Generic Brooding Antihero
Justice Ain't Gonna Dispense Itself
mad·ly
|ˈmadlē| adverb
1. with desperate haste or intensity; furiously:
She madly called for him, fading cries slowly overwhelmed by approaching siren calls.
2. foolishly:
He madly clung onto the hope that he, too, would disappear one day.
3. insanely or wildly:
The world spun madly on.
|ˈmadlē| adverb
1. with desperate haste or intensity; furiously:
She madly called for him, fading cries slowly overwhelmed by approaching siren calls.
2. foolishly:
He madly clung onto the hope that he, too, would disappear one day.
3. insanely or wildly:
The world spun madly on.
Oil splattered from the pan, runaway drops stinging at the back of his hand, throwing him back into the present -- whatever that meant anymore, anyway. Soren slipped the blade of the spatula underneath the overcooked eggs, and transferred them onto their individual plates.
Bacon, pancake and eggs were a staple of the Winter household breakfast, at least when it was his turn to cook. Soren set the dishes on the table, three fresh glasses of orange juice accompanying the food.
‘Up, up, up! Breakfast is ready!’ He tried a piece of the burnt bacon, carrying on with his meal, waiting for no one to start his day.
Half an hour later and he was cleaning up, throwing the leftovers into the compost bin, leaving the dirty dishes in the sink.
‘It’s such a waste, Soren.’ Rosie spoke in monotone nowadays. Her face was unblemished, beautiful as ever.
‘It’s not my fault, is it?’ And him -- he spoke in whispers and mumbles. He did not want to be heard.
‘No, dear. Nothing is.’
Soren smiled, crystalline blue eyes unmoving. Eventually, he’d made a game of it, had tried to remember when she'd said the same words last. Lately, it was getting harder and harder to win at his own game. He chalked it up to old age.
‘I have to go,’ he said, knowing the magic words to avoid the rest of the conversation. Soren put on his old, navy blue windbreaker, retrieved a set of keys from the plastic bowl by the front door.
‘Don’t forget about the photograph.’
‘I won’t.’ He slipped the keys into his jacket’s right pocket, felt them sitting snugly beside the glossy, tiny piece of photo paper inside. ‘I love you,’ he said, shutting the front door behind him. If there was a response, he couldn’t have heard it.
The roof of his tiny, yellow car spared him from what little sunlight winter had to offer. His days were marked with periods of excruciating silence, occasionally interrupted by the phone calls and/or drunken declarations of love in the back seat. It was a worthy distraction. He felt privy to the secrets of half of New York. Everyone, he found, held onto things they’d rather bury. Even him.
He looked over his shoulder, throwing a passing glance at the man who just entered his cab. As the meter started so had he wondered what secrets his new passenger held onto. The man looked like right in the middle of twenty and thirty. The dark brown curls on his forehead were flattened with sweat. His light brown eyes were bloodshot. His right hand never left his pocket.
Soren could not care less. ‘Where to?’ He simply asked. They navigated through the city’s chaotic labyrinth until the pair of they arrived at a dingy, nearly empty sidestreet.
As it was with every labyrinth, his minotaur waited for him at the exit. It came in the form of a 9mm pistol, its nuzzle kissing the side of his neck.
‘Glovebox.’ Soren parked the car in between two pick-up trucks. The last thing he wanted was to create traffic. He closed his eyes, trying to keep his heart rate down, waiting.
‘Keep your hands on the fucking steering wheel!’ The man reached forward, trembling fingers opening the compartment, pocketing the wad of cash that waited for him inside. He needed more. ‘Your wallet. Now.’ He tried to reach into Soren’s right pocket, and it was then that the latter finally broke.
His hands were off the steering wheel at once, gripping the other man’s hand with an iron-like hold, but as quick as he was to seize him was he quick to release the agitated junkie. Soren needed to reach for something else, for his neck, for the warm, crimson liquid that now stained his shirt, his beloved windbreaker.
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ He swore he heard the other man cry out, but his ears had long frozen up after two deafening gunshots.
Whatever more was said or done became lost on him. His head fell onto the steering wheel, and his tiny, yellow car cried for him in response, sustaining a bellowing plea that perhaps no one would hear. Just as well. Soren didn’t mind dying one more time, and, in his heart, he silently wished that it could be the last.
Simdroid
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