An unfinished piece of writing. I'm looking for harsh and honest truth about the piece. Does it make you feel anything? Does anything read badly? Cliche? Any parts which shine much brighter than the rest?
If you write I will happily do the same with your work, I would love to start reading some more contemporary writing.
The last sip emptied my glass. A collection of crystal with red stained rims. I've emptied my wallet buying pass times, waiting for Harry. Drinks only last so long and I know the next will have to be born from a conversation sparked up with one of the drop outs currently hung over a stool. A pack of suits stand with misshapen loose ties, hanging, nooses ready to be coiled around exposed pipes or grandiose rafters. Accountants and salesmen scraped from the bottom of the barrel, wiped across the sticky bar. They circle the room periodically waiting for the 'fuck-off' to drip from my face. They feed on my desertion and I drink deep from their pay checks. The last of the gin has allowed me to relax the contempt from my face. It's time to make friends.
You sit at the table alone. Stood up and helpless. The hours you spent getting ready are being wiped over each glass that you hold tight. The last of the World's warmth as Winter tightens around city. You look desperately over to me and my friends. I feel guilty. I want to save you. I give your abandoner more and more time. The benefit of the doubt. Someone with your class would never sit waiting for someone that never shows up. I decide to bring you your next drink after you have drained your current liquid companion.
I see you breathe in. Drawing in stale air hoping to extract pride and hope. You manage to topple over looking sad and pathetic, your nose held too high above your mouth. I feel the bile of guilt crawl up my throat. It's a sickness. A blackness. A void that eats through me and pulls my soul out dragging my very core into the dirt below. I don't listen to you but you don't notice. You seem surprised at the sound of your own voice. You awkwardly hand me a drink. I try to say thank you but the words escape me. I want to cry but instead i drink deeply. I feel warm, my absence makes it all bearable and I know all I need to do is keep you at this distance. I'll let you do anything if you keep the supply coming but I've learnt to keep this to myself. I nod and smile. I even let my teeth shine through my lips, I've faked happy for so long I don't even remember there's anything else. The glow of gin makes me shine and I become your angel.
You are beautiful. Your eyes shine with interest as I tell you about myself, your thanks for the drink and the company are so over zealous I question their authenticity. You look at me with the deep compassion that you long for. I am your saviour. You are quiet and speak little. You absently run your tongue over your lips as we talk and I start to imagine the night. You are sat in my room. You are on your back and poetically your body curves over crisp white sheets. Your angles and curves dance with the shadows created by candle flames. You tense your abs exemplifying your tight body. You breath shallow and mouth my name. You need my name. I introduce myself and you mouth yours in return. I watch your dancing tongue lick the 'l' of Alice. You shine and smile. You suck on your emptied drink picking up water from the quickly melting ice.
It's last orders and I'm staying for the drink that the cretin has just scuttled off for. He told me his name but it's escaped me. It never matters anyway. He waves me over to his group of wolves. I think of walking off and out through the door to my freedom but I've started now and there's more blood to draw. There's 5 or 6 others. They all merge into one height and their guts extending over their polished belts remind me of tourniquets around swollen arms, garters around obese thighs. Fat extending out through the gaps of fishnets on the thighs of the cheaper night women that stalk on the desperate and socially inept. Your friends start to make inappropriate jokes. I start to feel uncomfortable and the thought of leaving is no longer quite so dismissible. You laugh with them and I only notice that you're holding on to me when I go to pull away. I try and clear the fog are learn what's happening. My wallet is talking to some of the others and the rest are discussing something quietly. They are talking of being alone. Maybe they resent me being here. I demand another drink, I get a finger firmly pressed on my lips, you push my teeth hard and I feel the skin bend and pucker against my tooth. I think I taste iron. I look to the barman but he's too busy methodically mopping the spilt booze from another night's work.
You are so beautiful I have to share you. I ask you to join me to the bar. You seem nervous so I have to entice you over. You are my trophy and all a trophy is good for is sharing - I want to display you. You walk gracefully with purpose. You seem to stare at my friends and I feel jealous. You have an intensity to how you look at people. You see through everything. You are a symbol and clarity. You ask me for a drink and I tell you not to worry. I tell you that I'll sort you out and that you can just relax. [...]