Jackson didn’t know where he was going, and he sure as hell
didn’t know how to get there. But wasn’t that anti-productive? He humorlessly
chuckled and brought a cigarette to his chapped lips. Cupping his hand around
the end, Jackson flicked his lighter until a small flame emerged from the
sparks. Snapping the cap closed, he stuffed it into his worn jean pocket.
Inhale, exhale. A smoke cloud wafted up and around him.
The streets were dark, the pathetic lamps providing what meager
dimness they could, everything cast vicious shadows. It was a clear night and
the roads were empty, as they usually were at 2am in the morning.
Jackson pinched the cigarette between his fingers as he walked
lethargically along the cracked pavement. He kicked an empty soda can out of
the way. His face ached and his teeth hurt from that jarring punch he had taken
from the bar’s owner. Screw him. The cigarette didn’t taste so great anymore—he
tossed it uselessly into a puddle.
It had been a bad night. No. It had been a bad month. Not only
could he not find a fucking job, but his long-time girlfriend had dumped his
ass. It wasn’t that he was a wash-out. No. Jackson just couldn’t take authority
very seriously when he was aware of his own intellect. Jackson had always been
outrageously smart. IQ through the roof but GPA in the gutters, the guy had
enlisted in the army once deciding that he really couldn’t gather enough care
to take college courses. He was there a month, maybe, but it wasn’t long
through bootcamp that he realized that he couldn’t take the commanders
seriously. Didn’t matter. They hadn’t wanted him anyway.
Jackson scraped his hand through his hair and let it trail
helplessly down his rugged face. He was so tired.
Then there was Karry. And fuck, Jackson had loved her. He had
adored her wide hips and the way that her red lipstick smeared against her
mugs. The way that her brown eyes seemed to consume him and steal his breath
away. He had loved her mind. God—that woman was marvelous. She always wore
skirts. Skirts and sweaters. Her body ran at a constant temp that left her
freezing and Jackson had never hesitated when pulling her close to his side.
Then she left.
Because of money.
Because of him.
With a sigh, Jackson walked up the steps of a worn apartment
complex that smelt like left over fast food and cat piss. He ignored the room
off to the front left where the landlord sat on the couch and watched reality
TV. He ignored the elderly woman that carried her large purse at her side.
Instead, Jackson trudged past the broken elevator and straight to the dark
staircase. He lived on the fourth floor. He slid his key into his lock and
jiggled it until it caught and turned open. Jackson quietly pushed into his
apartment and closed the door behind him. He could hear some mumbling through
the wall. He didn’t know his neighbors.
Dropping the key onto the counter, Jackson let out a slow
exhale and stood there for a moment or two, just thinking.
There was nothing special about the place. He didn’t have any
furniture aside from what had come with the apartment—a couch and a bed. A
lamp. He had bought the fridge himself and he had no TV, he preferred a worn
book opposed to a mindless show. The rugs were stained from the last person
that resided there and the walls were a yellowed white that he never thought to
paint. It was dark.
Not bothering to turn the light on, Jackson walked to the
fridge and yanked the door open. There really wasn’t any food. Karry had done
all the cooking. Fridge light illuminating the kitchen, Jackson stared into the
empty void before closing the door and wandering to the main livingroom.
He felt like shit.
He felt numb.
Jackson sagged into the sofa and dropped his head into his
hands. Perhaps he should sleep; cast away the muck that he was in and arise
into a new day. That is what he had been doing for a month. Perhaps he should
cry and let it out, but Jackson probably couldn’t cry if he tried. He never
cried.
His life was a mess and he knew it. His parents would be more
than happy to lend a helping hand—least his mother would—but the last thing
Jackson wanted to do was go to them and admit the mistakes he had made. He
didn’t want to admit that they had been right all along.
Lifting his heavy form from the couch, Jackson went to the
window and wrenched it open despite the creaking and cracking paint. It didn’t
rise easily. Ducking beneath the edge, Jackson stepped out onto the fire-escape
and gripped onto the metal railing. The only light came from the dying street.
It was quiet aside from the occasional siren racing to help yet
another helpless soul. It might make it in time. It might not. The world was
fucked up like that.
Jackson closed his eyes. He swallowed thickly. And then he
bowed his head, allowing the city’s pain seep into him once more; all the while
he prayed that maybe this once it would cover his own ills. Just this once.
