White Wide World

New World

I sit with a much needed drink in my hand. I'm in a crowded bar not far from the hospital where I've been spending a lot of time. When I'm not training, sleeping, spending time with Angel or fighting, then I'm here. The music is playing and quite a few people are dancing. From my seat in a remote booth, I can see all the people, but refrain from being a part of it.

I watch as an elderly man walks in. He has a pillow in each hand, like he always has. He comes to the bar every other day—not to drink, but to dance and see all the people, much like me.

He always brings the pillows with him. He claims that the wooden chairs are too hard for his old bum. He has a pillow for himself and his friend. So as he finds a table, his friend orders him a big pint. So, they sit there with a beer each, tripping to the music. Then as always, a woman arrives. She's is called Ruth, and Ruth always wears this huge fur coat, on which you can smell the smoke from a mile away. Her hair is dyed pitch black and she's almost mummified by all her makeup. One of the elderly men likes to call the woman "Hysterica". It is a nice nickname in my opinion. This woman can get worked up over nothing, nothing at all, so the name is quite fitting actually.

I take a sip of my beer as I watch the people in the bar. I've been spending a lot of time here, mostly because it's easy to access from the hospital, home and the gym. My dad has been improving, or at least that's what the doctors say. He still looks as drunk as always. Yesterday he threw a few punches at me, which I quickly ducked. We had a staring match for long while before he broke into a smile exclaiming we should start a wrestling duo. He also asked me if I wanted a Martini, shaken not stirred, in the same sentence. I don't really get where the sober thing plays in, but I'm not a doctor so I wouldn't know.

I have to give in to a small smile when I see one of the elderly men change into his dance shoes as he always does, just in case anyone wanted to dance with him. I down the last bit of beer I have left, and make my way home. The air makes my lungs burn and my eyes water, as I start to jog home. The steady sound of my feet hitting the pavement sets a good rhythm, and I keep a steady pace.

I maneuver my way around the small streets. I know the streets well; I've lived here all my life and spent many hours in these streets. Few would say these streets are the best thing for a young man or child, but for me they were better than home. As I run past, many people give me a nod, but I just keep my pace, ignoring everyone. I stop at the local supermarket, deciding that it might be best to get something to eat. I know I won't be able to keep this up for much longer—a grown man can't work on no food at all.

I hate going to the supermarket, so I always make it as swift as possible. I quickly grasp what I need and make it to the register. As I stand in line, the perfect example of why I hate children and supermarkets comes along when a woman stands in front of me with her back turned. But it's not the woman that annoys me, it's her child. A kid, about 10 years old, is screaming his head off, kicking the other customers' carts, and screaming at them. I furrow my brows at the child as he throws a fit. He's screaming at his mother. He is, as it's called on a ship, not in command.

I feel my blood start to boil, as the kid's face is getting more and more red from his screaming. I feel a headache starting to form; I know it's not from too many hits to the head, so it must be from that kid. I know he hasn't seen me yet, even though, I'm standing right behind them. I ponder on what to do. I want to give him a good old whack on the head, but I don't want to face the wrath of the mother, even though the little monster deserves it. I try to find my most pedagogical side, even though it's deeply hidden today.

"Shut up!" I growl angrily at him. He stops his crying immediately, and looks at me with wide eyes. He almost looks like he wants to start crying, but when I lift a challenging brow at him he quickly loses the attitude. As I'm paying for the things I wonder if I'll ever have children? Most likely not. What woman in her right mind would ever bring a child into the world, with me? It's probably for the best; I would never be able to take care of family. I've only ever properly taken care of myself, and some might not even think what I'm doing is taking care of myself.

It won't surprise me if I die young—it won't bother me either. When the time comes, I'll be ready to face whatever comes afterwards with my head held high. My mother always wished to every damn god that I was innocent. I know that deep down she knew what I was doing, but she never told me. She just loved me as always. She never changed, but sadly I did. My mother was always a gentle woman, she never yelled at me, never laid a hand on me. How ironic she ended up with my pops. I shake my head at the thought. No matter how many fucking times he hit her, she never left him, and she just held her head high. She never hit back, she just wore her bruises with pride, almost like she knew it was a part of her lot in life. She always used to tell me, "I accept you as you are, I don't need the truth."

I guess my mother must have seen something special in that old man because she stuck with him through everything. I admire her for that—to know what her goal was, not because she had to but because she wanted to. She knew it was her burden to bear, for better and for worse. My mother must have seen something in my poor excuse of a father that I can't.

I've always been a vengeful person. If someone wrongs me, they will regret it. I might just be the son of the devil, literally and figuratively. I guess I just love to see the world burn, and to be honest there's probably no one I would want to save. Or maybe. I'm much more of a man of the devil than a man of God, when people try to give me angel wings, I refuse to fly.

Der menes formentligt, at han var let til at slå. Jeg forstår det, men det kunne misfortolkes af andre. Man kunne overveje at sige det på en anden måde.

sion_u }@�^.