In a deliciously ironic fashion, his glazed eyes blinked almost lifelessly, as he stared without focus at the television in from of him. The television was on, a DVD of some pirate film or other displayed it's menu screen, as he appeared to stare, almost through the very television at the wall behind.
In his situation, isolation, confusion, completely alone, routine becomes subconsciously important. This was something he had only realised recently himself, very recently in fact. He chuckled when he first realised it, but that mirth didn't last. He realised it just the other day. Delivery day, as he knew it, came and went, as it did every other week that he was here. The difference was that this week, there bad been no delivery.
He didn't know what time the delivery normally came at, well at least not in hours and minutes. It had never occurred to him previously to check. Somehow though, he just knew. He knew it was always the same time, and he knew it was always the same day.
It was this that made him realise just how important routine had become. All day he waited for his delivery, knowing that it would appear that evening. It didn't. At almost the precise time that it should have been there, he suddenly realised it would not materialise. Why? Surely logic would say that it had just been delayed, and that at some point the delivery man in the motorcycle helmet would walk through the door, drop his groceries in the kitchen, and leave, wordless as always.
Against logic however, he was right. The delivery never came. It had now been two days since the delivery, and no one had appeared. No food had been delivered. His weekly brief flirt with human contact had been denied him. And there was no reason, no excuse, nothing.
All of this led here. He stares blankly at the pirate DVD, his mind swirling as he tried to make some sense of it all. He could not. For 55 of the last 56 weeks it had worked like clockwork. His weakened mind could not fathom why this week would be different.
At last, he snapped back to life. The chirrup of a small bird on his penthouse balcony waking him from his daytime nightmare. Considering his options he pulled himself off the sofa, putting his weight onto his reluctant legs and exhaling sharply as the pins and needles made his soles tingle and prick.
He walked to his kitchen area, and looking around, he conducted an inventory of his rations. This was a pointless task. He had done it this afternoon. And 12 times this morning. He already knew that he had enough in reserve to last until the next delivery day. He knew the man would come then.
As he counted and noted down the last of the dried pasta, he sighed and smiled a relaxed smile. This kept him calm, to count what he had left. That way he could reassure himself. He lifted a hand to his brow and mopped the sweat from his forehead. As he lowered it again he looked at his thin, bony hand.
It looked malnourished, empty, tired. Much like himself. He panicked, fearing starvation, and clawed at the telephone handset on the wall. Pulling it close to his chest he dialed the tried and tested number, frantically hitting "call".
It didn't ring. But then again it never did. At least not at his end. He waited for the single "yes?" which always greeted his call. It's fed up, bored, flustered tone had actually become reassuring for him. He waited, and he waited.
But nothing came. No voice spoke to him.
He sunk to the floor. Tired, hungry, pathetic, and now more alone than ever before.
Edited by user 30 May 2011 01:41:43(UTC)
| Reason: Not specified
