Hobo Heart 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
a short i wrote.

Submitted: May 23, 2012

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Submitted: May 23, 2012



as the light slowly crept into his window, he was startled by his own reflection, fondling the unloaded pistol, imaging what the last sound one hears actually sounds like. the bullets were no where to be found, only harmless reminders of his fear to do anything at all. 
what a waste...all that talent, all that opportunity...dripping down the drain of his youth while he sat there, motionless and helpless to stop it. And she never called. It was always him who had to track her down, worry when she didn't answer, and wait endless hours and painful seconds like a chariot at the uncertainty of her presumed arrival. well, at least he had the energy to get out of bed and clean the house a bit. But what for? she never appreciated him anyway. countless nights she would arrive and devour everything he had worked so hard preparing for her, spending his hard earned low wages so that she could eat the most succulent shrimp and other delicacies, all to have the plate shoved back in his face to be washed. no thank you, nothing, just cold ungratefulness. he didn't understand why he loved her like he did...she had hurt him so goddamn much, that bitch! 
the phone. 
did he pick up her clothes from the cleaners? yes dear. 
he wants to cry but he knows men aren't supposed to, and instead he smokes more cigarettes in a secret deathwish urgency. what if she came home and found him dead? would she cry? he was sick with himself for thinking disgusting and morbid thoughts like that. afterall, things weren't all that bad. the phone. 
news from down under! oh, the crew is all together, waiting for his arrival. big parties being thrown in his favor, holy calves being slaughtered, buildings being burned! his presence is most urgently requested! what joy and unbridled nonchalance that oozes through the wire! he breaks into a smile, closing his eyes and picturing the beach strewn out before him, the way he's seen it a million times before. the energy, the lights, the music, the aura of the people all suffocate his brain and cut off all reality. his dreams take control and he swears to pack his bags outright and damn that stupid bitch to hell for all that she's put him through. but the rent is due. and the car has no gas. and a new message from work: "jack, we need you here tonight. we're slammed..." and the ultimate burden that rests upon his shoulder like a pathtic suffering mink, tarnished from years of hardship keeping the wealthy looking beautiful...his father was the only thing he had left in the world. the only thing that also held him back from that cool crisp water, from that beating in his heart like the drums on sand, that energy that ripped through him like a bolt of lightening ripping though a lone farm tree. the waiting game was back on. 

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