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""A Little Victory""

Glazed eyes stare into nothing from the bus window. A few nonchalant raindrops slide their way down before his ever-bored face from the darkened sky. The street lamps flicker on all around, their orange haze doubled in the day-old puddles, doubled again in the shaking window.
The whole bus shook, though - the sticky floor, the stupid seats - too big for one, too small for two. Old and pointless.

It set him off vibrating as well, but he wasn’t paying attention. He never really paid attention anymore - there was no point, nothing ever happened. He knew the routine off by heart - every weekday the same, every weekend an awkward, silent gap in the schedule.
His job title eluded him now. His pay, breaks, sick days, benefits, pension scheme - all forgotten in the pointlessness of it all. He survived okay, that’s what mattered. Caring wasn’t necessary.

His empty daydream ended as his bus-stop flashed by. This always happened. But no matter, no-one’s expecting him at home, a few pennies saved on the heating.
He stumbled his way down the still-moving bus much to the delight of the few seated passengers. They all looked happy, mockingly so in the dying light of a winter’s afternoon.
He asked the driver to pull over as soon as possible. But the next stop was clearly in view when he did - swerving into the curb, sending him into the doors. Still off-balance, the doors snapped open, glancing his wrist as they went. He stepped silently out, one foot plunging into an icy puddle.

Shaking off the water, he squelched down the road. Shoes will dry, no worries. A needle-sharp breeze stabbed at his poorly insulated body, chilling his skin right over, clawing at his mind. But the cold was lost on him, and soon gave up - it would never kill him, no need to care.

The road was long, his right house at the other end. It was hung with night, the rusted street lamps too slow to come on, but he could have walked it with his eyes closed. He could probably go a few years with his eyes closed.
In fact, losing his sight and even his hearing wouldn’t change anything. No-one spoke to him, it wasn’t worth the effort. Not that he cared, of course. Conversation was always strained.

He looked around. There was no-one, but lights from windows told the truth.
He wasn’t alone, just excluded.

His footsteps echoed around. Fast, sharp steps.
He always walked fast, near enough a jog. But the line between walking and jogging was a hard one to cross. Everyone walked.

He sped up a little.
The shrill laugh of a teenage girl blocked out the sound of his footsteps for a second.
When the echo returned, the beat had grown faster again.

His legs ached.
They blurred beneath him. So close to a jog.
All he had to do was put a little more effort in, push off from the ground. So close, so close.

He jogged one stride down the street, a little jump above the bleak pavement.
The laugh filled the air again. He ignored it, pushed on.

The gentle jog worked up and up. The freezing, biting cold stung at his eyes. He felt it, so cold, stream through his thinning hair.
His feet slapped the shocked street over and over. His legs burned. He felt them aflame beneath him. Wonderful sensations.

His house in sight he lowered his head and broke into a sprint.
Memories rushed back. He broke above the tedium, glanced back at his school days - legs pounded the fresh-cut grass.
The rush, the freedom, the speed.
They captured him again.

He slowed down, turned into the drive.
His chest heaved. Ragged breath sent clouds of vapour into the air. He felt everything.
Cramp bit viciously into his side, he chuckled a tattered laugh and rubbed it out.

His head was light, above everything as he turned the key in the lock and stepped inside.

The front door shut behind him with a sorry click.
The darkness enveloped him.
He leant back against the wall, grinning.

Slowly, so slowly he regained his breath. The gasps turned stealthily into sighs.
He pulled off his worn shoes and draped his coat over the banister.
The house was empty.
His breathing steadied.
Memories faded.

I liked it because I like grim. Lost souls shrouded in a no-man's-land. Goodo.

I always hated so much detail, but even though there's a lot here, I really liked it. Again..!
A lot of lines really stuck out. Verr good ;)

> The road was long, his right house at the other end.

So where was the wrong house?

Sorry, really I am. I was in an excellent mood before reading this but now? I thought that piece was depressing and very sad. So alone that his only pleasure is derived from re-living old memories? I don't ever want to be there.

Of course.
You should know me by now.

Oh, and just to confirm that it isn't infact a coincidence that makes you look good, this line;

"a few pennies saved on the heating."

