Solitude writing stories

traptluvMelancholic writer. Cynic. Artist.
Autoplay OFF  •  2 years ago
Peer into the life of Z. Follow @traptluv for more.


by traptluv

He gazed at the night sky as he drew on his cigarette.

The soft glow of the burning tobacco lit for a second before he exhaled some smoke that escaped his lungs. He bit on the end that was in his mouth and hesitated.

He murmured something about buying groceries in the morning and maybe something for that cat.

He took another drag before flicking the used up cigarette

and started up his old Kawasaki. He drove to the next gas station and filled it up, stat.

There were no other customers. The night was dead quiet.

He paid, started it up again and drove away to the next town.

No one was waiting for him there.

That's how things were. No one was ever waiting for him anywhere because he didn't have anyone to wait for him.

He was fine with that

as long as no one got involved, no one got hurt. He was always protective like that. It must have been something he got from his father, but of course, he didn't really know who he got it from.

It didn't matter to him

that he didn't really have a place to belong to, only that he was healthy and still living.

He neared his hideout.

He turned off his ride and left it where he parked it. He opened the door without even checking to see if it was locked. Then again he never really locked anything. What did he have to lose?

He hit the light switch and the fluorescents flickered on.

As they hummed to life he opened the refrigerator to look for sustenance.

He grabbed an orange and picked the sticky, sweet smelling fruit apart. Its fragrance hung in the air and clung to his fingertips as he ate it.

He stared at the peels left on the plastic kitchen table.

They reminded him of sand dunes molded from harsh winds and crisp nights.

And that's how he felt.

Like a harshly molded mound of sand left behind by the desert wind and the cold night.

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