- / I \ -

It was a normal-looking Saturday, and there he sat on his white silk sheeted bed, contemplating on life as usual; his daily routine never seems to change (wake up, contemplate on life, get in the shower, contemplate on life, get out of the shower, contemplate on life, make breakfast, contemplate on life, eat, contemplate on life, so on and so forth). He was quite rich, the richest man to ever live within this small apartment complex, and everyone always asked him why he lived here of all places; his reply every time someone asked was always the same, “Get out of the fucking way.”, and then they got out of his way.

He’s been living here since around 1892, according to the oldest of records, and he was nineteen when he moved in this graffiti-littered hellhole of a complex, which makes him one hundred thirty-four years old. The walls in the hallways are painted tan with skid marks and curse words littered all over, there’s a few different colored stains on the maroon and tan patterned carpet that refuse to come out, the main hallway’s painting (a flimsy copy of The Birth of Venus by the artist Botticelli) has been crooked for ages with a large crack in the glass, and that fake palm tree’s nailed to the ground, and everyone wonders why he even lives here yet.

Or why he’s one hundred thirty-four years old and still looks like he’s only nineteen. Either or, it doesn’t matter because Artemis Lucretia still amazes all of the people within this Heaven-forbidden apartment complex.

His tanned thin-fingered left hand was woven into his messy dark brown hair, his bronze-rimmed glasses falling to the bridge of his nose as he did his normal routine (currently, of course, on the ‘contemplating on life’ stage still as he lazily sat on his bed). He’s quite handsome, but not exactly godly material either; his hair was a bit too matted, his smell was a bit too rancid, his appearance was a bit too negative altogether, but he’s the best anyone could get.

He was silent, freezing to the touch and rude as hell itself when he spoke, but not quiet at all; his music was always blasting (just the other day The Mars Volta was blasting Take The Veil Cerpin Taxt on repeat for five hours straight and Artemis was yelled at by the old cat lady three doors down the hall), for music was his ungodly obsession (more of a rock person, though; Elvis Presley, Led Zeppelin, a few bands between 1980 and 1990 that never mattered, Wolfmother, Linkin Park, VAST, a few million other bands, but At The Drive-In/The Mars Volta seems to be his trend lately).

It’s said that he’s mentally unstable as well, but everyone already tends to know that when they hear he’s one hundred thirty-four and still looks like he’s only nineteen.

His apartment’s walls are a light yellow with a few brown splotches that are dried to them, the carpet’s a disgusting shade of brown with a red wine stain in the off-right of the center, the floor is riddled with empty syringes and there’s a messy stack of Playboys in the far right corner, spoiled milk is on the door of the sickly yellow colored fridge that’s been open for days, there’s an exhausted C-cup blond in his bed from the night before whose still managing to sleep off the intercourse, a black laced bra is barely hanging off of the curtain’s bar with no curtain and matching panties are on the countertop in the kitchen three yards away, At The Drive-In’s Catacombs is blasting on the beat-up stereo system, and all Artemis can manage to do is contemplate on life.

He managed to get off of his white silk-sheeted bed, creaking under his and her weight, and he lazily walked towards the only closet in the house, a small dresser in all actuality, and opened a drawer and slipped on a black wife beater with a fray all around the bottom and ripped dark jeans with frayed ends and knife cuts on the upper thighs.

His baritone voice drawled out a heavy sigh, not glancing towards the blond as he walked right by her and kicked open his apartment door, earning him an angry cry from the old cat lady three doors down the hall who had a kitten playing in her grayed hair and three climbing up her white sweater. The newlyweds straight in their twenties were moaning in the room across his own with shitty techno music blasting over there like no tomorrow, the three college girls walked down the hall in hitched-up mini-skirts and belly-shirts tied at the back as they sucked on a lollipop, the on-the-verge-of-divorce Chinese couple were loudly bickering in their apartment across the hall and seven doors away in their native language that no one could understand, the group of juvenile delinquents were blasting Terror Squad from their boom box as they wolf-whistled the three college girls, and the native lazy-ass next door was sleeping in his lounge chair with the horrible Philadelphia Eagles on the screen even though they all lived in Hollywood, California and his wife vacuuming his messes.

Yes, life was good.