Concrete City

It’s too early to be awake, but too late to be asleep, as Nick wanders through the down-lighted, deserted streets, populated only by the litter that’s blowing disconsolately in the breeze.

Look closer, and you will see that he is very tired. There are bags under his bloodshot, tearstained eyes, and his gait is stumbling as he makes his slow way down the road.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, and to tell the truth, he doesn’t much care. He doesn’t even know how he got here. The previous night is a blur of painful debauchery, vodka-tinged memories occasionally surfacing in his cloudy, throbbing mind.

He is clutching a carrier bag, its handles long since snapped, which contains his wallet, now empty, and a half-bottle of whisky which he looks longingly at ever so often before continuing his painful onwards shuffle.

It’s beginning to rain: the first drops land on the back of Nick’s hands, and he touches them, wipes them away; a futile exercise.

He turns left, toward the shopping centre. At eight am, nothing is open except an all-night garage whose solid neon drone glows out across the forecourt. As Nick steps inside, he hears the quiet clinical buzz of the air-conditioning, pushing him into a world of twenty degrees Celsius.

He wanders down the few aisles, examining bottles of Pepsi and tins of dog food simply for a lack of anything better to do. He picks up a copy of the NME, thumb through it, until the woman at the till glares at him.

He goes into the toilet at the back of the shop, looks at himself in the mirror. What a pathetic sight he makes. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he pours cold water over his hands and face and goes back out again.

On the door, he notices, someone has carved their names alongside the words “I Hate This Town”. Next to it, others have agreed. He thinks that he wants to add his own name, but he doesn’t have a pen or a knife or even a key.

The woman at the till doesn’t even look up as he walks back into the shop. He pockets some chocolate, hoping that she’ll stop him, but she doesn’t notice, even as he leaves.

He walks out onto the forecourt, eating his chocolate, but after two bites it’s going stake in his mouth and he can’t swallow it. He gags, throws the rest away. The purple wrapping glitters on the grey concrete. He stands on it, crushing it into the pavement with the heel of his shoe. It leaves a stain. This makes him feel slightly better.

The icy water he poured onto his face before is beginning to sting in the sharp shock of the cold wind. He wonders if it will freeze.

He sets off again, down the same streets. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but one thing’s for certain:

he’s never coming back.