...is connected with the end, myes?
Just checking.
:)

It probably didn't flow very well.
I've been working on it on and off for about three months - never really got into it.

But you get the idea.

Rather good, though there's just something that doesn't seem to click with me, but I really can't put my finger on it.
Hmm.

The ending line was good, too.

Begger.
I forgot the last line:

"Slowly, so slowly he regained his breath. The gasps turned stealthily into sighs.
He pulled off his worn shoes and draped his coat over the banister.
The house was empty.
His breathing steadied.
Memories faded.

He reached over and turned the thermostat down."

Glazed eyes stare into nothing from the bus window. A few nonchalant raindrops slide their way down before his ever-bored face from the darkened sky. The street lamps flicker on all around, their orange haze doubled in the day-old puddles, doubled again in the shaking window.
The whole bus shook, though - the sticky floor, the stupid seats - too big for one, too small for two. Old and pointless.

It set him off vibrating as well, but he wasn’t paying attention. He never really paid attention anymore - there was no point, nothing ever happened. He knew the routine off by heart - every weekday the same, every weekend an awkward, silent gap in the schedule.
His job title eluded him now. His pay, breaks, sick days, benefits, pension scheme - all forgotten in the pointlessness of it all. He survived okay, that’s what mattered. Caring wasn’t necessary.

His empty daydream ended as his bus-stop flashed by. This always happened. But no matter, no-one’s expecting him at home, a few pennies saved on the heating.
He stumbled his way down the still-moving bus much to the delight of the few seated passengers. They all looked happy, mockingly so in the dying light of a winter’s afternoon.
He asked the driver to pull over as soon as possible. But the next stop was clearly in view when he did - swerving into the curb, sending him into the doors. Still off-balance, the doors snapped open, glancing his wrist as they went. He stepped silently out, one foot plunging into an icy puddle.

Shaking off the water, he squelched down the road. Shoes will dry, no worries. A needle-sharp breeze stabbed at his poorly insulated body, chilling his skin right over, clawing at his mind. But the cold was lost on him, and soon gave up - it would never kill him, no need to care.

The road was long, his right house at the other end. It was hung with night, the rusted street lamps too slow to come on, but he could have walked it with his eyes closed. He could probably go a few years with his eyes closed.
In fact, losing his sight and even his hearing wouldn’t change anything. No-one spoke to him, it wasn’t worth the effort. Not that he cared, of course. Conversation was always strained.

He looked around. There was no-one, but lights from windows told the truth.
He wasn’t alone, just excluded.

His footsteps echoed around. Fast, sharp steps.
He always walked fast, near enough a jog. But the line between walking and jogging was a hard one to cross. Everyone walked.

He sped up a little.
The shrill laugh of a teenage girl blocked out the sound of his footsteps for a second.
When the echo returned, the beat had grown faster again.

His legs ached.
They blurred beneath him. So close to a jog.
All he had to do was put a little more effort in, push off from the ground. So close, so close.

He jogged one stride down the street, a little jump above the bleak pavement.
The laugh filled the air again. He ignored it, pushed on.

The gentle jog worked up and up. The freezing, biting cold stung at his eyes. He felt it, so cold, stream through his thinning hair.
His feet slapped the shocked street over and over. His legs burned. He felt them aflame beneath him. Wonderful sensations.

His house in sight he lowered his head and broke into a sprint.
Memories rushed back. He broke above the tedium, glanced back at his school days - legs pounded the fresh-cut grass.
The rush, the freedom, the speed.
They captured him again.

He slowed down, turned into the drive.
His chest heaved. Ragged breath sent clouds of vapour into the air. He felt everything.
Cramp bit viciously into his side, he chuckled a tattered laugh and rubbed it out.

His head was light, above everything as he turned the key in the lock and stepped inside.

The front door shut behind him with a sorry click.
The darkness enveloped him.
He leant back against the wall, grinning.

Slowly, so slowly he regained his breath. The gasps turned stealthily into sighs.
He pulled off his worn shoes and draped his coat over the banister.
The house was empty.
His breathing steadied.
Memories faded.