The Morning After

this was written as- first an exercise in describing environment, then adding a character into this setting. All feedback appreciated

I can smell the room before I see it. Head throbbing with the memories of yesterday, it is the putrid stench permeating the corridor which guides me towards it. I stagger through the unkempt door, previously acting as a barrier between us, with its warning red paint flecking from it to settle with the dust.

The smell is stronger now; stale booze and cigarette butts mix, forming the scent of hedonism. Silence reigns. The room is barely recognisable by day. Dull light trickles through the windows and reflects off the shards of broken glass that litter the floor. They are surrounded by beer cans, the dregs of which are congealing around them on the worn, barely blue carpet. Permanent stains.

The furniture, too, is in disarray. The chairs, worn and threadbare, lie wantonly around the room. A table, similar to those of schoolroom classrooms, lays upturned in centre of the floor. Its exposed belly reveals a dialogue, a history of the room’s inhabitants in marker pen. There are traces of fresh markings, glistening accusingly as the light catches them. But from here they are illegible.

Eyes drawn to the walls, I notice that the posters which plaster them are still in place, though wilting a little from the corners. They tell nothing, their depictions of popular bands and films, of club promotions and of fast food providing total anonymity for those who occupy here. In a few hours the objects of the room will tell a similar story. The wreckage will be cleared and chairs and tables will take up their rightful places, artfully disguising any permanent traces of yesterday. If there’s no proof, then it was never there.

I hear a slight moan come from the corner of the room. Immediately my eyes flicker downwards. Even without moving closer to remove his dishevelled, fading red hair to reveal his grey eyes and lifeless skin, I know it is him. Others may have more trouble recognising the man infront of me now, his pale, unconscious face buried in the dirty carpet. He is a far cry from the Mr. Davies who taught us GCSE Maths. Back then he was barely indistinguishable from any of the other clean-shaven male teachers in their smart suits and trousers. The only difference was the comedy characters he’d manage to bring into our lessons by way of both his ties and mathematical formulae. For Andrew, x didn’t simply equate to y. It was Homer Simpson’s waist size compared to the amount of donuts eaten. The number of complaints received by channel 4 related to the number of times Cartman swore. The size of Andrew’s smile in proportion to the number of private sessions we had together.

However much we may have unappreciated Andrew’s try-hard sense of humour then, I yearn for it now. His spindly fingers that once clutched chalk with determination, that once caressed my skin so softly, are now curled around an empty vodka bottle. This is the only thing he loves now. Or at least so the words he spat at me last night would have me believe. They are similar to those that he tattooed onto the bottom of the table in his drunken rage; as I look back to it the harsh words slowly come into focus. I wish they hadn’t.

Yet in a few hours he will be awake. He will shower. He will quietly apologise, and then we will clear the room in silence until every last trace of the night will be swept into bin liners and left outside for collection. I should do the same with my belongings, with this existence on the blacklist of humanity. I know that my old life is still waiting for me; warm house, free meals, a future. But instead I stand and stare and watch as his body calmly rises and falls in time to its own rhythm. And I wait, silently for him to come back to me.