Humours

A Story by Maxwell Moore

Creative writing assignment for my 1st year Creative Writing module at University.

The zipping of the suitcase made my skin crawl as the realisation of this day came rushing back to me. The popped, ripped latex of the balloons that covered the floor from my 19^th birthday still gave off a pungent aroma, as well as the ground down food, embedded into my carpet. I set my suitcase to one side and brought myself to take down the experiences that were stuck to my walls, which made the situation all too real. One photo stood out as I ran my fingers over its glossy exterior. My mind took over.

My eyes scan the not so bustling club to see the hench bouncers bordering all corners, caging us in like predators waiting for it to be their lucky day so they can pounce. A scrawny Asian boy stands by himself leaning up against the bar in some pretentious manner, bobbing his head to the beat of the music. He was clothed in some reasonably fashionable chinos and a chequered shirt. As I step down the stairs I'm reminded of the trip from my flat to the club. Coming down from the infamous flat nine was a laugh, we were all pretty smashed, making a raucous and Doug most probably offended some innocent passer-by. Don't worry we will most probably hear about that in the morning.

I slumped on the worn bourgeois looking burgundy leather that was clearly put here to try and give this club some so called ‘class’. I set my obviously watered down Jack Daniels and Coke on the table, the liquid climbed up the sides and splattered a leaflet beside me. The ridiculous, generic, “persuasive” headline caught my eye: “Are you ready to get smashed by DJ Violent?” My cynical mind thought to itself “DJ Violent”, you cannot be serious? Who goes to these things?

“You on it then?” As Doug picks up the stupid leaflet, “Yeah I ‘spose” I mumbled hypocritically.

I glance at my cheap, luminescent bracelet watch that was given to me the last time I attended one of these events. The hands blurrily show me a time of around 1:10am, I accidentally say out loud, “this shithole should fill up soon”. Maybe I’m not the heroic drinker that I make out to be. One JD and Coke and I am thinking aloud.

My eyes scanned the room for the second or third time. I can't really remember. I notice the rapid lightshow bouncing and fragmenting off of the shards of glass that scatter the dance floor like mines buried in no mans land within some generic, American propaganda war film. I imagine pissed people attempting to do the worm on that death-trap floor and getting a little surprise, once again a sinister laugh that was meant for my head protrudes out. People must think I’m a nutter. Stop drinking Oscar. Now I’m talking to myself. Great…

“SAMMY B!” Doug sprints over with two shots of headache inducing liquid that we all vow never to consume again. I feel the liquid cascade down the back of my throat stinging as it goes. As I stand the alcohol starts to invade. Blood rushing to my head, massacring synapses. Frankenstein’s monster is being created.

Doug called me over to the dance floor; I staggered towards his call feeling like a baby, trying to figure out the complexities of movement. My feet crunched under the glass as the heavy bass line possessed my body and suddenly I was a member of Diversity, or at least I thought I was. My arms rapidly contorting, creating shapes that I called dance moves. The idea pierced my mind like an arrow shot. The Worm! I leapt into the air like an eagle soaring over canyons; I fell so slow with my palms down first I thought I could have a conversation in mid-air with Karma discussing my mistakes. The razor sharp shards intruded their way through my skin, thankfully only in my hands as I failed to pull off the stupid idea.

After a scarily pain free experience of pulling the little b******s out, I made my way towards the bar and in the distance I saw Clara attempting to climb on top of what she must thought was a stage to show the club her dance moves and some other unspeakable, unfortunate actions. We grasped hands as I was laughing while getting her down before the bartender bit into that wasp too hard. As I saw Clara’s feet touch down, my head jolted back. I felt like I was in an invisible car crash but then I realised this scrawny hand wrapped around my neck tightening its grasp, a strange concoction of alcohol and adrenaline pulsed through all of my veins, a red sheet obscured my vision.

The room was eerily cold, my eyes found the Tarantino calendar on the wall. 1^st December 2010. Day before my 16^th birthday. My face winces as I realise what day this, a strange force pushes my head down to look at my hands. I can feel every individual fibre stroke my fingers as the rope slithers through my hands like a cunning snake, sending shivers down my spine. Thoughts of old Eastwood westerns forcefully invade my mind space as the sinister scarf was moulded. A single droplet of sweat cascaded down through the contours of my face. My mind throbbed; I locked my eyes in pain hoping it would leave. When I opened them I was back in the club, hand still attached to my throat but this time my fist was bulleting through the air, with my target acquired. My fist crashed into the solid surface. Lacerated pieces of blood and flesh dripped off of the wall as I fled in tears. I can only imagine the shocked expressions I left behind.

I unpinned the remainder of the paper memories from the walls. Took one last look at all of them, flooding my brain with mixed emotions. I grabbed my suitcase and slung the guitar over my shoulder, anxiously awaiting to cross the threshold into the real world, wondering how this new venture would play out.

© 2013 Maxwell Moore

Author's Note

I understand it is far from perfect, but I wanted it to be quite personal. If ideas within need to be explained, I also wrote a reflective analysis as a joining piece. So feel free to ask.
Also my lecturer feels this protagonist is made for a selection of short stories, please give your opinions on this statement.

Lastly, thank you for taking your time to read my work.