The Escape Artist
(Escape before it's too late.)
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, silent, still, like a stone cold, immobilized corpse. He took a deep breath and grabbed a cigarette and lighter from the bed side table. He lit up, putting the stick to his mouth, inhaling the carcinogen toxins, savoring the after sex smoke, and first nicotine rush of the day. He could feel it run through his viens like ink bleeding from a busted pen, blood rushing from an open wound.
The trashy hotel room was eerily quiet, save the squeaky pipes humming while Gerard was in the shower.
Bert took one long puff from his smoke and pushed the cigarette down into the oak of the table.
His suitcase sat packed and waiting by the gratified door of the hotel, waiting and sacred, holding a few pairs of clothes and a couple packs of cigarettes- the things he'd packed in a hurry when the idea of leaving had fully overcome Bert, brewing inside the uncertain and toxic confinements of his mind, ever since Gerard had come crawling back to him, a twice divorced, man who fell back into alcoholism months before.
Bert had realized that Gerard wasn't as sane and respectful as kids once believed he was. He could only see him as a has-been who never stood a chance against anything or anyone. His slow decay was no doubt a big role of his current state. Everyday he had become needier, and needier, less independent, and more dependent on Bert to satisfy him, and Bert was becoming less sure about how much happiness he had left in himself to give to Gerard, so he decided it was best to leave him.
Gerard's eyes were no longer to hazel orbs, bright with life and love, but were now dim, dull as a rusty knife, and just about as pretty. His tarnished heart had no room for hope anymore.
The pipes stopped rattling, and Bert stood up quickly, the blood rushing to his head so fast that he almost fainted. He rushed to the door, picking up his extremely light and tattered suitcase, threw the unfinished note that he had wrote days before on the bed, and shut the door quietly behind him.
The trashy hotel room was eerily quiet, save the squeaky pipes humming while Gerard was in the shower.
Bert took one long puff from his smoke and pushed the cigarette down into the oak of the table.
His suitcase sat packed and waiting by the gratified door of the hotel, waiting and sacred, holding a few pairs of clothes and a couple packs of cigarettes- the things he'd packed in a hurry when the idea of leaving had fully overcome Bert, brewing inside the uncertain and toxic confinements of his mind, ever since Gerard had come crawling back to him, a twice divorced, man who fell back into alcoholism months before.
Bert had realized that Gerard wasn't as sane and respectful as kids once believed he was. He could only see him as a has-been who never stood a chance against anything or anyone. His slow decay was no doubt a big role of his current state. Everyday he had become needier, and needier, less independent, and more dependent on Bert to satisfy him, and Bert was becoming less sure about how much happiness he had left in himself to give to Gerard, so he decided it was best to leave him.
Gerard's eyes were no longer to hazel orbs, bright with life and love, but were now dim, dull as a rusty knife, and just about as pretty. His tarnished heart had no room for hope anymore.
The pipes stopped rattling, and Bert stood up quickly, the blood rushing to his head so fast that he almost fainted. He rushed to the door, picking up his extremely light and tattered suitcase, threw the unfinished note that he had wrote days before on the bed, and shut the door quietly behind him.
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