Giving Up

Kyle rolled over and whipped a river of drool from his mouth. There was very little room for debate in his mind as he climbed slowly back to consciousness of what he would do next.

He rolled over and went back to sleep. He’d been going like this for months now, their was just nothing to live for. Flash backs of that terrible night six months ago still plagued his dreams, but somehow he’d learned to just dream less. More and more nights he went the whole way without dreaming. Seven months ago that would have worried him, but now he didn’t care.

A sudden pang of hunger hit while he was still awake enough not to ignore it. He fumbled around in the pile of derbies next to messy bed until he found the bag of bread he brought in a few days ago. He hardly left his room anymore, except to go to the bathroom and occasionally get more food. He’d given up on that night; he had nothing left to live for. Now he spent most of his time sleeping, and when he couldn’t sleep he’d make the arduous trek across the room to play video games until he fell asleep again.

He didn’t go outside anymore, he couldn’t face what was out there. Kyle used to love the sun, he used to camp and hike and surf with his friends all the time; but now…

The bread was moldy, but he stuffed it in his mouth all the same. Something to wash it down sounded nice, so he slipped out of bed and slouched out the door and across the house to the kitchen. Along the way he passed all the things that reminded him of his formal life, all the pictures and athletic trophies and metals—all of it meant nothing now, his life had ended six months ago only by some cruel twist of fate he’d kept on living.

As he passed the picture of Emperor Ping he took a moment to punch it angrily. He still had that left, anger. That made what? Anger, hatred, grief, and a whole lot of sorrow. Life was definitely low.

As he opened the refrigerator something caught his eye. He was sure he’d torn it down months ago, but their it was pinned to door of the freeze. It was the picture of him, Ivan, Roderick and Charlie when they were ten. He remembered that day like it was yesterday. So many good times, the four of them all full of hopes and dreams, now dashed to peaces on the rocks of the Empire. He glared scornfully at the picture as he opened the refrigerator and took out a cartoon of orange juice. He didn’t bother with cups anymore, just opened the container and drank some. Usually he only drank water and then mostly straight form the faucet. Anything that took more than a little trouble wasn’t generally worth doing these days. He closed the door again and looked maliciously at the picture, hating it so much for the memories it stirred in his soul but at the same time lacking the will even to tear it down.

The phone rang and rattles him out of his misery. Usually he’d have ignored it, let the machine and someone else get it, but for some reason he reached over and picked up the receiver, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Hello?”

“Hey Kyle, its Ivan. Listen, yours and my gunjins are being rebuilt. Meet me at Grand Central Station tonight at eleven. Come alone.”