The Passionate Pilgrim

Down the corridor on either side were large dark, heavy oak doors, each one opposite another one of the same description. The corridor was dimly lit; he could hardly see the doors, if it weren’t for their brass handles. The hallway seemed to stretch off into the distance, perfectly straight, each part of it perfectly symmetrical. He was running. His bare feet hit the hard floorboards with pounding shakes. He was breathing heavy and laboured, but there was no noise. He couldn’t hear himself panting. It felt like he was choking, but not dying. Just the constant uncomfortable pain of choking. He ran on. He didn’t stop; he didn’t know what was driving him on. He simply ran on.

After what seemed an age he stopped. He had stopped between two of the same doors he was running past the whole way through the corridor. He turned to his left and gripped the worn brass handle of the door. The brass handle was hot to the touch. Not too hot. Just warm. He let go, and ran onwards. As he ran, the walls of the corridor seemed to get wider. They elasticised outwards, and the width of the corridor increased. The doors that lined it changed to lockers, and people began to arise from nowhere. The people arising wore school uniform. It was his old school. Children in school uniform busily rushed past him as he ran through the crowds.

As he ran on, he saw himself as he was when he was an 11 year old. First day of high school. The child, him, was sitting on a bench looking at a map of the school. He had his packed lunch box out ready to eat his Penguin as it was break time. Nobody sat near him at break time. Everyone else sat around talking and gossiping at break time. But he just sat there. Alone.


He stopped running for good this time, although it was almost involuntary, as if he must stop running. He realised his whole…




He woke up. Blinked a few times. And heard laughter.

He sat up on his bed still fully dressed. He squinted across the room. The television was on. Some terrible American sitcom no doubt. He had nodded off. He remembers watching the start of Van Helsing on ITV and then his eyes gave in to the pillow. He checked the time. Only 10.30. She would definitely be there now. At the club. With the other bloke.

He had been sitting in bed for the past three hours thinking about it. About the girl that he loved. How he had treated – or rather not treated her. He had been turning over in his head every wrong decision he had made along the way.

He hadn’t given her enough attention.
He hadn’t brought her enough gifts.
He hadn’t sown her enough affection.
He hadn’t spoken to her in two weeks.

The last thing was the thing that did it. He hadn’t spoken to her in two weeks. For no real reason. He had some problems, but everyone has problems, and it was nothing that was too bad to talk to her about. He still couldn’t believe that a girl like this wanted him. Of all people, him. And now he was right. Because she was at the club. With the other bloke.

He had seen her before the club. It was her birthday. He met her to give her back some of her things. A CD and a top. As the bus slinked its way towards meeting her, he sat on the top deck, and put her top to his nose. It still smelled of her. That clean, wonderful, unique girl-smell that only she had. Smells can remind you of so many memories. But he inhaled her top, all the time thinking of the first time they met.



The first time they met.

He was in a club. He had no right being there. He looked terrible, and was drunk off his face. He never usually went to clubs, but he was out with footballers – he played football. The night was going well – he was having fun. But he always had the need for attention off of women. That’s why he never went to clubs – it was like his dream shop in which he had no currency. He could never talk to women in clubs. His friends – they could talk to women easy. It came natural. The cocky, arrogant bravado that so attracts women these days. He saw it as fake, and false. He couldn’t do it. He was a sucker for the old romantic type of courtship – the witty, effortless dialogue between a man and a woman when they first meet – not ‘your fit, want a drink?’ – ‘yeah, cheers – ill suck your cock later if you get me a double’. He wondered around the place, saying hello to people he didn’t know, ignoring those he did. His whole point of being there seemed ridiculous. He wanted to leave, to escape the long bunching crowds queuing for drinks. The loud and annoying girls and boys at their tables, shouting over each other in attempt to be unofficially crowned the funniest. The geeks playing fruit machines and pool – only there as vultures, to pick off any weak, very drunk and horny females.

