The jackal laid in bed with his head where his feet should be, tracing circles on his abdomen and staring at the mural on his ceiling. The foreboding darks and smoky grays moved in a stormy spiral, closing in on the light fixture he rarely turned on. It had all of the intensity and expanse of a hurricane; all the chaotic and unpredictable strokes of a tornado. Verdant gaze was fixed, but his mind dabbled in borrowed cars and dreadlocks.
Stitch couldn't get back to sleep since Roach's text message woke him up. Instead of shattering the phone across the intersection seven stories below as promised, he pried out the battery and tossed it into the corner. The phone itself met the same fate opposite.
Even without, it had power. He knew it was there and he couldn't ignore it.
The stand-off continued.
It started with a glance, followed by a longer double take. He scowled and at last climbed off of the box spring mattress situated flat on the floor.
He was made available just by having it.
A cigarette was tugged out of the pack on his bedside table and lit up before he crossed the room to open the window. He doubled back to take a leak.
And Roach - Instead of recoiling, she leaned in.
Even as he stood in the holiest of places, squinting against the smoke trailing from the end of his maw, his ear turned first, then his head.
The splash against porcelain drew him back, "Shi'."
Shake. Zip. Flush. He ran his hands under the faucet and headed into his studio.
Months had gone by since he'd torn down the wall dividing his apartment and the empty one next door. The living room and study were once piled with exotic papers, cluttered with art supplies, and lined with the fruits of his labor that never saw the light of day. Organized wasn't quite the word for their new home, but the rest of his apartment had been restored to a milder form of pandemonium.
Now it was candles and empty jars in a variety of sizes and shapes that populated any available surface. He'd straightened up recently, so those scattered across the floor were situated into clusters that tried to look intentional. He compulsively tapped the filter of his cigarette.
The pulse and chime of the phone under his clothes echoed between his ears.
Time between drags grew shorter and soon he was smashing it into the mouth of a glass jar, eyeing the padlocked door at the far end of the room.
With all there was to ignore, the bow of self-control to nihilism was imminent. Case of the "****-its" crept closer.
He snatched up the phone and battery, and abandoned his apartment in the last hour of daylight. Throwing on his hoodie, he shoved through the door into the black stairwell to make his descent on the streets.
Stitch couldn't get back to sleep since Roach's text message woke him up. Instead of shattering the phone across the intersection seven stories below as promised, he pried out the battery and tossed it into the corner. The phone itself met the same fate opposite.
Even without, it had power. He knew it was there and he couldn't ignore it.
The stand-off continued.
It started with a glance, followed by a longer double take. He scowled and at last climbed off of the box spring mattress situated flat on the floor.
He was made available just by having it.
A cigarette was tugged out of the pack on his bedside table and lit up before he crossed the room to open the window. He doubled back to take a leak.
And Roach - Instead of recoiling, she leaned in.
Even as he stood in the holiest of places, squinting against the smoke trailing from the end of his maw, his ear turned first, then his head.
The splash against porcelain drew him back, "Shi'."
Shake. Zip. Flush. He ran his hands under the faucet and headed into his studio.
Months had gone by since he'd torn down the wall dividing his apartment and the empty one next door. The living room and study were once piled with exotic papers, cluttered with art supplies, and lined with the fruits of his labor that never saw the light of day. Organized wasn't quite the word for their new home, but the rest of his apartment had been restored to a milder form of pandemonium.
Now it was candles and empty jars in a variety of sizes and shapes that populated any available surface. He'd straightened up recently, so those scattered across the floor were situated into clusters that tried to look intentional. He compulsively tapped the filter of his cigarette.
The pulse and chime of the phone under his clothes echoed between his ears.
Time between drags grew shorter and soon he was smashing it into the mouth of a glass jar, eyeing the padlocked door at the far end of the room.
With all there was to ignore, the bow of self-control to nihilism was imminent. Case of the "****-its" crept closer.
He snatched up the phone and battery, and abandoned his apartment in the last hour of daylight. Throwing on his hoodie, he shoved through the door into the black stairwell to make his descent on the streets.