A product of 'An Essence Of Time.' So read that story before reading this one,please. You will find that story here if you search for it. Also,buy my book,'Free Time',on Amazon. Love.
Now it’s time for you to see the curtains open up on my cinema screen, salted or sweet popcorn at the ready, or maybe you prefer a mixture of both, along with your fizzy drink, comfortably enjoy. Have you been to the bathroom to spend a penny?It would be best not tomove from your seat until the visual story finishes.
A run-down corridor, Max is stumbling down towards the flat he lives in at the bottom. Shabby wooden doors conceal other people's flats like Maxes. Burning this place down would be a step toward improvement. He stops halfway, half-cut, leaning against the wall, taking a swig of whiskey from the bottle in his right hand; like the plaster from these walls, it trickles down. Max is half-plastered, just like these walls, back to stumbling, hearing a muffled argument concealed behind one of the doors. Max stops about halfway through the corridor, taking another swig; after he takes a deep breath, he looks behind with blurry vision trying to focus, but too drunk now, he looks back, continuing to his flat.
The argument is boiling over to the corridor. The flat door swings open to Max’s right side, with a half-dressed skinny geezer thrown out, crashing into the wall on impact, knocking more of the walls contents off, crumbling to the floorboards like this geezer trying to get up, as a larger than life man wearing a grubby vest comes storming out from the flat, his scarred tattooed fist connects with other guys jaw.
While he angrily says, spits flings out from his mouth, “Fucking scummy cunt! Sleeping with my woman!”
Max just stood there, taking another swig of his drink, while watching the fight unfold, as the larger guy faded tattoos all over his arms to knuckles, as the woman in question emerged from the flat, with blood trickling from her nostrils also her right eye is puffy. While another punch connects onto the side of the skinnier guys eye sockets, he doesn’t crumble to the floor again like the wall, instead comes up with an uppercut, his fist connecting beautifully on his not-expecting chins, knocking him clean out, his lump of a body thudding the ground, nearly knocking down this godforsaken excuse of an apartment complex, which would be an improvement, as I said before this is a real shit hole of a place, not even vermin want to live here, the type of place you have to wipe your feet before you leave. While the skinny guy gets on one knee, wiping the blood away from his nostrils, he splits his lip. Max steps over the lump on the floor to carry on walking to his flat door at the end of the corridor.
He is opening the door to his studio flat, and the woman over Max’s shoulder is helping the skinnier guy up, walking back into her flat for her to tend to his every need. Max slams the door behind him. He got sacked from the only thing that mattered to him, which was his science job, working in a lab with this world's renowned established scientist.
His sofa bed was still lying; tattered bed covers lay scruffily on top. He hasn’t got a lady to call his own or much money; he sits on his sofa bed looking around his flat, which is falling apart. Also, dirty plates pilled up in the sink, along with takeaway containers from the Chinese down the road scattered around his apartment, a pile of dirty clothes beside the washing machine, with its door hanging on only by one screw in the hinge. Dark is also dingy; the blinds broke in front of the only light source because there is no light bulb. Imagine a disgusting place to live; then, you will have the image I am portraying. Max sighs, takes a swig of whiskey, and pulls out a box of headache pills and paracetamol from his tattered coat pocket. Tearing open the box, he pushes all the pills into his hand. Max puts them into his mouth, chewing while swigging at his whiskey, finishing both the box also whiskey. He lays back on his brown sofa bed, which was initially grey, waiting for them to take effect, looking up at the paint-chipped ceiling, his head swirling like a ceiling fan; lucky for him, there isn’t one in this place because it wouldn’t work anyway, also most probably would fall on him while he sleeps.
He gets up out of his bed sometime later. A light scattering tapping noise came from his flat's window, from the droplets of rain outside. Stumbling forwards toward the raggedy blinds to open the window for some fresh air, but darkness engulfs him as he collapses to the filthy carpet dragging his hand across the dust-filled blinds, dust flickering up and going airborne, lucky he didn’t smash his head off the rusty radiator.
He stands in complete darkness.
Max shouts out, asking in a panicky voice, “Hello! Hello! Anyone there!? I need help!”
A figure wearing a dark mystical robe with the earth, in all its glory, rotating on his robes front, as the figure seems to be floating, approaching him; he is holding a black-handled scythe.
A voice from the mysterious figure bellows out, “Put your hands out!”
Max is trying to see a face from within the hood of the cloak that belongs to the entity; all he sees is a reflection of himself, darkness with stars sparkling like diamonds within, between his head to the robe's hood. Nervously Max places his hands out, palms up.
Without the mysterious reflection's lips moving, he says, “I don’t think you deserve this, but they do. We will be watching, so don’t fuck up!”
With the tip of the scythe, he rips diagonally across both of Max’s palms, but instead of crying out in pain, the slits are painless. A glowing blue liquid seeps into the cuts. With that, the mysterious figure walks away while muttering words that belong to a different language on his breath, which sounds like the oldest language Tamil.
Max awakens on the dirty, damp carpet of his flat because of a leak dripping from the decrepit ceiling; as a droplet falls, splashing on the soaked carpet before his eyes, soaking in more, and banging on his front door.
