At the end of the road The time in the rain was somehow teasing him to forget all his thoughts about suicide, which brought him to this place. It seemed that the world here would not last any longer, was on the edge of breaking down, upside down and the rain in his face, was cold, so cold, like all the feelings, which began to fade. His eyes were searching for the light, but there was only darkness, a world of shadows and without any details, so cruel and without form. He was breathing hard, he was chasing his dream, but there was nothing, just emptiness. He sat on the pavement and leaned against the right wheel of his Mustang. The raindrops were falling without haste, falling so slow, and the world turned wet. He began to sing, the words just nonsense and his eyes rolled. His lips became so cold, and he seemed to drown. Than the first hit came, deep inside his self, it was shaking him awake, until he screamed. He saw her, in the hotel room. Saw her standing there, in the open window and at the moment she let go, he heard her whispering... What? His name? And if so, why? Still in this world, leaning on the car's wheel, he whispered also, but the wind took away every sound. Took away her name, and when he closed his eyes, the drops hit his eyelids like thousand needles. Every moment there was her face, just there, in the darkness waiting for him. He was on the end of the road, he was there, where everything started and where it would end. He knew all this and still he hadn't run away. Instead with the break of the dusk into a new day, he had taken his seat and rode away. Away from the town, where he was just one soul in a meltingpot of a thousand and where he would not be remembered, because his name was just a word. Nobody would miss him. The car was stolen. It just sat there on the road like a tiger, ready to lead him out of the asphalt jungle that was New York. He had known this was the day from the minute, as he awoke in the little hotelroom, where he was hiding from everything that would reward him with memories he tried to forget. The coffee had been bitter like all the time, since the day the darkness had reached into his heart. The rain seemed to be his friend, at least this was one of the thoughts along the way, as he was leaving. Now the rain was still his companion and here he was, on the end of everything, which had shaken him, that was there to let him bleed until there was nothing more of him to take. He opened his eyes and stared into a time long before this night, the time where he was still just Lenard. The man with the eyes of detail and the hands that could create new worlds. He was a painter and in the hotel bar, as he sat there, he was drawing in his mind a picture, of the woman that sat there. She was a lonely soul, he could tell. Her body tender, soft and somehow not there. It was like looking through a window, like she was just fading into the thin air. He took another sip of his drink, whiskey on the rocks. He came down here since so many days, drinking and trying to forget, to drown the painful memories. Nobody here knew who he was, and this was fine with him. However, this night in the bar, he became aware that she knew. She gave him that uncertain look, and a smile. Then she just walked to another chair, took a seat and stared out of the window. New York seemed to be the capital of rain. He followed her gaze out of the big panorama window, where drops splattered endless on the glass.
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A painting of forgotten souls
Kategorie: Words In Progress
Erstellt von: Badfinger
Veröffentlicht am: 20.11.2006 02:38
Geändert am: 26.11.2006 16:27
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Seit 25.10.2011
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