The Sangea-Chronicles - Days Like This (I)

egotheist (65)in #art • 6 years ago (edited)

Whenver I'm not debunking pseudo-science or writing about other interesting stuff, I keep telling myself, that I'm able to write entertaining fictional stories. You can be the judge of that.
The first part can be found here.

_Source

The rain relentlessly attacked the windows. His sole aim seemed to be the destruction of the protective glass front in order to flood the rooms behind it and to wash away all traces of human existence. If anyone were interested in Aiden's opinion, that someone would have quickly realized that the extinction of human existence was perhaps not such a bad idea.
Aiden was the prototype of what was commonly understood as a failed existence. In his opinion, there was no problem, which could not be solved with two bottles of whisky. The initially very promising military career in one of the best combat units that The Senate had at its disposal soon came to an abrupt end. Aiden explained to the commander of a failed mission in an impressive physical way what he thought of inadequate information about the target and threat situation. Three of his friends never returned from this mission. After being dishonorably dismissed, he tried to gain a foothold with private security companies. The payment was definitely better than anything he had ever seen in his army days, but the clientele was miles away from reaping even a hint of sympathy. Pampered children of wealthy people, whose appreciation of his work consisted in paying for his alcohol and drugs at their parties.
Aiden was a person's idea, which only worked through alcohol and painkillers. There was always the morning after, and he cursed every single one of them. He no longer knew how often the gun had been in his hand and the only thought was to end it all with the next shot. His family didn't want to know anything about him, his former comrades were either dead or disappointed - which was basically the same thing. The bullet bearing his name did not need to be cast. It was on the table next to his bed every night. Not a day passed without him thinking about taking this last step and leaving all the pain behind. His own cowardice was the only reason he was still alive. Not knowing what comes after this final decision, was a thought he could hardly bear.
His communicator rang out.
For a brief moment, Aiden considered whether he should react to it. The decision to ignore the device seemed to him to be the more pleasant alternative. Whoever wanted to reach him at this time could also wait for him to feel able to make human contact. His mood was already quite shitty anyway. If one was already far away from any sleep potential at this time, then the apparent day could show no more positive aspects.

Coffee. Most people considered morning coffee consumption as a simple routine - for Aiden, however, it was a fundamentally important aspect for him to function as a human being at all. Besides the first sip of whisky of the day, of course. One may think this description is exaggerated, but the smell of black coffee in the morning alone meant a firework of incomparable dimensions for his neuroreceptors, without which he would never be able to get even close to foreign people. For him, the routine was vital. However, this was exactly what presented him with an almost insurmountable problem: the coffee machine was about three meters away from his bed. The mere thought of having to leave the comforting warmth of his sleeping place caused him a headache.
Aiden cursed internally. He beat up his hands in front of his face and rubbed his eyes in frustration. It didn't help. He was all too painfully aware that he would not be able to sleep in this state. Sighing, he straightened his upper body and stared for a short moment at the shelf opposite his bed. The backs of several photo frames silently replied to his gaze. Aiden had turned the pictures against the wall because they showed pictures of dead friends and he could not bear to see them. They were memories of a better time, but whenever he looked into their faces, he couldn't get rid of the feeling that they were accusing him of what had happened. A blind grip towards the small bedside table next to his bed brought him into possession of his best friend - a bottle of Blatbury whisky. Cheap, stank like the plague and reliably killed every germ of remorse. One could hardly wish for a better friend. Aiden routinely uncorked the bottle with his teeth, took a big sip and wrenched his face. His throat felt like someone had just infused him with boiling lead. "The best medicine always tasted like shit," he muttered softly and shook himself.

