Day 2

The telecast went well. Hannibal actuallysaid, “Good Job!”. I don’t like it when he says that. Make’s me feel like acheap whore!
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It's 3 am, I'm still in bed with my eyes transfixed upon the slowly moving fan blades. Three of them, one behind another, repeating their monotonous duty at an almost bureaucratic speed. My head felts light, numb, but my chest heavy. As if the air is applying an unholy pressure, coercing my heart to give way. And yet, I lie unflinching in the pain. Numb to my surroundings, in my own trance. There are no memories to disturb me. I see in technicolor, wide sweeping movements of red, blue and yellow. And many more. Like paint brush strokes they move around each other, towards a far black spot. Moving fast, but never moving any closer.

His face moving slightly somewhere at the edge of my eye's. Another one, get's chalked down to statistics.

I am moving back in time, my mind in his eyes. Seeing his final scenes, the fear. I sense his assailant's silent might, given by metal and fire. Then the black spot flies right at me and I remember nothing else.

The dark chariots of sleep come swiftly and take me on a long,
mellow and calming journey.

LATER IN THE DAY.

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I wake up and look at my watch, its already 10 a.m. My head feels like there is a war going on inside. And not a pitiful local civil war, it's a full blown military conflict with Heavy Artillery and Carpet Bombings. I'm never drinking that much again.

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I force myself to get up, and promptly loose balance. I somehow manage to break my fall. I'm really never going to drink that much again! I struggle to find my way to my bathroom, resting heavily on the sink, I force myself to look in the mirror. Sunken eyes, black rings around them, hair disheveled, and a small scar near my chin on the left from a motorcycle accident. You pitiful little bastard, you always wanted to look like Scarface. I get myself to take a cold shower, to shake my senses out of their drunken stupor. The house is in a mess, the guys were over last night, and tidiness didn't feature high on their list. Neither did common courtesy.

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I make myself breakfast after the cleaning lady leaves. Not before cursing me. I apologize curtly and ask her to expect the same tomorrow. I take my plate of omlette and toast and sit myself down at the table. From here I can see the sea and the city, with nothing obstructing my view. It's been pouring for a few hours now and the sea is violent too, as if in retaliation. The skies are overcast, like a dark shroud hanging over the city. Brings out my more morose and poetic side. A perfect day to just sit indoors and watch the clouds trample across.

Inside, there isn't much and neither is it a particularly large room. The customary television hangs on one side. Windows on the perpendicular walls, provide a nice sea breeze, helping me unwind after a hard days grind. Besides that there is only a table with 4 chairs, near one of the windows. And a small sofa in front of the television. The rest of the room is occupied by 2 large book shelves on either side of the television.



And a large black and white framed portrait of Gloria Grahame opposite to the television adds some finesse to the proceedings.

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There is a loud knock on the door, disturbing just as i begin to enjoy my weekend calm. And the clock turns twelve just as I reach to open the door.