hardly muffled the chirping of birds who'd woken up to another sunny day. Their joyful cries sounded far off as if from a place unreachable.

The man in the bleak trackside apartment who had observed all this was hopelessly struggling to keep hold of sleep. It'd been at least 15 hours now since he collapsed into his uncomfortable fold-up, spring-laid bed. He surrendered, irritated, to the rays of morning light, which crept up from the most unwelcome angle and became progressively more annoying as the morning drawled on.

The man, who hesitated to even call himself a man, was staring now at the sterile white ceiling, thinking unpleasant thoughts. The birds had stopped singing now and the sun would only get more intolerably hot and bright. There was a deep, humid silence which represented sheer loneliness. Anyone who thought oneself mentally well-adjusted had shuffled off to work, leaving him alone to endure the rest of the day.

But a thump and a clatter reminded him that he wasn't alone. Someone hadn't gone to work today. The very same person who'd thought it wise to take out a mortgage on the depressingly flimsy and bleak trackside apartment in which they resided. It was his mother, the person to whose patronage he, a 26 year old man, was helplessly bound, lest he should spend each and every one of his supposedly precious days pretending to enjoy being a complacent sycophant.

The man crept into the kitchen, hoping to sneak back to his cell a cup of coffee and a buttered piece of bread before he was discovered and harassed. Too late: a deer caught in headlights. The joyless, neurotic hag, who was always unashamedly spiteful, had made brisk pace for the kitchen and in her characteristically piercing tone which never failed to demonstrate her irritation, abruptly questioned as to whether there were any eggs. Normally, in virtually any other scenario, he'd have been more than happy to assist with her query, but faced with such unapologetic disrespect, he mumbled a quick "I don't know", gave up on buttering his toast and immediately made his way back to solitary confinement.

Making sure to dominate the atmosphere with sullen pettiness, she called after him "and you're using my cup for tea!" The man made it back to his whitewashed cage, closed the door behind him and with some relief embraced the discomfort of his uneven mattress. He might have felt secure in his discomfort had she not followed him, opened that squeeky door and in her horribly shrill voice, expressive of endless vexation, reprimanded him for hoarding on his windowsill all of three tea cups, including the one he'd just gotten. As that soulless banshee finally took her leave, almost succeeding in closing that door behind her, which seemed to be made of the cheapest of plywood, the man involuntarily shuddered and reluctantly began to plan his escape. He had intended to wallow today in silence and that dream had promptly been squashed as soon as he'd noticed the presence of that unpleasant woman who at this very moment was needlessly making a commotion in the kitchen, as if bored and making her own drama. She made sure to make a show of gathering glass bottles as if to say "all you had to do for me to not be horrible today was take out the rubbish you needlessly created by shamefully drinking alcohol".

The man laid in silence, not bothering to drink his tea, and watched a small insect steadily traverse the ceiling. The prospect of brushing his teeth flitted through his head but he dared not leave his cell again. He listened blankly to the creaking of the apartment and the occasional far off chirruping of some bird who must have slept in. He apathetically endured the dull aches in his head and throughout his body, vaguely wishing for any reason to rise from his bed but all the same not really caring. Trapped, he thought of reading a book but couldn't be bothered. Instead, he drearily pursued scraps of sleep and began to daydream. As he waited for that witch of anxiety to leave, he surrendered to morbid listlessness.

 


Submitted: December 27, 2020

© Copyright 2021 olive tree. All rights reserved.

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