A brief glance out of the window assured him that the weather was still adequately in keeping with his mood. A fleeting smile played around the corners of his mouth. After all, the day couldn't get much worse. Aiden didn't know how wrong he was supposed to be.
With a not inconsiderable act of forcing his will, he finally found the motivation to at last leave his bed and head for the coffee machine with sleepwalking certainty. A few simple steps were required to make all the necessary preparations and the familiar rattling of a grinder that hit coffee beans permeated the silence in Aiden's apartment. As his cup slowly filled with the black gold of the morning, he purposefully headed for the bathroom to see if he actually looked as terrible as he felt. A look in the mirror above the sink brought him the presumed confirmation. The white of his eyes was streaked with bloodshot veins and his face seemed so old and sunken that it gave the impression that he was at least twenty years older. The attempt to correct this image with a handful of cold water failed as expected.
"Would have been too good, to be true" Aiden sighed in full awareness of the current condition of his body. However, the fact that he was still alive, given the frequency with which he drank and smoked, regularly surprised him. Cheers to medicine of the 22nd century. His reflection made a mocking face. Apparently his time had not yet come, no matter how self-destructive his behaviour may have been. He had, of course, not only once thought about putting an early end to all this misery, but for some reason, his instinct for self-preservation was not yet completely at the bottom. Or he was too cowardly.
The communicator rang again.
Aiden briefly closed his eyes, wondering whether he should react to it this time, but decided against it once more and waited patiently until the melody stopped. The smell of freshly brewed coffee got up his nose. Smiling comfortably, he opened his eyes and his legs followed the small olfactory sensation to its source. His hands longingly grabbed the big cup, whose contents had something magical about them in his current state of mind. His eyes closed once more. Delicate aromas stretched out their fingers, flattered the olfactory receptors and finally reached those areas of his overtired brain, which were responsible for happiness. He let the liquid gold run over his lips into his throat. A loud rattling filled the room. Fragments framed Aiden's feet while his face drew a painfully distorted grimace. His alcohol fogged mind had forgotten that hot coffee was exactly what he was supposed to be: hot. Aiden cursed. He was mistaken. His day could have turned out to be more fucked up, contrary to expectations. The first five minutes outside his bed already made him mentally break the neck of baby kittens.

A piercing humming sounded. This time it wasn't his communicator, it was the front door. Aiden rolled his eyes. He could hardly ignore that buzzing. Whoever was standing in front of his door would probably not rest until it opened. He also had a worrying premonition that it would be the same person who had tried to reach him through his communicator.
"Oh, fuck it," he grumbled discontentedly.
With a brief glance at the shards at his feet, he shrugged his shoulders and moved to open the door. Aiden's face darkened when he looked into the eyes of one of the people he had hoped never to see again.
Miranda Cale. Mainly responsible for strategic issues of any military nature that may have some relevance to the Senate. And Aiden's ex-wife.
"Won't you let me in?" she asked with her eyebrows up.
Aiden leaned against the door frame at an angle, one arm resting on the top corner and thus knowingly blocking the entire entrance.
"Not really," he muttered.
She smiled condescendingly. He hated it when she did that.
"Can't we act like grown-ups and talk sense to each other?"
Aiden snorted contemptuously.
"I wouldn't know what's great to discuss."
"I'd like to explain that to you."
"IN your apartment," she added emphatically.
His eyebrows tightened even more.
"Why would I want to do that? After all, it was you who got rid of me. "I'm done with you, the Senate and everything connected to it."
Miranda sighed in frustration.
"You know you left me no choice. "I was responsible for you, and you did everything you could to make it impossible for me to help you."
"That's your opinion."
"No, that's the opinion of everyone who has somehow tried to save you from what happened. You've offended every friend you've had in the army, and that's because a mission went wrong."
Aiden crossed his arms.
"A mission? Half my team was killed on this fucking job. I can't even look at their pictures without having nightmares again. You didn't care, you never cared. After all, we were just soldiers in a war you could never win. What did we know. Go to hell. You and this whole damn Senate."
He tried to close the door, but her foot prevented his plan from working.
"Aiden, please, let me in and listen to me for a moment. "After that, you can still say it was a waste of time and you have no interest in what I have to tell you."
"You're not giving up, are you?"
"No."
He sighed.
"All right. "You have five minutes to explain to me what the hell you are doing here and why I should even think about what you want from me."
Miranda nodded and smiled gratefully.
She followed him into the apartment and immediately saw the shards of the broken cup on the floor. For a short moment she wanted to ask him about that, but she remembered better and remained silent. Aiden sat down on his bed and looked at her expectantly.
"Well?" he asked impatiently.

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6 years ago in #art by egotheist (65)

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