So, I'm not really sure what I think of this part. It's a little repetitive, I know, but it's hard to convey exactly how long this walk was for Donovan without being repetitive. As in, it was not a long walk in terms of distance, but for him it is a really long walk. This is probably the worst of the three parts of the story right now, so you have been warned. Also, thanks for the comments guys. Apparently I have a huge problem with the passive voice, aka I can't actually ever use anything else. Should probably fix that before I am murdered via English teacher. Also, there is some confusing switching of tenses going on in this story. The first part is in present tense, even though it's describing his past, and the rest is in past tense, even though that is what is happening in the story. It's intentional, but let me know if it's bullshit.
Donovan rose slowly from the rocking chair, and made his way over to the mantel. He observed his spoons, and noted a small spot on one of them. Picking up a square gray cloth, he polished the spoon until the spot was gone, and then placed it carefully back onto the mantel. He slowly limped over to the door, stopping to pull on thick yellow socks, the color of mustard. In the dim light of his home, he can barely find his shoes in the closet, but finally pulled out a clunking pair of leathers, and eased his feet into them. Pulling open the door, he stepped outside, hearing the brittle cracking of frost under his feet, and inhaling the bitter air.
He was going back to the pub, though he had been twice in that day already. Thinking of Ellen always made him thirst for cheap ale, or perhaps some whiskey to feel the burning in the back of his throat. The sun was just behind a passing cloud, and he could look directly at a faint orange sphere as it was setting, casting blood rays over his home. He scarcely glanced at it, walking on as firmly as he could, leaning towards one side slightly. The road to the pub was slippery, and he was at a disadvantage with his legs, and no cane. He brought his hand to his mouth, gnawing on raw cuticles with his chipped and yellowing teeth. If he slipped and fell, he knew it would mean many days at home, and he couldn’t do without his daily ale. He stepped carefully over small chunks of ice, cast aside in snowball fights, and a grimace pulled at his cheeks as he remembered his sons flinging bits of snow and rock at each other, and his wife, with her cheeks red and puffed, holding the boys apart from each other, her voice raising octaves in seconds.
--Ah, Ellen, if you could see me now, he muttered to himself, you would look in disdain at my very being, feeble and helpless as I am, the very embodiment of everything you scorned.
The pub was not far, but the streets were beginning to empty of people as they went to their homes for hot suppers. Donovan much preferred an empty street to a full one, and so he walked on, considerably faster and more cheerfully at the thought of being so close to his drink. So quickly, in fact, that he hardly noticed his foot as it landed only a sliver away from a hand that was resting on the icy ground. He only glanced down when the hand raised towards him, and the man to whom it belonged whispered coarsely, but fiercely--A penny sir, for a helpless man like me. Donovan felt the rage begin to rise up into his stomach, the bile in his throat. It was the word helpless--perhaps if the man had used a different word, a penny would have fallen into his hand, but Donovan looked at the man whose beard almost covered his face, whose squinting eyes blinked quickly and looked at him hopefully, and scornfully turned away and walked still more quickly to the pub.
Comments and criticism welcome and encouraged (I'm on my hands and knees). Part 3, the final part of this saga, will be posted soon. Also, if you haven't recognized it yet, this is based on one of our beloved English teacher's own life stories.
