Oct 19, 2016, 1:17:32 AM Creative

When he woke up, he just sat there staring at the blank wall in front of him. Naturally, he reached out to the pack of cigarettes beside the bed and he lit one. He took a deep nicotine enriched breath and closed his eyes trying to remember what he did the day before but nothing came to mind. He tried to remember who he saw, where he went, anything as he found himself struggling even to figure out where he was at that moment.

He saw nothing special as he looked around him; just a simple room with a little closet in the corner and a table next to the bed. The walls were bare apart from a single poster of a monkey giving him the middle finger right on top of the bed. He lit another cigarette and got out of bed still trying to wrap his mind around the situation. He did not recognise the place and it did not even feel familiar to him. Opening the closet, he found that it was full of his clothes and stuff so he figured that it was his place after all.

Halfway to finishing his third cigarette, he had already drank the quarter of the whisky bottle he found under the bed. Then, he started to think what is it he had to do that day. He kept at it for a while and the decided to let it go as he finished taking a dump. He checked his phone and found no calls or messages, cursed the thing and laid down on the bed. He picked it up again after finishing the fourth cigarette and thought about to whom he might give a call and decided not to call anyone.

He just laid there with his eyes oscillating between the ceiling and the monkey giving him the finger. By the end of his sixth smoke he was laughing hysterically and saying “he’s right”, over and over. He taught about his miserable worthless existence, just another unimportant man, unnoticed, irrelevant, with the rest of them. Eat, sleep and defecate, with the occasional hook-up and that’s it. If he dropped dead no one will care or even notice. Life would still go one, no mourning, no tears, no one will be sad over him, no minutes of silence for his soul nor memorials in the honour of his memory. He just did not matter.

To top it all, his memory was like that of a fish. He could not remember anything, not even when was it that he finished all of his cigarettes, and then he could not remember what he was just thinking about, not why he was feeling bad. All he was sure about was that he was tired, so he decided to get a little sleep.

Published by Aymen Bessalah

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