From the Decay

  The bright light attracted the man like a moth to a flame. Not a single beam of sunshine could penetrate through the silky curtains over the windows. He mindlessly dug into a bag of chips, grasping a handful and shoving it into his mouth, staring at the cracked screen of the relic he called his laptop.

    "It appears that we are headed on the path to war with..."

    "...crisis continues as natural disasters only get worse and..."

    The voices were cold. Their professionalism made them feel distant.

    Mark had heard it all before. Nothing phased him anymore. It was the same thing on loop, day after day.

    His trance broke when he realized how dry his throat had become. He paused the video on the screen, silencing the voices so he could look at the time in the corner of the laptop, wondering when the last time he drank anything was. Reluctantly, he stood up from his chair, crumbs tumbling down as he took a glance at his surroundings.

    Clothes were haphazardly strewn across a desk and chair. Bedsheets had twisted into knots and a pillow without a cover lied on the floor beside it. Cans of beer were scattered around with the old contents staining the crumb covered carpet. Mark carefully treaded out of the room, avoiding the sticky spots that he had memorized.

    Next to the bedroom was a bathroom with its door slightly ajar. He turned his head away and picked up the pace to avoid looking inside. Making a b-line towards the fridge, he yanked the door open to peer inside. Tupperware filled with leftovers that had probably gone bad by now filled up most of the shelf-space and an odd yellow substance stained the bottom.

    Out of anger, he slammed the door shut. "Shit. Out of beer..." he muttered to himself. He opened up one of the cupboards to find only one hard plastic cup left. Taking it, Mark turned around to see a sink overflowing with dirty plates, silverware, and cups piled high.

    After taking a moment to maneuver the cup into an angle that could make it under the faucet, he turned it on and looked around the room. The television was put up against the opposite wall, with the couch acting as an impromptu shelf for cardboard boxes that had yet to be unpacked. He wondered if he ever even watched TV in this apartment. His eyes glanced towards a few other boxes against the walls, as well as a few papers scattered on a shelf.

    He shut off the faucet and turned his body to the rest of the room. Surprisingly enough, this part of the apartment didn't seem like a lost cause. Perhaps he'd be able to clean it at some point. It'd give him something to do at least.

Possibly.

Maybe.

    "Fuck it." Mark downed the entire glass of water before tossing it into the sink, the plates clanking loudly upon its impact. He wiped off his face and grabbed a set of keys off of the counter and headed out the door of his apartment.

    Upon stepping outside, he was nearly blinded by the sunlight. Mark shielded his eyes and kept his head low, descending the metal stairway infested by years of rust. The stairs creaked and groaned as he made his way down. It seemed his twig-like body was almost too much for the frame to handle. As he got down to the final step, he could finally see more than a few feet in front of him.

    Mark lifted the hand from over his eyes, and he scanned the parking lot in front of him. A few trees covered in beautiful scarlet and orange leaves were lined up behind the few cars in the parking lot. One of the leaves floated gracefully to the ground, joining many others as they blanketed the grass beneath them.

    He continued his path and unlocked the door of old reliable. Despite the dents and scratches where the paint chipped off, it was probably the nicest possession he owned. Mark hopped inside and started the engine. It sputtered to life before he navigated his way out of the lot and made a right turn on to the street in front of him.

    Not too long after beginning his drive, he got caught in the heavy traffic of the city. Without much else to do while the red light impeded his progress, he stared outside the side window. Factories were on either side, their walls coated with rust and illegible graffiti tags. The signs that once designated who or what owned them and alluded to their function were faded or non-existent, making him wonder what went on inside them. Thick clouds of smoke plumed into the sky, with the trails easily leading back to the few factories which continued their racket and noise. All of the others were eerily dormant, or rather, dead.

    A car horn blared from behind and knocked Mark out of his trance. The light had finally turned green and the cars in front were rushing to the other side of the intersection, or at least as fast as they could go. He lowered his foot onto the gas pedal, making it a few car lengths forward before the red light halted him again.

  Mumbling curses under his breath, he reached for the dial on the radio and browsed through the stations. The few notes escaped from the speakers were cut to silence every time the turn of the dial failed to catch his attention until he stopped on one station.

    "...multiple of the city's homeless were arrested for loitering under a new law passed by the city congress last week. Police refuse to say how many were taken in custody, but it is estimated that..."

    It was a woman's voice. He had stumbled onto a local news station. "Guess it'll have to do." His hand moved away from the dial as the light turned green again.

