The Hood

He entered the bar. The barkeeper kept pouring drinks, people playing darts, going about their business. He grabbed a seat and sat down. The barkeeper noticed him and went over.

“The usual?” He asked.

“Yeah,” The man answered in a grim tone.

He took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth. With his other hand, he took a lighter and lit the cigarette. One puff. He balanced the cigarette between his forefinger and middle finger and blew out the smoke. Another puff. He felt a relieving sensation while letting out the smoke.

The barkeeper brought a bottle of whiskey to the man and left.

He stared at that bottle while he took another puff. The bartender brought a glass and asked:

“The tab?”

“Yeah,” He replied.

He poured a drink onto the glass and drank. One gulp. He gulped it down with ease. He rested his head on his hand, slowly spun the glass to see the alcohol form a tiny whirlpool, and rested the glass on the table. His silence told the story of a man who went through agonizing pain. Someone who was broken beyond healing. The cigarette between his fingers started to disintegrate. He took one more puff before throwing it out the window.

The vibrant light of the moon glared at the area. Crickets chirped. Cold strips of air blew. The man walked out of the bar, taking the bottle with him. The cold draft didn’t bother him. He walked where there was light. The oncoming cars didn’t bother him. He walked in front of them without the slightest care.

“Moron. You wanna die?” A man shouted.

He didn’t pay heed and continued to walk on.

He walked. He showed no signs of drunkenness, yet the bottle was nearly over. Upon crossing the road, he was met by a fatal accident. The driver was on the phone and wasn’t able to steer off in time. The bottle in his hand shattered. The man was lying a bit away from the car. The driver rushed out to aid him. He was sure that the man might’ve lost consciousness, but he didn’t. He looked fine.

“Oh my god, sir. I’m so sorry. Come. Let’s go to the hospital,” He spoke with fear.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to bother yourself. See, I’m fine,” He spoke, dusting off the sand from his forearms.

A crowd gathered to see what had happened. Cars stopped to see the commotion.

“It’s fine, people. Move along now,” He said.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” The driver asked to be sure.

“Yeah. It was my mistake. I shouldn’t have crossed the road being drunk,” He said. The truth was he saw the car coming. He wasn’t drunk.

The driver helped the man get up. After making sure he was in a good shape to walk, he left and walked towards his car. The man continued to walk on.

A suburban house. He opened the gate and entered. The man patted down his pockets in search of his keys and took them from his left pocket.

He entered and was welcomed by a dark room. The lights stayed off. He didn’t mind the gloomy background.

A depressed individual. The man headed for his bed and gathered his earphones. He slept listening to songs. They provided a form of comfort.

“37, 69, 431, 1412, 1530…,” He murmured. With each number, his sadness increased. He stopped in “1988”. It was fine at first, but over the years it got worse. He couldn’t sleep without crying. He couldn’t dream without having nightmares. The light had gone out of his life. The music kept on playing with each song reflecting on his loneliness. He stared at the ceiling, with tears rolling down his eyes.

Purpose. That’s all he hoped to search for. That was his mission. But in the process, he was left shattered. He rubbed fingers through scars on his forearms, each having its own story to tell.