No story to tell

 Another one walked through the broken barriers, from the outside world. Instantly I could tell he was not here for a celebration. His sluggish walk caused a melancholic squeak as he crossed the battered floorboard of the old pub. Pair of jeans that are nearing their end and a creased white shirt coated his broad build to emphasise his flaws and perfection at the same time. He placed himself silently on the stool in front of the counter, oblivious to the waiter that is in front of him. Something about his stance was rather intriguing. He combed back his golden hair and to meet the gaze of the silent waiter.

‘10 shots’ his voice was sharp, dry and carried no emotion. The waiter stared at him momentarily before moving to fulfil his task.

Another drunkard, I thought. It was the same thing with every soul in this city. No one had a story to tell except for how many drinks they had the night before. My gaze dropped on the ghostly meal before me as I let out a sigh of platitude disgust. I took a bite out of the unsavoury burger in my hand, careless about residue that now marks my face. I look back to the chap at the counter who was now sculling down shots at full speed. One. Two. Three. He stops for a breath before continuing his marathon. My jaw drops in pure amazement revealing what was probably an unpleasant sight. His face showed no more than 20 years yet he had emptied over 10 shots in less time than it took me to chew. He placed the last of his empty glasses on the counter and his movements had returned to the prior state. He turned to my direction and I see something I had never seen before. His light blue eyes interlock with mine and a sudden chill crept up my spine. Ordinarily I would’ve turned away. There was nothing more awkward than meeting eyes with a stranger, but this time was different. A drop of perspiration left the side of his face as it travelled down the length of his delicate visage, a reminder of his youth. His chest was heaving as he got up and parted away, and that was when I noticed. The shading of his jeans was not of old age. It was a completely different ‘shade’. He took two steps. Two remarkably small steps before he fell to the ground with a sharp thud. The light from the broken window streamed directly upon his right leg, as if to emphasise the blood that marked his death.

 

I watch from a distance as his body is disposed of. Name... unkown. Age... unkown. I look away in self-disgust. It was the same with every soul in this city. No one had a story to tell.

Reviews

[Voice11]

This story gripped me from the very beginning but it left me with the question...What happened?

[WriterMe]

This was pretty good. The description was the things that hit me. It was very realistic, very honest.
Great work =]
P.s. I'm Indian too! Born In the Philippines and now currently in India =] Yes, Random fact =P