    He turned the radio off as he pulled up to his destination; a gas station convenience store. Mark turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. The neon sign over the doors flickered before returning to a consistent glow.

    As he approached the automatic doors, he noticed a man in ragged clothes slouched on the ground next to an ice machine. His head hanged down, eyes locked onto the flattened cardboard box beneath him, yet his dirty long brown hair and beard were still visible to passerby's. Not wanting to gawk at the man, he turned his gaze forward and headed through the automatic doors. 

    His feet stuck to the black rug on the inside, a velcro-like rip being heard whenever he took a step off of it. A lone cashier stood in front, a woman in a black hat, wearing a red shirt with a tan vest overtop dealing with a line of three customers in front of her. Mark headed towards the right side of the building, the fridge section. Skipping over all of the soda, he reached inside and grabbed two twelve-pack boxes of beer in each hand. Knowing he'd probably burn through it within a few days, he debated in his mind on whether he should take a third one or not. Mark shrugged and grabbed another case, barely keeping a hold on all of them as he headed towards the line.

    When it was finally his turn to check out, the packs slammed onto the counter. He made contact with the woman's glaring eyes. It reminded him of how his mother looked whenever he had gotten into something he wasn't supposed to when he was younger. The woman must have realized how she must have looked and asked in the friendliest tone she could muster, "Cash or credit?"

    Mark reached inside his pocket, taking out a brown leather wallet and handed a few dollar bills to the woman. As soon as his change clinked onto the counter, he scooped it up and hurried out of the store to avoid another demeaning glare.

    "You're not really going to need all of that, are you?" a gravelly voice called out to him before he made it back to his car. He turned around and saw the same man he noticed earlier in the same spot.

    "Er... well, I was planning on it," Mark replied, clutching onto the heavy cases.

    "Come on, could you please at least give me one can?" the man seemed to plead, yet his wrist rested casually on his knee implied confidence beneath his begging, as if he knew he would get what he wanted.

    Mark wasn't in the mood deal with this. He wanted to return home as soon as possible while the beer was still cold. "Listen, I'm not going to feed your alcohol problem. Go bum some off someone else."

    The man erupted into a fit of laughter, audibly slapping his knee in amusement. Mark was confused at first until looked down at the three packs of alcohol he cradled. When the man finally finished, he sniffed loudly and rubbed the underside of his nose.

    His eyes darted from top to bottom of Mark. "Listen, kid, I get it, I look like a filthy old bum. But I can tell you're not doing so hot yourself."

    He raised an eyebrow, his face slightly turned away from the man. "And what makes you say that?"

    The man chuckled, covering his mouth with his hand. "Look in a mirror lately?"

      Mark took a moment to examine himself. His faded black sweatpants were riddled with holes and splattered with sauce stains. Tugging on the neck of his stained gray shirt made him realize how lose it'd become, revealing part of his upper chest. Upon this revelation, he took a few steps backward and turned his eyes to the ground.

    "We're both in hard times, kid, I can tell." His voice had softened in tone. He leaned forward, making the wrinkles in his dirt splotched face more visible than they had been. "You're probably a good guy, and I know you likely don't think much of me, given my appearance and all..."

    "God damn it," Mark thought, "He's trying to guilt-trip me." He began to turn away before looking back at the man. His face hanged down again, yet a frown was visible between the many wrinkles. The clothes he wore were baggy, loosely fitting around what could have possibly been a skeleton in a cloth of skin.

    He looked up once again, seeing the hesitation in Mark's face. The man sighed. "I'm sorry. All I'm doing is wasting your time. You've got your own problems, and I've got mine." With a flick of his wrist, he waved him off as he looked down at his "bed." "Go home. Forget this ever happened."

    Mark didn't move an inch for what felt like a minute, wondering what he should do. Looking down at the boxes in his arms, he set them on the ground and tore one open to grab a can. Taking a few steps forward, he realized the man wasn't paying attention to him anymore. Hesitantly, he extended his arm, "Here. Take it."

    The man didn't look up for a few seconds. A smile extended across his face as his eyes rose to meet Mark's. His calloused hand reached for the can, grasping as tightly as he could around it. He looked down at it as if he hadn't drunk anything in days before popping it open and downing it, excess liquor pouring onto his chin. As the can hit the ground, he ran a sleeve across his face to wipe off the beer on his face.

