This piece is one of the weekly exercises for uni. I like posting them here because I kill 2 birds with one stone, so to speak – and yes I know that’s a cliche but I can use one if I want.
He sits in the doorway, huddled in a dirty blanket. It is 5 am, but he is awake; the cold that makes smoke of his breath has no respect for his circumstances. He lifts shaking hands to his mouth – one holds the cigarette, the other flicks the lighter. He inhales, then coughs until a hard ball of brown mucous flies out from his mouth. Staring at the black pavement he wonders how he got here. He lived with his mother until she died two years ago. Their housing commission flat was given to someone else, and what little money he had, ran out after a month in an inner-city, boarding house. He lifted the bottle to his lips, cheap wine that he could no longer taste. A tear drop of red touched his tongue. He shook his head and spoke to no one, “Fucking government. I can’t even have me wine.” He let the bottle fall to the ground, the paper bag he bought it in, muffling the sound. He took another drag on his cigarette, coughed, spat, repeat. His days were like that. He stood, gathered his blanket and patted his pocket to check for his smokes. Shoulders drooping forward as he walked, he drifted through time until the bottle-o opened, and he wondered why.