He was about to leave when someone introduced a girl t him. One of the footballers. He couldn’t remember who it was, but if he did, he would owe them a lot of drinks. She swung in, as if on ice. Every movement was graceful and distinct. He watched as she blinked, beautiful – he watched as she smiled, incredible – and then he watched as she spoke to him, oh fuck. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted a Shakespeare poem to come to my mind, a wonderful line that would buckle her knees and make her faint or fall into his arms. And he would catch her, and she would awake and he would kiss her. And everyone would clap, and they would run out of the place triumphant and in love. Instead, he said ‘I think I’ve seen you somewhere before’. Bollocks. He was now in the shit. The most beautiful looking thing he had ever seen had just walked up to him, and he came up with that. He thought he must have a magical line stored up for this exact moment. He thought everyone had one. It turned out, he didn’t.

A few awkward sentences later, he had persuaded her to sit down with him. He didn’t know how but he felt his luck was changing. They spoke for what seemed a few minutes, but was actually about two hours. He was too drunk to remember anything, but he remembers her friends coming over to her, trying to drag her away from the idiot she was sat talking to. But she didn’t move. She stayed. He felt so lucky, and then he decided to push it. Her shimmering brown eyes, her delicate cheekbones, her dainty little dimple on her left cheek. It was all too much; it came down on him like a torrential rain, soaking in him in whatever this amazing feeling was. He leaned in for a kiss, expecting a slap or for her to get up and walk away. He had to feel her slim and smooth lips, looking as if they were made of silk. She arched her head forwards, and his top lip covered her top lip, and he wedged his bottom lip between both of hers. And then there they were kissing. As he did this, he smiled inside. His heart raced, adrenaline shot around his body like a current. That’s when he opened his nostrils, and smelt that smell. That clean, wonderful, unique girl-smell that only she had.


As the bus approached, he saw her standing there, looking as beautiful, if not more, than ever. Such a natural attraction. It defied anything he had felt before. He walked towards her and handed over her things, all the time just wanting to grab her and tell her how sorry he was and wanting to kiss her and for everything to be alright again. She took her things, and reciprocated nothing back.

He had planned to be cold hearted, to tell her all he wanted to do was never speak to her again. To be a man. He had found out that she had been seeing another guy, and it crushed him – a concrete jacket that had been weighing him down for the past three days. But as he saw her, and as everything she was flooded over him, he couldn’t be cold hearted. This is why he both hated and loved women at the same time.

He and her spoke for a while, and eventually she said that he had another chance. But she said she would speak to him in a week.
.

He wakes up in his bed to the sound of laughter. His heart aches from the guessing. She would definitely be there now. At the club. With the other bloke. He has text her three times already, and he knew he shouldn’t. If he was advising his friends he would say don’t do that. But he is not advising his friends. And they aren’t advising him. Two minutes after ending the message he checks his phone to see if she has replied. But she hasn’t. And he knows she hasn’t. But he’s clinging to desperation. Over something he shouldn’t be.

Another two minutes, he checks his phone again. He moves it around the room, thinking that when she sent her message, his phones signal cut out, and it’s just waiting to be delivered once he gets signal. So he goes to different rooms to get a signal. But still nothing. He lies in bed. He texts her again, in case the pervious text didn’t get delivered, or as she was reading another text, his text was received and she accidentally deleted it.

He tries not to think about the things she is doing at the club, but the more he tries not to the more he does. He thinks of all the men that will be looking at her. Wondering what she looks like naked. He thinks of all the guys that will casually brush up against her, not knowing that they have just touched something wonderful. He thinks of the other bloke, holding her – dancing with her – her grinding up against him, thrusting her arse into his cock. He pictures her kissing a dozen different faces, each of which isn’t his. He feels sick, but he can’t throw up. He can’t do anything. He is numb from the head down, all his body’s energy going into making up unrealistic images, tormenting his mind with hellish renditions of her getting fucked and ejaculated on by different men. He lets out a small tear and a heavy breath. His organs need a massage, they are that tight in his chest.

A-L

hmmm, this is good, the guy you've got here seems really desperate and i like the feeling of his desperation, its something that i've always wanted to be able to capture in my writing. Good job on this.

Please read and comment Metropolis (science fiction, fantasy) anything would be appreciated.