Black Boxes

Al works in a club…barley. There are bright florescent lights, and a DJ that comes in occasionally to manipulate the speakers and CD player the ridiculously huge stage that spends most of its time covered in boxes instead of holding the weight of dazzlingly, excited performers has. And there are these red velvet benches that Al catches himself falling asleep on during especially slow nights with small auburn tables placed symmetrically in the middle of them.

There’s a bar too, almost hidden by the stage, harder to find then a needle in a haystack, but Al thinks that’s perfect because the only bartender they have is a moonlighter who comes in once a week who’s all about “experimenting”. Alva’s hardly gotten a drink he’s asked for without there being some weird kick to it that makes Al spend the rest of the night curled in the corner of the handicap stall with his eyes closed and his stomach burning like acid’s churning inside the soft flesh of his internal walls.

Though the moonlighter’s own creations, the ones the dick has practiced and made perfect aren’t that bad – those few hits among that mountain of misses is probably the only reason the manager lets him back each week. Though Al wonders why he’s so familiar with downstairs when it’s upstairs he spends most his time. There’s a staircase right when you enter the club, the stairs carpeted and covered in shaggy red filth, dark beige stains appearing on random parts of the fabric. Sometimes Al plays the “step on a crack, break your mother's back” game; trying to only trudge up the stairs by stepping on the discolored parts or else the person closes to him will break their back.

Sometimes when Al’s in a cruel mood he’ll make sure to accidentally find his way back to the dark red flooring and wonders (hopes) that the plenty to his childish game comes true – he’ll wait on the clean patch of carpet for a breath, waiting for a scream or shout of pain and when he doesn’t hear one he just hops on less excitedly – less disillusioned.

In the game skipping step to step, Al’s counted nine in whole and sometimes on his way home he’s likes to contemplate jumping down all nine as an option, he never does though – he doesn’t like the way his heart hummers against his chest when he stands at the top of the stairs edging forward slowly with his knees bent. In fact, despite his profession, Al’s never been much of a risk taker. He’s likes to know what happens next. Maybe that’s why Al is the sort of person to skip to the back of the book and read the ending before anything else.

Though as always whether he’s going up or down when he’s at the top and he sees that little desk so out of place in the white walled red carpeted narrow hallway, Al thinks he gets a sneak peek to his book ending.

Behind that desk taped to the wall Al can always find himself staring back at him, not smiling or frowning – just there. Al’s always hated that picture. He’s young – younger then what feels like years and he has that stupid eye patch he always wore back then on. A blank one eyed stare, lips pressed in a tight line barley passing as anything but a frown on his childish face. It’s funny how he has a brunette mane swept over one shoulder in the picture and has ebony tresses now. Alva wonders if any of his patrons had ever been disappointed – wanting the brunette in the picture and instead getting him.

Alva wouldn’t call himself hot (at least not today) but that picture makes him look so…plain. Lips pressed in a tight line, blank eye staring back at you emptily, almost like the watcher isn’t looking at you or through you but nowhere at all. He looks dead, empty. It’s a wonder he gets any customers at all. But even when asked Al can never find it in himself to retake the picture. It’s a remainder more than part of a menu the catalog of faces and names and ages resemble – it’s a harsh catalyst to remind him that things could always be worse than working here and watching all his relationships fall to shreds. It’s a warning that it was way worse back then, and he’s actually doing fucking great right now.



DJ’s here tonight, Al thinks idly as he runs his fingertips across the rim of the trembling glass on the mini nightstand next to the bed. Alva isn’t thirsty but it’s something to do. Lifting the glass to his lips and taking a sip he almost sighs at the feeling of the cool liquid staining the back of his throat. He forgets he needs things like water and food sometime; forgets that he’s not a fish with gills trying to swim up steam through a heavy current. The feeling of always just barely keeping his head above water makes Alva think he’s be a better fish then human. If he’s going to drown he’d rather it not be some shitty metaphorical drowning, but a quick whooshing sound as his owner flushes him down the toilet, cold eyes and a silent laugh on the punks face as he watches his gold fish twirl.

Alva remembers doing shit like that when he was a kid. Sora had always given him too much fish. The fishbowl was never big enough and since he was always told that one shake of food was enough the poor bastards mostly died during the fight for food then from the cramped space. He remembers dangling golden tails over a white bowl much bigger than the fishbowl and closing his eyes with bitter words on his lips that tasted like ash as he said them: Goodbye.

Al had always detested saying goodbye and even when he stopped naming the gilly pets, detaching himself in the only way he knew without turning them down outright, the next morning when he found more flouting bodies his throat still burned and saying goodbye seemed worse. Regret mingled with those mornings – not knowing them only seemed to make it harder to say farewell.