Live for Tomorrow

The noises of peak hour were slowly dying as the evening crept into its peak. Each time I lifted my eyes off my phone, orange rays beamed a more vibrant and deep color into each corner of the room, filling me with a warm and easy comfort. Photography equipment leaned against piles of boxes, which leaned up against walls covered with silky drapes that all bloomed golden in the dying sunlight.

When the Sun’s crest finally dipped below the city’s skyline, the door to the room creaked open, and Griffin poked his head through the gap. His piercings glinted against the light and glimmered like stars from a premature night sky.

“I’m shutting up now, Scott. It’s time for home,” he said, jingling the office keys in his right hand like Christmas bells.

“What?! Why?” I looked up, unable to hide my shock. It was so rare for the studio to be closed overnight because there was always someone working inside. “Isn’t Clian going to be in the office? I can go when he leaves!” The desperation in my voice was barely hidden.

“Sorry, bud, I’ve finally convinced him to join me for dinner.”

“Can I come too then?” I begged.

Griffin averted his gaze. “Unfortunately, we’re going to a pub, so maybe next time, alright,” he said, with an apologetic smile.

My heart sank to my stomach, and my stomach sank to my feet.

At this point, I was trying to come up with an excuse, any excuse, for me to just hang around. “You can leave me here. I won’t do anything wrong. You trust me, right?” I was hoping he could see the desperation in my eyes.

His sad smile said everything it needed to.

I stood alone outside and watched Griffin and Clian walking towards the twilight and their night out together. Griffin laughed as he told a story with animated hands. Clian watched in silence with an expression of happiness painted across his face. They occasionally bumped shoulders as their silhouettes grew smaller towards the city’s backlit skyline.

I turned around and followed my long shadow into the night and back towards my father’s home. My home. Our house.

By the time the old apartment units were in sight, the night air was nipping at me like an arctic breeze. My thin jacket did little to stop the chill from seeping through the holes in my under layers and biting down onto my skin. The street lamps, neglected by the city, flickered occasionally onto the cracked pathways below. Large bags of uncollected rubbish lay next to the streets. Stray cats lurked around the dark corners in search of dinner, and dogs howled long and loud in the distant dark.

I walked around the side of the building and down the stairs into the basement level, where our apartment was located. The lock to our place had been broken for as long as I could remember, so I quietly turned the handle of our small one-room unit and tried to make my return unnoticed.

The stale air from within washed over me like waves of pent-up misery. It was a cocktail of rotting garbage and alcohol abuse. Our house was dim and lit up only by moonlight that crept through a window at the back of the room. The familiar thump of a neighbor's party could be felt trembling through the walls. I could hear the couple upstairs arguing about love and hate and you and me. But most familiar, I heard the loud snoring of my father crashing and rumbling like thunder from the well-worn sofa in front of the television.

Tonight, the screen was off instead of replaying an old sitcom my mother used to watch when she was alive. She would sit with me on a long sofa in our old home with my head resting in her lap. She would run her soft fingers through my hair, her quiet laughter at the actors on the television sweet and melodious, lulling me into a peaceful sleep. A couple of days later, my father got into an argument with her about the length of my hair, saying that “it was getting too long and girly,” and by the next day, I was forced to cut it shorter to match the other boys in my class.

I carefully manoeuvred my way through the obstacles of empty bottles, beer cans and garbage bags, through the living space and into the kitchen area. The dim light from the microwave clock that used to blink a gentle yellow was off, and the low hum of the ancient fridge was as silent as a corpse.

It was no surprise when I opened the fridge and found the power shut off. We must have had overdue power bills again. In the glowing moonlight, I pulled out a small container of leftover noodles and unwrapped the top. It smelled fine. It was more than what I could ask for.

I secluded myself in my corner of the room, where I would find the jarring noise of the kitchen and television most quietest, and also where the icy fingers from cold winters usually took their longest to reach.

In my corner of the room, I had an old mattress placed on the worn-down wooden floor. It was lumpy and stained, and my feet stuck off the end when I lay straight on it. Beside the mattress was an old computer set up, which I bought with the money I earned while working at the studio. Finally, my latest addition was a beanbag that I managed to bring home one evening from the studio. I found that most nights, I end up sleeping on the beanbag wrapped in an old flannel blanket instead of in my bed. 

Almost like routine, I slouched down into the beanbag and started to dig into the box of cold noodles. I unlocked my phone screen and scrolled through the last messages with my friends. It was almost eight at night. I wondered if it would be alright to contact them since I was sure they would have other things to worry about in their lives. I eyed the bundle of untouched homework scattered beside my computer desk.

By the time I finished up the last of the noodles, my phone was at 12% battery. I let out a quiet sigh. It was definitely going to die sometime in the middle of the night. I tossed aside the finished box of noodles, took off my glasses and curled into myself. I wrapped myself in my blanket and closed my eyes.

“I’ll see everyone again tomorrow.” I thought to myself. “I’ll have more fun again tomorrow.”