Blackbird Crying in the Dead of Night

“Alright, ‘m out.” Alex called over to the last bouncer. He tucked the bundle of tips under a strap of the outfit he’d danced in. Alex shrugged on his oversized hoodie, which fell just past his hips and was barely warming his body, seeing as under it all he had on was a holographic strappy piece. He zipped up his platforms and slung his bag over his shoulder.

“You really should try carpooling more, Lex. This ain’t a good part of town to be going home alone.” Dom sighed tiredly at the door, he pushed it open for the last dancer to leave.

“It’s really alright, Dom. I’ve been doing this for like.. two years now? No trouble yet.” He pulled his hair into a messy bun, used one foot to prop the door open. He lit a cigarette to keep warm and already had a lungful of nicotine before the burly man grunted an acknowledgement. Some better clubs might’ve paid their security enough to walk their performers to their cars. Then again, Alex didn’t have a car to be walked to. “I live like right down the street. I feel like I tell you this every night.”

Dom simply shook his head. “Careful on the ice. It’s gonna snow soon.”

Alex blew a kiss at his favorite bouncer and stepped fully out into the cold. The heavy door swung shut behind him and a biting January breeze wrapped around Alex’s bare legs. The dying pink neon light from the club sign reflected off of frozen puddles. He made his way down the dim path, eyes on the ground. The last thing he needed was a broken ankle. He could see some of the body glitter from that night’s look fall as he walked, it made the ice sparkle pink and purple and gold. How grossly aesthetic.

When Alex started, he’d spent most nights on his way out insisting his walk home was short, so by now next to no one bothered to offer him a ride or wait for him to be done. Even Dom would recite his piece then go home. The lanky brunette didn’t mind so much. His front door was eight blocks away from the club. Eight blocks he’d walk. It’s not like he was ever bothered on the quiet, lonely walks home. Not really. The occasional lurking guest from the club might try to grab ass on his way out, but usually a quick elbow to the gut and a platform to the toes and they’d scurry off, dick tucked between their legs.

Walking home never bothered him. It was the being home that did. The apartment complex was a nearly dilapidated structure with no proper insulation or air conditioning. He lived on the third floor of four, on the far end of a hallway, so at best he had four immediate neighbors at all times. At all times. His next door neighbors were a young couple that were always arguing and fighting. Downstairs, they blasted movies. How nobody had stolen their speakers yet, he’d never understand. Across the hall, at all times of day, they were always in and out- doors slamming and car beeping. And the de neu mont? A bowling alley might as well live above him. One might think all of that noise would help drive away some of the loneliness or keep Alex from trekking all too familiar shadowy paths in his head. But it only made it worse.

Two blocks down, six more to go. The slick roads began the usual steep incline upwards after Alex stepped onto the next curb. He cursed under his breath. I keep joking about getting cleats, but honestly, that might be an investment I need. Like he needed to spend more money. It’s not like he didn’t make enough; it was more that he didn’t spend too.. wisely. The tiny pack of MDMA tucked under one of the straps of his outfit reminded him of that.

He heard footsteps in the slush behind him and looked over his shoulder just in time to see someone hit him over the head with something and his vision went black.

Only the fates would know how long Alex took to come to. The world blurred back together and rang in his ears. He rolled, his back fully embraced by the icy concrete beneath him. A pained noise escaped the dancer and he rolled his head to the side to try to get his eyes to focus. His eyes locked onto something not even a foot from his eyes. A little black book. It wasn’t his. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read— let alone carried a book. Was it from whoever hit him? A feeble reach and the small, faux leather bound book was in his hand. He held it up at an angle to try and catch the title. The words were embedded with no paint. They read, ‘Twenty four Hours a Day.’ Alex frowned further. Certainly not his. He hadn’t attended AA... ever. It reminded him too much of the man his father pretended to be.

He sat up, treating himself gingerly. A hard hit followed by an even harder fall and his body was aching worse than after a double shift. His pale eyes fell to the little book that was now resting on his thigh. He sighed and picked it up. “Was I already smited or is it going to happen because I look in this book?” He pondered to no one but the ghastly wind. He cracked it open and as he let the pages flip past his thumb he noticed that many of the pages had passages that were highlighted, underlined, marked. Someone actually listened to the words this book had to offer.? A page fell open to September 4th. “Look God for the strength to drop those inner...” Alex’s brows furrowed and he looked around, wondering for a moment if this was some kind of awful attempt at a prank. He flipped through more pages until finally the saw a handwritten note from the owner on the inner cover.

I’m not a particularly religious person, but I found that replacing ‘God’ with ‘the Universe’ helped me understand the purpose and the gifts this book will bring if I let it. I only hope others can find their balm that causes them to realize what they’ve been craving for so long is to let go and heal.

Alex took a deep breath and decided to go back to the first page he’d read, taking the secret past owner’s advice. When he was done reading, his eyes stung and tears freely hit the page. He closed the book and stared past the cars that drove past. Had he truly been in charge of his life... the entire time? When he stayed with the abusive asshole, when he kept letting his father convince him his brother’s death was his fault? Was that not just what he deserved? His grip tightened on the book. He had to get a handle on himself before the crippling weight of grief fell on his shoulders and kept him there in the ice.

“Hardly. Don’t gotta know now. Just gotta get home.” He shivered and cradled the book in his arms as he continued the slippery trek to his overly humbled abode.