Desperate in Decline

My eyes landed on the clock as I stubbled back into my apartment.

3:22 AM.

It was Friday.

When he said Saturday, did he mean Saturday morning or Saturday night?

My hand grappled with my broken light switch and the room as illuminated. I shut my eyes, but they still lit up red as my eyelids attempted to filter out the harsh glow. As they slowly adjusted, I opened up my eyes and blinked a few times.

What was his name? Why did I care so much that if he died?

I took a step forward and my feet avoided piles of clothing as I skillfully navigated the jungle that was my home.

He said he did coke. Do you do coke? Do you shoot it? Smoke it? I was very drunk. I couldn't even remember how to get high off coke.

I navigated through the kitchen and looked around for some beer. Whiskey. Anything.

I had barely seen his face. What did he look like under that hood? Maybe he was really an old man. No, his voice was that of someone younger.

Suddenly I didn't want booze, I just wanted to sleep.

What if he was just a teen? I couldn't let some kid die.

I let my hand trail along the grimy baby-blue wall towards my bedroom.

Why did I give a shit.

I lay motionless on the bed.

I give a shit.

I hadn't cared about anything for three years. Not since Mikey.

I give a shit.

That settled it. I would go back to the bridge, Saturday morning andnight to find him again.
I had to find him again. I had to.

***

I woke up at 2:57 PM with a mind-numbing headache. The stench of alcohol made me want to vomit. I did.

I then proceeded to choke on bile and roll off the bed, and into a pile of dirty sheets. I hacked up my lunges and stumbled into the bathroom, still wheezing for air.

Catching my breath, I straightened myself up and looked in the mirror. I flinched.

My hair was greasy and matted to the side. I had the remains of eyeliner smudged around my eyes, and not in a cool way. My three layers of clothing had absorbed as much sweat as possible, and then become an oven in which I slowly baked. I tore off the dirty sweater, long sleeve shirt and T-shirt before stripping to my boxers.

To my dismay, they reeked of urine and beer. I turned on the faucet to she shower and waited for the water to heat up. After a few minutes, I remembered I hadn't paid the gas bill in three months.

With a sigh I stepped under the cool water, feeling it absorb the heat from my skin and wash away the dandruff that had gathered in my hair. It cascaded into my eyes and over my wrists, cleansing me of blood. It started clean, but gained color as it ran over me. I was an artist, coloring water brown and red.

I was an artist anyway. A failing, depressed, self loathing and suicidal artist.

Suicidal.

Last night.

That man.

I faced the stream of cold water and took a breath. A real breath. I had a purpose now, a small, random, insignificant purpose, but it gave me a reason to breath.

I looked down at my body, the slight tub of my stomach, the curve of my love handles. I was still wearing my boxers. I cared about something, and for that lone reason I could live, for now at least. I would find that man, and I would keep him alive. For some strange, unknown reason, I would keep him alive.

I stepped out of the shower.

Notes

Thank you @americanidiot_americankilljoy for leaving a comment three minutes after I posted. The only reason this chapter was written is because you did. You rock. Sorry if this isn't as good, but I hadn't planned to update till tomorrow anyway. I'm not sure how often I will in the future, but I will try to keep it pretty regular.
Thanks