sidney. (praetorianus) wrote in noircity, @ 2014-11-12 17:20:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! narrative, @ piper pier, c: sidney donahue |
WHO: Sidney Donahue.
WHAT: Sidney "celebrates" his birthday.
WHEN: The wee morning hours of November 11th, 1954.
WHERE: In front of an unmarked, nondescript building in Piper Pier.
WARNINGS: None, except Sidney bein' Sidney.
STATUS: Complete narrative!
Sidney stumbled out of the darkened, unmarked doorway into the crisp November air. He was drunk, that was certain, but not so drunk that he couldn't get himself home and definitely not so drunk that he couldn't feel the considerable lightness of his wallet. Bastards, he thought, though for whatever reason the thought didn't stir up quite as much ire as he hoped it would. A dead soul completely void of emotion: if that wasn't a sign that he was getting old... It had been a mistake, the whole evening, from start to finish. Starting with his desire to even "celebrate" his birthday at all. His usual girl had been busy, so he'd settled for another one - she was newer, her wig was cheap, her accent - a bizarre mix between Southern and maybe French - was so awful he'd had to stop her fifteen minutes in to tell her to just "be herself." Her enthusiasm (or lack thereof) didn't merit the cash she'd practically forced out of him. Then came the card game - should've been an easy win, but he'd been distracted. Third year in a row his brother had called and left a message for him. I just called to wish you a happy birthday. Let me know you're still alive. Third year in a row Sidney wouldn't be responding. He tucked himself into a nearby alleyway, checking first to make sure anyone wasn't lurking in the shadows before lighting a cigarette. He pulled out his wallet and gave it the once-over, thumbing through its empty folds. A vague sense of panic rose in his chest. It's not as bad as it looks, he told himself, though he knew it wasn't the truth. He'd been frivolous lately - reckless, even. Sidney took a final drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and snuffing it out with his toe. Though he wasn't too far from Northam, he still turned up his collar against the chill and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He doubted any familiar faces would be out this late at night, but people had stopped surprising him a long time ago. As he walked, he realized that his suffering was unnecessary - he was simply being uncharacteristically melodramatic. There was always a way out, and he was just intoxicated enough to allow himself the pleasure of formulating an idea. Perhaps things really were not as bad as they looked. |