Jesus, it's cold as hell up here tonight. I barely feel my hands shaking. I hate these shitty mild, Autumn breezes. It's like it is with rain. It should be either be raining like a sonnuvabitch or it should not rain at all. None of this half-assed bullshit.
Oh god, I hope it doesn't rain now. That'd just be perfect.
8:53pm. Not long left anyway.

Why is it I always seem to end up on this rooftop whenever I'm depressed or lonely? Or both. Maybe it's being this far up that makes me that way, watching those depressed little people. The little worker ants with their busy-bee lives scuttling across the sidewalks, going home to their cockroach apartments. That thought alone could tip anyone over the edge. Christ, I'm getting sad just thinking about it. Yeah, that must be what's depressing me. That or all the goddamn birdshit up here. I should really find some other spot.

I take another long drag to steady myself a little. I can feel the smokey tar settling in my lungs. Soothing. Warm. Suffocating. I watch the smoke seep out from my chapped lips, like steam rising from a stab wound in Winter. Or least I imagine that's what it's like.

9.00pm. No sign of her yet. The city street below is dimly-lit. The rows of lampposts seem to go on for miles and miles and miles, making spotlight circles and casting shadows of people all the way down the street. Those people. All those fuckin' people. The slick-haired yuppie fucks with their white collars and loosed, after-work ties. Getting sucked off in the back of some strip club. The black vendors with their gold-toothed, crocodile smiles. Peddling their drugs and phony Rolexes. The droves of fat hyenas in their hockey shirts, chanting in their toothless gaggle. Those dollhouse girls with the Louis Vutton bags and replaceable tans. Those kids that carry guns by their dicks thinking they're God. The crooked cops. The cheating fathers in a motel somewhere living out their fantasies, blowing their spendings in the beat-up face of a mother-of-three hooker.
God, I can barely breathe just thinking about it. I flick my still-lit cigarette butt over the ledge and watch it spin carelessly like a catherine wheel in the night. I hope it lands in someone's hair. That would really be fucking satisfying.

9.05pm. Still nothing. She must be late or something. Oprah's starting now. The people downstairs are probably shuffling madly with their microwave meals and tv dinners. I think I can already smell the greasy stink of processed food. Chinese take-outs. Pizza deliveries. Pepperoni, olives, extra cheese, no anchovies. I light another cigarette to try to block it out. It doesn't help. I should quit. I did quit. Ah, who gives a shit anyway, I'm not going to be running in any marathons anytime soon, and my teeth are already disgusting. I should go buy some dental floss.
Ah geez that reminds me, I'm late again with Mrs Robinson's rent. Fuck, I hate being late. That means I'm gonna have to go downstairs to her shitty apartment and tell her. Her place always reeks of piss and just...well, oldness. It's the smell of a person dying. Death walks behind her and follows her around her apartment. Waiting for her to sleep, and forget to breathe or something. I bet she even knows it herself. She lives alone and never leaves her apartment. In the entire year I've lived here, I haven't seen her have a single visitor. Not one.
I tried keeping her company a couple of times but after a while I just couldn't bear it. She was always going on about god-knows-what, I could barely hear her. She always had some stupid gameshow on at full volume in the background. After a while I just kinda stopped listening.
I think her husband was some war veteran or something who died a long time ago. And I get the impression with him went her reason for living. You could tell it in the way she walked. She looked purposeless when she walked. Insubstantial. Like an aimless ghost haunting a living room because it had no other choice, nowhere better to be. Once when she was in the kitchen making me some coffee, which I didn't drink because everything she bought expired about 100 years ago, I looked at the pictures in the living room. There were a couple photos of her husband in a military uniform, and some of when they were younger. They looked happy.
There were also few photos that were face-down. They were pictures of a girl at different ages. It must have been Mrs Robinson' daughter as the photos were too modern to have been her. A bunch of the photos were of the girl in front of a large country house. You could see her gradually age through the photos. But I guess they must have argued and stopped talking or something because in the oldest photo of the girl, she can't have been any more than 19 or 20. And I won't lie, she was hot. Fuckin' hot. She had long, straight hair that went down to her breasts. More golden than blonde. Her hair I mean, not her breasts. She wore a yellow summer dress that stood out against a green background. I think she was in a park or something. There was a healthy aura about her, she looked...wholesome. Not fat, but not bony or angular either. Her dark brown eyes looked out of the photo and it seemed like she was looking at you. You could tell she was one of those sweet girls. For some reason, I stole that photo. Even now, I couldn't tell you why. But I did. I figured at the time Mrs Robinson wouldn't miss it as she had it face-down anyway. And I never heard her say anything about it, not that I listened or could ever really hear anything she said anyway.
God, if her daughter could see where Mrs Robinson was living now. In this rundown shithole. The wall's were peeling, the furniture was all moth-bitten, and it always reeks of piss. I'm not sure if it's hers or the cats. Probably both.

