Starry Eyes…
The rain was heavy, his nose kept on bleeding, and his world was under siege. He left the bar to gain some freedom from the noise and the prominent fists, walking wayward and drunk out of his mind, talking to himself about the fight which he endured. In his pocket was a pack of cigarettes. He felt like chain-smoking for the first time in his life, as he began to rattle.
Yesterday’s woes crept up, and the lights of the city were dim. It was dangerous walking around the streets at night, but Joey had it all worked out — in an unconventional manner, saluting the statues of war heroes as he went. These statues showed what the town was like when it had courageousness beam through like a flash of light.
Awful just to see, Joey was a shadow of his former self, committing to crime and alcohol like a man who was obsessed by the roughness of a life under pressure. Infamy didn’t deter him from the hazards of killing sense and people either, as he had the taste for blood and pulling bones.
Joey walked through the neon lights, and the wisdom was sucked from him. The desire to sleep was not niggling, and often he would walk the streets at night, seeing the wealthy show their deep richness through money and expensive watches.
Joey craved such richness, his starry eyes gleaming when the lavish people brushed by him. Although Joey wished the best, he would still be annoyed by their arrogance and ignorance, two traits that got to him, that made anger transcend into rage.
The puff of cigarette smoke had grown into a massive cloud, and the rich had become agitated as Joey stood gazing. Joey’s mind then began to enrich with the notion of stealing, the power of taking something dazzling — made him feel alive.
Joey waited until the rich men and women had gone into the theatre. It was play season, and the town blossomed and had become a hotspot for the elite. Joey knew he had to act fast, intricate, and walk freely from the theatre unscathed.
Trouble brewed in his mind that night. His own mental health had hit rock bottom, giving him a sense of unease, though money held Joey up — it gave him a purpose.
The theatre was old, a bulging piece of artistry, coloured in. The entrance was grand, the streets were busy, and the whole town caught onto the extravagance, even the homeless and the people walking around trying to restructure their lives.
Joey smoked another cigarette, sobering up as the nicotine hit his bloodstream. It was time to enter and be entertained, crash into the party.
When Joey arrived, he felt like he was a slob, a scab on society, as well as being a drunk with no will. The place was surreal, encrusted in marble and gold.
It was one of those artful moments, when everything looks beautiful, and when the warmth was like a drug. Through the doors was the main centre point, the hub where the rich sat and watched unruly actors paint a scene.
Joey was hiding something all along.
He had a gun, and wasn’t afraid to use it. The show was in full swing too, and the audience was captivated, immersed in the great details, the showmanship.
Joey spotted a worker who was taking jackets that night. He knew there would be treasure to be had if he could get into the room.
‘’Hi there. I was in the bathroom, and someone was sick all over the floor’’
‘’Show me sir’’
Joey followed the young guy through to the bathroom. He felt shame, though he needed the treasure to get by.
As the young man stopped and looked, Joey hit him on the head, knocking him out. Joey then put him into a cubicle and took the key.
Freedom was on the horizon, but first Joey had to take, the obsession reaching new heights.
He absconded from the bathroom and sneaked through to the room where all the jackets and coats were.
Inside that room was jackets full of wallets holding money. Joey thought to himself, Why would people just leave money there?
He took the money and began to leave the theatre.
As he stepped out, a familiar feeling came over him. Behind him was a small pack of the elite. One whispered in his ear —
‘’scum’’
Then one of the men stabbed Joey. Another pushed him to the ground and began to hit him repeatedly. There was no police presence, and people walked by like robots.
Bleeding heavily, Joey had a moment…
Laying there dying, he started to see white speckles and an Angel-like figure drag him in.
God was still on his side.
Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has been published online and in print. He also likes to write dark fiction and poetry. Find him on X:
