Tales of Suburbia

A few tales that I wrote inspired by the song Jesus of Suburbia by Green Day. Each one is a part of it. I’m sorry for any English mistakes, it’s not my native language. This text was translated from my original one in Portuguese.

But there's nothing wrong with me
This is how I'm supposed to be
In a Land of Make Believe
That don't believe in me

Joey Montana walked back to his apartment, with his hands in his pockets to cheat the cold air. It was almost five in the morning, not a very appropriate hour to be outside home if you live in a neighborhood full of alcohol and cocaine. At least this wasn’t his case.

The wooden stairs, almost rotten, of the staircase, cracked when they felt the weight of his boots. Took the key out of the left pocket of his black coat and opened the door without a noise, spying before he came in. It was a necessary care in a place like that one. “Damned place”, he thought, as he always did when he came back home. And after that, always remembered that he couldn’t move out.

He threw himself in the old couch eaten by stupid rats. Put his feet on the desk and turned on the television, changing the channels, until he got tired of looking for something interesting to watch. A hundred and eighty channels and none of them showed something good. At least he wasn’t the one who paid the cable bill.

Put his head in the best pillow around – not that it was in a good state – and felt his eyes closing, the remote control slipping out of his hand until it hit the ground, also wooden, like the staircase, and also rotten. It was a long night. He let the sleep and tiredness over through him, forgetting the world around him.

Opened his eyes thirteen hours later. He looked through the curtain. The sun was going down slowly. Time to work.

Went up, searching, again, the keys in the pocket of his coat. Found the one he needed and used it to open the – also rotten – wooden locker, with a great stock, from crossbows to daggers. No firearms, because he knew they wouldn’t make him accomplish his goals.

Took off some items, putting them in the inside pockets of his coat; at last a wooden stake – that wasn’t anything like rotten. There was still time to buy some coffee before he comes back to work. Every night, until his death, Joey Montana would have a destiny to fulfill. But at least he hasn’t become one of them. Yet.