Esteban – Part 4, Grounding a social butterfly.

Esteban, you’re loyal and entangled heroin had found him self in a situation that was stifling his ability to breath. A hardend smoker yes, but he knew this was not the reason. At first he pondered over to the obscenely sized landscape window, he could see the entire city from where he was. Still he had been higher and knew, though sky bound he may be, the altitude was not affecting his lungs. It did however set a precedent to his surroundings, and as he turned he took a deep breath. Yes, that was it, silly to think the height of the flat would cause such problems, no, it was the crowd that accompanied such lavish abodes suffocating him.

You know that smell. It’s a filthy thick smell, that mixture of wealthy perfumes and wealthier people. Riches Esteban had no problem with, infact quite the opposite he held an admiration for it and sought to join the ranks of richeous men. A being will work all his life to be rich but you have to be born into wealth, no one has ever earned wealth, or at least that was way he and I see things. How had he ended up in this situation? A tale for private ears no closer than his own. All the same he was surrounded, out gunned, against the wall and for one of the very few times in his life uncomfortable.

His options dawned on him like they do that of every homeless soul in the world. The flat must have overlooked about a thousand. Without hesitation he found console in the bathroom, as so many before him have. That’s the funny things about a bathroom, you can always lock a bathroom door and though you may not feel at home, you can truly feel yourself. It’s a moment of solace in any situation, a time to gather your self, reflect, design, plan and execute. Just like the cold, needy, bored and angry had done in the past he reached deep and pulled out the bottle of 93 percent vodka he had hidden. He took his first swig, felt his morals, pride and strength slide down past his gullet and let something else take over. He foresaw the outcome to end in two ways he, spinach or crpytonite.

The rest of this tale is one of neither one of pride nor adulation. Winning the respect of the cretins that haunted this flat benifted him in no way. Had he just picked up his losses, heavy as they were, and left; they would have respected his decision all the same, and probably have forgotten of his existance in this world moments after the door had shut. His ever hungry ego would prove to be too strong of a characteristic in his network of complex idosyncrasies. he bounded back into the rooms, of high ceilings and clean white walls.

The brands and logo’s that should all just read ‘you are not worthy’ now did not bother him one bit. The one who had led him to this paradise of fools, the one he had clung on to so tightly when he arrived would now be ignored, as though he had arrived alone and of his own accord. No mistake had been made, they would see, it was his intention to fall so premeditavley into a situation where he did not belong. This instinctive reasoning they would all fall into would now be the bayonette to his rifle.

It took a while for the last shackle to fall, head to turn and ear to bend. His wings were stretched out full, aching from the restraints this small minded sector of society had placed upon him. Weary from the work, he retired at his peak. Shuffling of into the night. He knew deep down he enjoyed turning their pity into respect, making fools of them all, but he had hated the tounge used to do so. Those fake words that fell so carelessly and habitualy. Those words that may one day find a home in the room and fester, to tell great stories of a man who onced graced their presence and joyed them all with jokes and games. Why give them the satisfaction? his time had been wasted.


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