cr1100 existentialist character prose

The train tracks were empty yesterday, the day before and all of last week as well. It was a mixed blessing at best, for she has come to rely on the first daily 7:39 freight to wake up and without a dream shattering roar it was harder to find incentive.

The now empty tracks continue past the apartments back porch to beneath a nearby overpass where recently the homeless have been gathering to seek a niche of shelter. Economic recession was proving to be their golden age, with plenty of opportunities to scavenge what’s left in the piles behind failed businesses and store it beneath the overpass. Winter was coming and the mutilated trash cans were burning high. It used to be that while coming home she would stand at the opposite entrance to brave the possibility of an oncoming train. She would then close her eyes and run as fast as she could. Once, she joked that she was unsure of whether she closed her eyes in fear of colliding with the train or rather, in hope thereof. In light of recent developments, when she approached the tunnel today she plugged her nose and shut her lips. The putrid dense air smelled of what she could only discern to be a mix of beans, old man smell, fecal matter and dead wet dog. It left her feeling an odd tingle much like the subtle after effects of being punched in the nose. She wondered how anyone could live there.

As she made her way through the tunnel she was followed by jiggling change receptacles. The ones with more chutzpah and the ones with more creative stories continued as far as the canopy of the torn metal overhang atop the back door before giving up. She played with the rusty lock while shaking her head politely and then closed the door making sure not to let anyone in.

She felt sorry for them, which only lead to feeling sorry for herself when she realized that there wasn’t a cent to spare. She was working for the man, with most of the proceeds going to another. One of the men was Richard; he owned the thrift store where she sorted clothes in the back for chump change. The other man went by ‘Silk’ and refused to respond to anything else. He called money ‘the joy of the modern man’ and in exchange for it, he would provide the girl with the joy she called hers. Her joy came brown, bitter and powdery.

Silk was all business and could tell when the slightest bulge in her pocket was a bill. Upon noticing it, he would not relent until it was his. Silk’s pushy nature coupled with the fact that he worked right near her front door made it so that crossing the tunnel was still the preferable option.

Three floors up she lived behind a door that slammed with a squeak which she compared to that of a penitentiary. Upon entering she wondered how it was that indoors she was colder still. The walls of the apartment were covered in water stains which she had turned into her version of art using some markers that she had stolen from work. She brushed aside most of the papers on the floor locked mattress in the bedroom and sat down. A little while ago, about when the trains stopped running, she broke her bed by standing on it while trying to reach the ceiling with the tip of a felt. She was attempting to turn the sordid wet spot above her bed into a sun which she assumed would help her wake up. When she broke her bed, after relocating to the floor she found that not much else was different; she still woke up to a cold breakfast.

Sitting on her bed she emptied the contents of a paper flap into a spoon, spat and proceeded to heat it with a lighter. A pull, a poke and a squirt later her pupils shrunk to the size of the dots on her skin. She was smiling again and thinking of how suitable the name ‘Silky’ really was. She exhaled her existentialism and her eyes closed to better see a better life.

708