The High Cost of Pride

1489 Words3 Pages

Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Nothingness. The ill fitting flowered curtains, thin and frayed, danced sadly in the wind as the old man slipped in and out of his vacant dreams. His wrinkled, grey expression remained inert and morose. Time goes by and his sizeable feet land on the ground and pace the carpeted floor without excitement or purpose. His toes guided him towards the stiff, upright chair similar to its electric variety. From where he sat he could see a narrow strip of the tussocky land outside. Legs running in and out of view. A dog. A child's bicycle. Litter blowing aimlessly over coarse grass. This at least distracted him from the thin floral curtains. His limbs bent and ached into a sitting position. Slow fingers gripped ordinary shoes. Shoes that didn't attract attention. Layer upon layer of starchy cotton engulfed his sagging skin like a body bag. Ringless fingers that declared to an uninterested world that he was alone, dropped onto the brass door handle, which took him into a happy, mocking world. "Why Mr Bleaney, on time as usual! Why do I ask! What can I get ya lovey? The usual? Okay porridge no sugar, tea no sugar? Ya don't need it, you're sweet enough aint ya! Attempted conversation was Mrs Valentine's speciality. Her over made face and pink and green frock glared at the old man. "Please" he repeated monotonously. He stared at the brownish wallpaper as if hypnotised until his landlady brought his bland breakfast to him. He ate his meal in a habitual manner and at exactly 8:34am, he left for his place of work. Time passed him by, gurgling babies, squealing children, grinning teenagers, giggling married couples, s... ... middle of paper ... ...staring back at me through the window. Looking closer I wasn't taken aback when I found the old man to be myself. I was Mr Bleaney. I had let my children and wife slip away from me. Since losing my family, a bed-sit existence was all I knew. I was stuck in a dead-end job; I wasn't good enough to succeed as a writer, or as anything. My pride had cost me everything I ever loved. The four yellowing walls were moving, moving closer, the room was spinning; I could hear Mr Bleaney laughing. He was laughing at me. Who was I to criticise him he bellowed. I began to feel very warm. The room was silent apart from the slow tick of Mr Bleaney's clock. A slow, deliberate sound that put one's teeth on edge as a copious reminder that my life had slipped away. That life is short and has passed. The room was aflame. This was my Hell.

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