Drip.
Drip.
Cold water trickled down onto the concrete pavement. Slow, long drips, saturating the ground.
Drip.
Drip.
The room itself was dull. Broken tables and faded cloth. Ripped pictures and shattered glasses. Old time memories floating in the air. This place that was once full of life was now a decrepid and aging building.
Drip.
Drip...
A dark heap in the corner stirred a bit and groaned softly. A hand stretched out from under the rags and soon a whole body uncovered itself. He squinted his eyes to adjust to the mixed light setting and let a hand run through his rebellious hair. Small rays of light peeked through the boarded windows and danced on the shattered mirror on the other side of the room. He blinked and his sight became focused. He got up and looked around.
Silence.
He turned towards the shatterd mirrior and the bucket beside it. His distorted reflection looked back at him, a pitiful excuse of a man. The man that he was. He snorted and made his way to the mirror and bucket, occaisionally kicking away some debris of tiling or food containers. His face was smudged and dirty, his clothes, ripped and torn. He looked over at the bucket beside him.
-Full.-
He looked up and saw that the dripping had stopped on its own today and for that he was glad. His hands found a flexible plug and promtly stuck it in the crack in the ceiling.
"Thank God for rain."
He undressed and poured out the water into the sink below. Not wanting to waste water, he eyed carefully how much he put in. THe water was cold and refreshing. He worked the soap and water around his body briefly and started his face and hair. Water dripped down his now clean face and he stared at his broken reflection, the light rays illuminating the iris' of his eyes. This was him, who he was. Cole Taylor, age 17, street runner and lone wolf. He warily eyed himself in the broken mirrior a narrowed his eyes. His grip on the sink tightend and he closed his eyes.
-Another day, another reason to die.-
He opened his eyes and grabbed a nearby pole. Cole picked up his bomber jacket and left the building, his hair tussled by the wind. Cole Taylor, age 17 and this is his life.
Another day, another reason to die.
Drip.
Cold water trickled down onto the concrete pavement. Slow, long drips, saturating the ground.
Drip.
Drip.
The room itself was dull. Broken tables and faded cloth. Ripped pictures and shattered glasses. Old time memories floating in the air. This place that was once full of life was now a decrepid and aging building.
Drip.
Drip...
A dark heap in the corner stirred a bit and groaned softly. A hand stretched out from under the rags and soon a whole body uncovered itself. He squinted his eyes to adjust to the mixed light setting and let a hand run through his rebellious hair. Small rays of light peeked through the boarded windows and danced on the shattered mirror on the other side of the room. He blinked and his sight became focused. He got up and looked around.
Silence.
He turned towards the shatterd mirrior and the bucket beside it. His distorted reflection looked back at him, a pitiful excuse of a man. The man that he was. He snorted and made his way to the mirror and bucket, occaisionally kicking away some debris of tiling or food containers. His face was smudged and dirty, his clothes, ripped and torn. He looked over at the bucket beside him.
-Full.-
He looked up and saw that the dripping had stopped on its own today and for that he was glad. His hands found a flexible plug and promtly stuck it in the crack in the ceiling.
"Thank God for rain."
He undressed and poured out the water into the sink below. Not wanting to waste water, he eyed carefully how much he put in. THe water was cold and refreshing. He worked the soap and water around his body briefly and started his face and hair. Water dripped down his now clean face and he stared at his broken reflection, the light rays illuminating the iris' of his eyes. This was him, who he was. Cole Taylor, age 17, street runner and lone wolf. He warily eyed himself in the broken mirrior a narrowed his eyes. His grip on the sink tightend and he closed his eyes.
-Another day, another reason to die.-
He opened his eyes and grabbed a nearby pole. Cole picked up his bomber jacket and left the building, his hair tussled by the wind. Cole Taylor, age 17 and this is his life.
Another day, another reason to die.