He mumbles, “One minute.”
But the person on the other side must not have heard him because the banging carries on more furiously. Max gets up from the dirt-damp carpet; he feels awoken in himself, the bottle of whiskey smashed beside his bed, glass scattered some under the sofa bed. He goes to the door, crushing glass under his steps to see who is on the other side.
His landlord stands with a furious expression and a strict demeanour; he is an older guy with bolding grey hair. Some stubble around his chin and tired eyes; over his shoulder, you can see the tattooed geezer banging on his flat door, most probably while the younger guy bangs his misses.
The landlord says demandingly, “Your rent is overdue, Max.”
Max responds with desperation, “Hi Mr Digs, I was going to see you; funny story really, I lost my job today.”
Mr Digs angrily says, “Listen, that is not the only thing you will lose today; you have one hour to get your stuff out of the flat; you have run out of final warnings.”
Max looks around the shit hole of his flat, thinking, ‘Even a pig would turn its nose up at this place.’
Mr Digs taps his gold Rolex watch; you know how he got that by overpricing people for shitty flats, as he is saying, “Clocks ticking.”
The rain tapping on the window of his flat suddenly stops; his landlord turns around, walking down the corridor, probably to collect more rent money. Max raises his two fingers, swearing at Mr Digs while mumbling, “Fuck you.”
A ray of ice alongside a stream of fire shoots out from Max’s right hand. The fire hits the back of his landlord while the ice flies over the top of the steaming ash pile, hitting the once-painted white chipped wooden bannister, freezing around the wood. Max looks shocked and confused about what happened; how was it possible?
Max muttered, asking himself, “Where the fuck did that come from?”
He looks at his right hand, which has a diagonal scar that is glinting with dark blue. After he checks his left hand, it is with a diagonal scar with a light blue glint swirling around the once-open wound. With tunnel vision, he walks over to the ash pile to see, embedded on top, a complete set of nicotine-stained teeth, Mr Digs Rolex, that’s stopped working because, well, he is dead, along with his black wallet. Max grabs the wallet. Also, of course, the Rolex wouldn’t leave that there for someone else’s sticky fingers, taking the clump of twenty also fifty-pound notes out.
Max thinks, ‘Today must have been rent day; now it’s my fucking day.’
He drops the wallet onto the creaky floorboards while stashing the many Sterling pound notes into his pockets. I know you shouldn’t wear a Dead Man's watch, but I don’t blame Max for putting it on; I fucking would also; I know you would; you know why it’s a fucking real solid gold Rolex, mate.
A cough from behind Max, which gets his attention; it is the big tattooed guy, fist still clenched because he was banging on the door of his flat for his cheating old lady to let him in, but she is most probably riding the younger fitter geezer. He looks as confused as Max, but instead of running for the hills, at the fact fire alongside ice just physically came out from the back of Max’s hand; instead, he comes thumping towards Max because he sees the clumps of Sterling notes that Max just stuffed into his pocket. So Max extends his right hand's middle finger to see if something happens within milli-seconds of pointing it towards the big man. Max folds his middle finger as ice streams out from the back of his hand, ice scattering around the big man. Freezing him to the spot with fists still clenched, ready to throw a punch because of the steaming ash pile causing the temperature of the room to rise suddenly, also being so close to the frozen human statue, a drip thaws from his knuckles, running down dripping to the floor below, the staircase on the other hand, has defrosted a bit more, a small puddle leaking through floorboards, Max noticing that, he decided before the significant man thaws completely its best to make a move, as he carries on walking towards the stairs, he puts the Rolex on his left hand, not needing anything from his flat, not even looking back.
He finds a way outside the apartment later, walking to the edge of the pavement and looking around one of this country’s capital city’s streets, still wet from the rain. An unknown object explodes into the buildings opposite, which starts collapsing; fire explodes out from one of the top windows. Shards of glass fall like a downpour of rain, but you don’t want to be kissing a lady under this downpour; it would ruin your romantic moment. Cars are on fire, some have been tipped upside down, with people still inside; maybe that is a lucky escape for them because some of the burnt corpses, lying on the pathway still clutching their singed shopping inside their fucking ten pence bags, doesn’t look the best way to go out. Max sees down the street a person running on fire, clutching an unbeknown to them a flaming briefcase. Max looks down at his tingling left hand, wondering what shoots out from the back as he turns his.
A woman’s voice screams, “Watch out!”
Max looks around, eyes scanning around the carnage to see a woman in hiding, pointing above him; Max, while moving forward out of instinct, quickly looks up to see some of his flats building's brickwork along with windows falling towards him, running ahead in a state of panic, sliding over a silver cars bonnet, ducking behind. The falling materials crash to join the carnage below, like dropping a stone into a puddle, as pieces of bricks along with shards of glass clatter into the side of the car. Max sees the mature woman hiding behind a double black public rubbish bin, you know, the ones, I mean, one side is for recycling, the other for general waste. She is clutching the hand of her young son. Max stands up, looking back at his apartment complex to see an improvement, only joking; dust cloud impairing his vision from the fallen brickwork surrounding them like mist, slowly starting to settle.
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