Downpour Diner

-Johnny sits, his chair directed toward the window. The rain falls outside, slowly gliding down, creating a sorrowing effect against the light as it pierces through the droplets, into the quiet diner. He stares vacantly as a few cars pass outside on the street and displace the puddle water gathering near the broken curb. His eyes droop down tired of life, like an old dog hound. He slouches over as he sits, succumbing to the force of gravity, unable to push it off with any energy of his own. He sits slouching, his eyes drooping, the door opens, the cold chill enters-
“You loser get the fuck up from there, don’t you know how to do anything else but take up space?”
Without any reaction, Johnny laboriously straightens his back, his eyes widening. In the slowest imaginable motion, his head turns to the door, which is closed again. He looks passed the water-streaked glass the streets are empty, an occasional car splashing the sidewalk with water. He settles back into his slouched position, and his eyes begin to droop.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, just wasting away like an old oak passed its spring?”
Aware of the voice, he closes his eyes, tightening his fist-two of them. He again begins to laboriously straighten his back, his eyes open, and in slow motion he looks to the counter, over through the order window to the kitchen, the only person in the diner-the cook-stands at the grill, singing along to a song in his head. His lips move but nothing is coming out. Seeing the cook silently singing, Johnny pushes the stool to full rotation, returning to his slouched position, this time giving his attention to the small jukebox, in the dark corner of the diner. He stares at it, as the records in the box spin slowly as if a selection has been made. The light reflecting off the records illuminates the vocalist name.
“When the hell are you going to do anything notable, when the hell are you going to get your fucking lazy ass off of this stool and go do something? You said you’d like to be like them, but you don’t do shit, you just sit here, sit here all fucking day?”
Johnny’s droopy eyes widen for a split second, he searches the wall above the jukebox scanning the newspaper-covered wall his eyes meet familiar print. The haunting images, articles retelling stories of fame rising, off to the side of the jukebox closer to the bathroom hall, stories of tragedy. ‘The extinguishing of a bright light’ so put it one article.
“Yeah they were extinguished, they died, but they had the balls to go after what they wanted. They actually did something. They did more than spend their lifetime sitting in a fucking diner staring at the world around them. What the hell are you going to do, with your worthless life?”
Johnny’s eyes begin to droop down again, his sight collapses to the tile-covered floor of the diner. His energy seemingly carried in his eyes’, falls as well and he further slouches in the stool. His blurry vision could barely make out the pattern on the surrounding tile. He weakly begins following the lines from left to right and bottom to top, beginning to shake, unaware of doing so. He continues, slowly turning in the stool, following the tile’s pattern, lines, across the expanse of the diner-shaking all the while.
“What the fuck are you doing? Do you think there’s an answer in this pattern? You think you’re going to accomplish something by tracing these fucking lines? You haven’t done shit all day and still you waste your time playing with lines like a fucking kid? Get off your ass and do something.”
Continuing to shake, still following the lines, tears slowly begin to fall as he turns the stool to face the counter. His sight still downcast at the pattern’s end, he followed it all the way across the diner. He just sits staring at the aluminum edge of the white marble top counter. Tears begin falling steadily and form a small puddle on the counter top. Rain continues to pour outside. Still shaking, tears falling, Johnny lifts his blurry vision to see the kitchen window, now vacant. He slowly turns his attention to the swing door leading to the motionless kitchen. His tears slowed. He continues to shake, his jacket stretching over him closer to his thin frame.
“What the fuck are you doing here? You need to leave now. Leave. Why the fuck did you do it, go now, run!”
His tears have ceased, but his eyes remain reddened and filled with tears trying to escape. He continues to shake feeling the tightness of his jacket stretching over him. He begins to push the stool to the right, where the marble top counter folds up to allow entrance; it is down, no one has used it. As the stool moves to the right, his blurry vision follows the lines on the aluminum edge of the counter top. His foot loses contact with the counter. Johnny turns his vision downward to his shoe. Tears begin falling again. They fall on his shoe and slowly mix with the blood covering it. Johnny begins shaking even worse now he almost jerks off the seat, but manages to hold on, by quickly grabbing at the seat with his now un-tightened fist, with both of them. He manages to calm himself a little, enough to see there is blood smeared on the floor leading from the counter top entrance to his stool.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Are you stupid, fucking moron, leave? Get your ass up and leave before they come. They will come. They always come.”
Johnny shakily looks outside. It is still raining. The puddles are overflowing. No car has passed to splash the sidewalk and empty the puddles. Johnny begins pushing himself off the stool but his arms give out and he can’t manage to budge himself. He sits there shaking, with tears streaming down his face and onto the smeared blood on the lined tile. The door opens. Johnny could feel the warmth of the diner bleeding out. He closes his eyes. His trembling increases to the point his arms, the ones that could not budge him, fall limp in front of him and lead his body to collapse against the tiled floor. In the crash, his heads slams against the cold edge of the stool and Johnny could feel his own warm blood beginning to mix with the drying trail of blood. The cold numbs the pain, but does not help Johnny’s thoughts any.
“Did you not hear me? Are we playing the fucking victim now? You fell, so what? Get your ass up and leave. Do you hear the sirens, they’re not for me they’re for you.”
Johnny’s neck twitching, his head shaking, he attempts to look out the window but he’s facing the counter and can’t manage to turn his head around. His feet against the counter begin trembling as Johnny exerts a force upon them to push himself toward the window, his head bleeding and resting against the cold floor. His movement is slow but continuous as his head presses against the floor leaving a read streak across the expanse of the diner. His feet struggle against the floor, slipping in the red mess his head has created. His head still shaking, his neck twitching, collides with the booth, its red fabric matching the red moist redness on Johnny’s hands, as they were dragged under him through the blood loss of his head. And he brings them up painstakingly slow as he tries to regain control of them. They fall clutching at the red fabric, his nails digging into it. They remain there a while, as Johnny exerts all his energy in trying to lift himself onto the seat. His head hangs, blood still dripping from the gash on his forehead as his arms appear to be successful in their endeavor. His eyes tiredly close, his arms shaking, but he doesn’t move, waiting, resting against the seat.
“You should just die. There’s no point now. Look at yourself. You miserable worthless waste of life, look at yourself. This is the shit you’ve caused. This is all your fault. Are you listening to me, the sirens in my fucking background? This is the mess you’ve created, the mess you’ve gotten us, no, yourself into. Die, or leave, now!”
Johnny’s body trembling terribly, his eyes flickering as he attempts to open them and keep them open, begins rising onto the seat. And with a great sigh his body collapses onto the seat. His face almost stoic, his head shaking, as he stares at the water cascading against the window, making it impossible to know what’s coming. As he lies there trembling attempting to sit up, he notices the far off sound of sirens wailing against the rain thick air. Then with a quick jerk manages to sit up and slowly stand, trembling. The right side of his face smeared of blood continues gently trickling off onto his jacket, which is now soaked red. It is this same red streaming down his face that renders his right eye now useless as his shaking begins to subside. And he makes his way to the door, which is now swaying open-close-open, to the motion of the wind. He staggers against it, applying all his weight to open it wide enough to squeeze laboriously through the small access.