Out of sympathy, I sometimes did the shopping for Mrs Robinson. To start with, I bought her some things with my own money like fresh fruit and stuff. But I stopped after a while because each time I visited, I could see a bowl on her kitchen table with the same peaches and grapes that I bought her. They'd gone all rotten and black. And I'm pretty sure there were flies or maggots in there. I knew it was pointless. She'd always ask me to spend most of her money on cat food anyway. Jesus, those fucking cats. I wish I could drown them. There were like 5 or 6 of 'em. All black. They'd shit everywhere and she'd never wash them so you can imagine how fuckin' great they smelt. And you could see it in their eyes, they knew Mrs Robinson was dying too. It's like they were circling vultures, waiting for her to die. You see, I think one of the reasons I never wanted to go to see Mrs Robinson was because a small part of me expected that I'd knock on her door and there wouldn't be an answer. I'd walk in and find her cats gathered around her body, sucking and chewing on what little flesh there was on her bones. Shit, I feel sick just thinkin' about it. Ah fuck, this is why I get depressed up here.

God, it's still so fucking cold. And just when I'm about to go back inside, there you are. Ten minutes late. In that red coat. That thin red coat that comes down to your knees. Wrapped tightly around your taut, white skin. Pure like snow. Pure like a porcelain china doll. A tint of rouge to your cheeks. The curved, magazine-gloss lips. Hushed Heather. Demure. Underneath them sit those perfect, pearly white teeth.
You always smiled. But for some reason you never looked happy. There was always something sad in your smile. Something you were hiding. Some sort of secret. A troubled past, a forbidden love, a tragic illness or something. I've watched you hundreds of times, always walking down this street around 9 o'clock before catching the 66. You always had that same look.

I followed you once. I don't remember why. But I remember following you in a taxi. I waited outside there for hours. It rained like a sonnuvabitch that night. Finally you re-emerged. You pushed through the revolving glass-doors and smiled as you waved goodbye to that sleazy doorman. He eyed you up when you turned away. Fuckin' jerk. You walked down the street to a bar, but you didn't go in. I think it was called Racks. You walked slow. Careless. Like you didn't have anywhere to go or you didn't want to go. It was still raining like hell and you didn't care. You were soaked to the bone. Red hair stuck to your face. Hints of black mascara sliding down your bony, wet cheeks. You looked beautiful. You leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. The filter cupped against your pursed lips. Cherry Red. Temptation. Watching you smoke made me do the same. Maybe that's when I started again...I dunno. But I could see there was something about you, even then. A sadness. You stared blankly into the distance, into nothing, as if you were trying to remember something. I never followed you again after that night.

I watched you again like I always did. Your long, flowing, scarlet hair. It blew back occaissonally in the wind revealing bruises on your neck. You looked like you always did. Your red coat stood out against the grey backdrop of concrete and people. You looked like a bird. A robin. In a dull wiry cage feeding through the bars at leathery hands. I wanted to save you. My eyes followed you as crossed the road. And just like that. You fell. My eyes held you gently, like a mother lowering a paraplegic child into bed. The cars stopped. You were showered in headlights. People scattered in every direction like a flock of pigeons. They left you as if in a peaceful sleep. I could hear the sound of sirens and screams whirring and wheezing in a blended frenzy. It sounded like a chorus of tongues speaking in infinite circles. And I realised, you never looked so beautiful as you did just there, through a lens, in between the crosshairs.
Last edited by sleep sickness at Sep 7, 2008,
Its ok but mabey try to separate the lines it would be alot easier to read and also its very long try shorten it. I had a look at your other peices and this isnt as good but keep trying i enjoyed reading you other peices.
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thanks for the comment.
i'm not too happy with it myself. i wrote it sort of in two sittings and in the second sitting, it became a bit of a different beast. so it's probably a bit disjointed...

i'll try and revise it soon.
First of all thanks for critiquing mine . I am going to give you some advise . I write for fun a but I've written things like this few times and I'll direct you to them in few seconds.

1)If you want to write prose or short story with this magnitude of length . First make sure that all your cards are arranged in proper order . So that no matter who distributes them you get the winning combination.

2)You have a good mixture of rant , clever lines but the way in which they were present here didn't appeal even to a cynical like me . RANT RANT about everything u hate about this world but mix that rant with something unexpected .

3)Don't overdo words like "**** Shit " etc .It gives an impression of a 12 yr old . Use words like this but time them .For instance if you are with a girl and you'll keep on saying "I love you" on your first date . You are not gonna get some unless she is desperate or a prostitute.

4)keep a tone of the piece . lets say if you are being cynical be poetic but with a cynical tone . i hope u got what i was trying to say

Overall the piece was long . it reminds me of something I used to wrote . Idk i just lost my intst .I'll get your next one to return the favor. below is the link if you want to read something like ur piece


(Don't critique them)

I hope u understood what i was trying to say . Srry In case i offended you . keep posting and I'll keep reading them