The Last Three

By Almon Chu

"'Just three more stops,' I thought to myself. I gripped my knife, the handle digging into my flesh. I closed my eyes and tried to think of Eris."

A descent down the path of self-destruction, does salvation lie around the corner or is it merely an illusion? The Last Three is a captivating story of a lost soul on the streets of a modern dystopia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Almon Chu
• Release date: Oct 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465844576

Almon Chu

Born and raised in the small town of Toronto, currently writing out of Vancouver BC.

Book preview

The Last Three

By Almon Chu

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Almon Chu

I

The outside world came in through the window. The morning traffic, the police sirens, the footsteps and chatter of pedestrians, the roar of low flying planes, the beeping and banging of construction and destruction. I was naked, cold. My head and joints ached. My mouth was bitter. My eyes were blinded by the morning sun. I sat up quickly, recoiling. The sheets stuck to the side of my face before peeling off like velcro. I wiped my cheek and looked down at my hand.

God damn it, I said.

A breeze rolled in from an open window and I felt the blood dry upon my skin. My feet hit the grimy floor, but my legs refused to work and I met the ground with a thud.

After all you've been through, is this what's going to do you in? A voice said in a distant part of my mind. I began to crawl, my head and joints still aching.

I crawled on my arms across my bedroom floor. Across dirty laundry, empty bottles, crushed cans, broken CDs, forgotten CDs, pens and pencils, candy wrappers, white Styrofoam boxes filled with moulding crumbs, papers that were once important and papers that were never important. Across the thin film of hair, dust, crumbs, and shards of plastic that pervaded the floor. And across the most worthless of them all: pennies. I crawled as the carpet fabric dug into my flesh.

I reached the old sofa-chair that had been repurposed as a computer chair, and hoisted myself upon it. I turned on my back, my legs hanging over the arm of the chair. Stretching, I reached out and shut the window. The noises of the city still bled through.

I inhaled deeply, pushing my body forward until I was sitting on the arm of the chair. The cheap imitation leather creaked beneath me. My body lowered until my feet touched the floor. Tightly gripping the chair's arm as an anchor. I attempted to stand but refused to release my grip from the chair behind me. Taking one step forward I felt my legs wobble and retreated to the security of my chair.

Fuck me, I said, half laughing.

After all you've been through, is this what's going to do you in?

Outside my apartment window an early winter had arrived in the city, the trees stripped to skeleton forms. The colourful leaves of autumn had long since been blown away, destroyed, or collected. Though the first snowfall had yet to occur. It was a lifeless period of limbo.

I lived on the very edge of the city. To my left was the city's end: a vast field of houses, boulevards woven with trees and street lights; only broken by oases of poverty and the distant smoke stacks of the industrial slum. To my right was a dense labyrinth of high and low-rise buildings. Streets and alley-ways that twisted and turned in nonsensical fashion until they reached the city heart: an amalgamation of business towers, with each tower attempting to best the other in size. Despite their obnoxious efforts, they were forever in the shadow of the heart's centre, a tourist spike, our modern tower of Babel.

I gave up on standing and watched the city for a couple of hours, my weakness had overcome me. The hypnotic blur of distant moving cars and pedestrians.

The cell phone rang on my computer table.

Hello?

"Zdravstvuet!" It was Aleksi. He always enjoyed throwing me off.

Aleksi! English! The anger began to stir.

Haha! What's up? Why aren't you here at work? Aleksi said.

My legs won't work, I said. He was picking the wrong morning to aggravate me.

What do you mean? He asked.

The hell do you think I mean? I mean I can't stand up!

Have you tried standing?

That's a stupid fucking question and you know it.

No, I mean, have you tried standing again? Like recently. He was failing to articulate himself.

Why would I do that?! I already told you I can't stand! My sweat ran, mixing with the dry blood, and produced a sickly dull paste.

Just try it, he said, slightly irritated.

What part of 'I can't stand' don't you God damn understand?! I struggled to get the words out.

Just fucking try it! Aleksi was beginning to lose himself.

I could feel my heartbeat all throughout my body, my vision narrowed, my breath heated.

If I fucking fall down you're coming all the way out here to pick me the hell back up, you bastard! All I wanted to do was prove Aleksi wrong.

I threw myself off the chair and found myself to be standing perfectly straight.

Well? Aleksi asked condescendingly.

I stood there, shocked and stunned by my error for a brief moment.

Fuck you Aleksi!

"Suka blyad! Kitaiskie -" I pulled the cell phone from my cheek, the bloody paste causing my skin to lightly stick, and slammed the phone shut before he managed to finish his insult. The anger had engulfed me; a familiar raw energy surged through my right arm. The muscles in my forearm twitched as my fingers tingled and jerked.

God damn immigrant, I said to myself before throwing on some clothes that had been resting on my bed. I looked at the picture of Eris taped to my bedroom wall; I wondered what she would say if she could see me now. Exhaling deeply, I left my apartment for work.

There was no time to wash the blood off. I had already killed enough time and was very late for work. I could not afford a cut in pay. I shot glances to my left and right upon exiting my apartment. It smelled of cheap cleaning fluid, with hints of vomit and alcohol. The dim fluorescent lighting of the hallway produced a sickly buzz. White paint peeled off walls scuffed with a history of colours, revealing the concrete that lied beneath. I walked down the hall to the elevator, my footsteps clicking upon cracked and broken tiles. I reached into my coat pocket for my cigarettes. My hands were warm and my heart still pounding from my earlier conversation, though I had reclaimed control of myself.

I pressed the button to call for the elevator. Leaning back against the wall, I waited. The florescent light flickered above me. I put a cigarette to my lips and reached for my lighter. People were fighting in the unit behind the wall. Their exact words were indiscernible, just the sounds of shouting, yelling, crying, and screaming. I lit the cigarette and inhaled. The sweet nicotine release. A dull thud came from the wall behind me and broke the fight with a sudden silence. I thought of Aleksi and smiled.

'That god damn Punk."

The elevator doors opened before me.

The buttons in the elevator were old and worn, their painted symbols no longer readable. It was a small elevator