I awoke to the sound of birds chirping and the early rays of dawn in my eyes. I don’t know how I arrived here behind the blue rusted skip bin, where roaches scuttle and rodents scamper. All that I know is that it felt like a jack hammer had been mercilessly unleashed upon my skull.
The details from last night are sketchy at best. I can remember sitting alone in the dark, dank, pub; drinking my usual rot gut draft, observing the punters, writing bits and pieces of my muse down on scraps of any paper that I could find.
Life seemed almost bearable last night. I mean there I was; the solitary alcoholic, minding my own business. I can vaguely remember the shadowy figures that quietly slid past my lonely drunken universe.
There were all the usual suspects last night, clean cut and foul mouthed sailors, dodgy street urchins with ripped jeans and tattooed biceps, painted ladies with leather miniskirts and frayed stockings, and so much more.
At one point I could have sworn that a Goth inspired cross dresser attempted to chat me up, but I ignored his advances. Eventually, he lost interest and sauntered away into the shadows of the night. After a quick sigh of relief, I took a shot of rum that the weathered old barkeep had brought over as a on the houser.
It seemed to be just another night at Mort’s, the booze flowed smoothly, for what must have been hours on end, the people came and went, as per usual and then blackness came.
Did I pass out? Was I knocked unconscious? How did I come to be outside by this smelly old skip bin, all battered and bruised? Something like this has never happened before, except for that time in Barcelona, when I tried to pick up some lady that was allegedly already spoken for.
Suicide crept into the blurry corridors of my mind; a ragged cat appeared from out of nowhere and started to rub against my bloodied left rib cage, its purrs brought feelings of solace. For a moment, the dark thoughts of ending my life lifted like a fine mist, my mangled left hand ascended, coming to a terminus at the nape of the cats’ neck. I found the reverberation of the felines purrs soothing, my right hand took a halfhearted swipe at some dried blood that had collected near my nostrils and chin.
Bio: Wayne Russell is a former Army soldier, Navy sailor, Freelance Graphic Designer, and Plumber. Wayne is a creative writer that got fed up with the status quo of internet zines, so he started his own lit mag called Degenerate Literature. Wayne's writing can be found in Black Poppy Review, Poppy Road Review, The Bitchin' Kitschs', Jotters United, Writing Raw, Paper Plane Pilot Publishing, and Danse Macabre.