Stay High

Chapter Three

The sun wakes me at the crack of dawn. I yawn, stretching my arms above my head, only to wince when my arm twinges. I cradle it against my chest and sit upright, glancing down at the bruise forming along the length of my forearm.

Ah, well. Better a bruise than a fracture.

I slowly stand from the bed and walk over to the window that looks out at the city. It's the only thing in my life I can honestly say I'm thankful for.

The colours that touch the edge of the towering buildings, that slide past the thousands of windows. They create such a gorgeous myriad of colours, and I long for the day when I have time to sit here and sketch it out, and then to paint it. How gorgeous it would be to paint such thrilling colours, that hold such a deep, penetrating calm. Goose-bumps fly across my skin, and the grazing of a smile touches my lips.

I appreciate the view for a minute longer before turning and making my way to the bathroom. I kick my clothes from yesterday out of the way and check the clock as I pass.

5AM.

"Fucking hell." My slight good mood dissolves as I rub at my face.

I bathe in freezing water because I won't be able to afford hot water this month. Not without that damn bike. God, I won't be able to get any work that calls me back. I won't be able to pay my bills. With a frustrated scowl, I scrub my face a little harder, shivering in the cold spray.

I shower quick to save water and step out, wrapping a towel around my waist as I head to the kitchen. The cupboards are all bare. I own one bowl, one plate, one pan, one fork, spoon and knife. I never have visitors.

I pull the single bowl down and turn to find my cereal box. Empty. I curse and tip it upside down, the few crumbs that fall out and into my bowl will make do. I open the fridge and pull out half an old banana. It's starting to brown around the edges, because I'd eaten the other half two days ago and dumped the rest in the fridge for whenever.

I stare down at my sad attempt at breakfast, but shrug it off and walk over to the couch. I settle down and place the bowl on the coffee table, reaching for my drawing pads and pencils. The large pad slides over my lap and with the weight of it calming me, I'm able to begin sketching along the crisp white paper.

Uncertain of the creation taking place on the paper, I draw what my mind wills. As it forms, I laugh softly, recognising the scene from yesterday as the men squeezed themselves into the glass elevator. I sketch out the large picture, and then flip the page and start drawing a little comic strip.

It fascinates me for twenty minutes, which is when I remember why I'd seen these men, and the predicament I'd been in. Cursing, I look to the destroyed bike against the wall across from me. I set the pad of paper on the coffee table and stand, carrying the bowl with half a banana and cereal crumbs as I walk over to the wreck. I sigh, grazing my fingers along the broken chain and bent back tire. The rest is only scratched but... still.

The bike is by far the most expensive thing I own. Because I don't own the apartment. I don't own the couch. I don't own the shitty, small television in the corner. Maxwell offered them to me for the duration of me living here. Granted, I've been here three years now. But, still. They aren't mine.

Thinking of Maxwell...

I pick up the yellow envelope he gave me yesterday from the couch. It feels moderately heavy.

With a mouthful of crumbed banana, I rip into the envelope and turn it upside down so the contents can fall into my hand. A fat wad of cash. I stare in disbelief. What?! A letter falls out, too. I set it down to analyse the amount of money. I weigh it in my palms, and flick through it.