    He let out a loud sigh. "I really needed that. Reminds me when I met my wife those many years ago at a bar." A chuckle escaped his open mouth. "God, has it really been that long? I shouldn't be complimenting rat piss."

  Mark relaxed, finding it hard not to smile along with him. Then he remembered what he had heard on the radio earlier. He stared at the man, contemplating what that would mean for the person in front of him.  It didn't sit well with him. Someone that had already been kicked to the curb shouldn't get their face stomped in.

  "Listen, you should get out of here, as soon as possible." Mark crossed his arms, gaze locked onto the man's eyes. "I heard on the news cops are rounding up guys like you for "loitering" as they put it."

    The man shook his head at the ground. "Damn it, that means I've got to move again." He stood up from his spot and picked up the folded box, holding it underneath his arm. "I was hoping I'd be able to hang around here for a few more days."

    Mark leaned down and picked up the cases of beer. As he turned away, he heard the man's voice again.

    "You know, you're a good kid," the man said, barely looking back at Mark. "Most others wouldn't give a shit about me. I'm glad you're different. Thank you." He smirked as he turned his head back, ambling away deeper into the city.

    "Stay safe out there," Mark called out. Without a reply, he jogged to his car and threw the cases into the trunk before jumping into the front seat. As the door thunked to his side, he turned his head and tried to spot the man through his back window. Try as he might, he could not spot him amongst the small scattered crowds of the city.

    Mark turned back around, spacing out as he gazed through the windshield. Did he really make the right decision? For all he knew he gave away alcohol to some drunk who was thrown out on the streets for spending money on beer instead of rent. But that idea didn't sit right. It felt wrong, objectively wrong. At least he knew he'd possibly saved someone from being thrown in the slammer.

    But maybe he would have been better off that way. Perhaps he needed to be in a space where he-

    Mark shut out the thought.

    It didn't matter. What was done was done. He needed to get home. Mark reached for the keys and turned the ignition on, pulling out on the parking lot and driving the opposite direction he came.

    His mind wouldn't shut up. Thoughts raced about all of the other things he could have done. He could have ignored the man and walked away. He could have refused to give him a drink. He could have not told him about what he'd heard on the radio. A chill went down his spine with every repeat of the scenes in his mind.

    He looked down at the radio when he stopped at an intersection. With an unsteady hand, he adjusted the knob back to the news.

    "Two of the family's children had perished in the fire. Local officials are suspecting foul play."

    He slammed his hand onto the dashboard, recoiling in pain. His chest tightened and a pressing pain pushed against his forehead, as the words resonated in his mind, but not as they had done many times before. Energy built up inside him, begging to be released.

    A single deep breath helped him regain control of himself. He gazed at the graffiti tags of the various vandals and gangs staining the dilapidated factories. The outburst replayed in his mind on loop, just like the scenes with the homeless man. It seemed foreign to him, unnatural, unlike himself.

  The light turned green, and he began his final stretch home.

    Mark slammed the car door shut and headed towards the back to open the trunk. Before reaching inside to grab the beer, his eyes locked onto the already opened box. He couldn't get any detail of the previous events out of his mind. Nothing in his memory ever since moving into the city seemed to stick out so much.

    Clutching the last case awkwardly in his grip, he unsteadily climbed the steps back up to his apartment. He shoved the cases inside the fridge and turned to examine his surroundings once more.

    A thick layer of dust covered the TV screen the few pieces of furniture in the room. Taking a step forwards, his foot collided with the cup he had drunk from earlier. It hadn't even managed to land on the pile of greasy dishes in the sink.

    "Was it really this bad when I left?" he thought, taking in the sights of the filth he was living in. It didn't take long to notice the putrid smell. The stench was so awful he couldn't tell whether it was coming from the overflowed garbage can behind him or the entire apartment.

    He smacked himself in the head. "How the fuck did I let it get this bad!?" he exclaimed, his palm continually colliding with his forehead. "I'm! A! Fucking! Moron!"

    Mark lowered his hand and stared down at his pastel pink palm. Something needed to change, but literally beating himself up about it wasn't going to help.

    He shoved a few boxes away from a door in the living room and pulled it open. Behind the door was a closet with more dusty boxes, a tattered navy blue coat, and a dusty vacuum cleaner tucked away in the corner. A few brightly colored spray bottles grabbed his attention, and he quickly snatched one in each hand.

    "Well, this place ain't gonna fix itself."