Succubus

 

 by Adrian Truss

Harold Greenside stumbled up the stairs to his apartment, drunk again on a Saturday night. When at last he reached his door, he fumbled for his keys, dropped them on the floor, cursed and bent down to pick them up. In reaching down, he bashed his head on the doorknob and let out a short yelp of pain. He thrust the key into the lock and let himself into his dank, dark one-bedroom apartment in the east end. He flopped down onto the couch, rubbing his sore head and feeling very sorry for himself. Taking up the remote for the tuner he started a song, switched to another and finally landed on a ballad by Tony Bennet.

He listened to it for a bit then got up and poured himself a scotch and went over and gazed out the window over the city. Thousands of lights and thousands of people, he thought, and most of them nestled up completely with their significant ‘other’, having a grand old time and comforting each other with warm smiles and hugs and kisses. But not him. He was just drunk.

To hell with this, he thought. I am so sick of being alone and pretending that it doesn’t matter. Even at his job he pretended that he was A-okay, was happy and that his solitary existence was a matter of choice. And to an extent it was. He could definitely make a better showing of himself clothing-wise and hang out in places that might be frequented by women who might take an interest in him. But somehow, he always ended up at Gus’s Place, at the bar, talking to one of the other regulars, or even Gus himself. If by some strange chance a woman or group of women wandered into the bar, mistaking it for a place that might be classy or even adventurous, they would immediately be swarmed by the herd of lonely men in the place and leave with them or run, screaming into the night.  No, Gus’s Place was not the place for romance or anything akin to it.

But things couldn’t go on like this, he thought. They’ll end up finding me dead in bed or something.  I have to do something.

Succubus Continued