nihilistic-murder-hobo-blog

[nihilistic-murder-hobo-blog]

[nihilistic-murder-hobo-blog]

This will probably get taken down.  Oh well lol.

Sidebar:  Boobs are hard to get right

[nihilistic-murder-hobo-blog]

Moved on from stick figures.  This is hard -_-

[nihilistic-murder-hobo-blog]

First attempt at some basic construction sketching for character illustration.  CONSTRUCTIVE criticism welcome and appreciated! Thanks!

[nihilistic-murder-hobo-blog]

Seventeen Steps

Aron didn’t know why he counted every time he ascended the stairs to his apartment. It’s not like the number ever changed.  If he lost count, even though he knew that there were seventeen, he would have to go back to the beginning.  He had tried several times to go up without counting, but before he even made it halfway his heart began beating faster and he began to sweat.  He could have sworn he was going to die, or at least pass out.  So, he returned to the bottom and began counting as he made his way to the door, and his heart slowly began returning to its normal rhythm.

He often wished he wasn’t like this.  His therapist said it might be obsessive-compulsive disorder.  Strange thing was, it was only the steps.  He had no other tics or compulsions that usually accompanied such a diagnosis.  Even stranger, it was only these steps.  There was no panic when he visited his mother or sister, or went to the bank or library. It hadn’t happened when he first moved in.  Hell, he didn’t remember when it started, exactly. One day he just counted those steps and ever since then he couldn’t not count them.

When he got to his building after work, he went to the mail room to check his box.  Bills, some credit card and loan offers (unsolicited, of course), a purple envelope he assumed was a birthday card from his mother (she loved colorful stationery), and this month’s issue of Wired.  He was rifling through the bills and offers as he started on the first step, barely reading the fronts of the envelopes as he counted: one, three, five.  He took the steps two at a time, starting with the first, just so he’d end up on the landing when he was done counting.  It was quicker this way.  

He made it to the seventeenth step and went to take another forward on to the landing, but his foot hit something and he went crashing down, envelopes and magazine exploding into the air like confetti.  On the way down, his head slammed into the wall at the far side of the landing between his and his neighbor’s door.

Aron groaned and rubbed his head, swearing colorfully.  His neighbor, a young Colombian man by the name of Mateo opened the door to the left, across from his own apartment, looking concerned.

“Are you okay, Señor Evans?”  he asked with his thick accent.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Just looking at my mail as I was coming up the stairs. Must have...” Aron trailed off as he realized what he was about to say.  “...missed a step.”  

He felt his heartbeat starting to race and the color drain from his face.  He was grateful that Mateo hadn’t seen his face yet, since he was still collecting himself and his belongings.

“Oh okay.  You no have a...bad head injury?  Con...cussion?”  He had attempted  the “sh” sound in the third syllable as best he could.

“Yeah, it’s concussion.  You got it, Mateo.  Your English is getting better.  No, I don’t think I hit quite that hard.  Just gonna have a bump.  I’ll ice it after I get inside.  Thanks though.  Tell Celia thank you for the tamales, they were amazing.”

“Okay, will do.”  Mateo responded.  “Have a good day señor.”  He shut his door and Aron could hear muffled speech.  He assumed Mateo was talking to his wife.  He quite liked the young couple across the way.  They had a baby due in a few months. He was looking forward to meeting the little one.

As he was gathering his things, he noticed that his hands were trembling.  Missed a step?  How?  He was sure he was counting correctly.  He was barely even looking at the mail.  He put his mail in his bag, set it down and nearly flew down the stairs.  This time he ascended each step one by one.  His panic started to subside as he advanced, but when he approached the top a different kind of panic began rising.  He stopped at fourteen.  There was just no way.  Was he crazy?  Hallucinating? There had always been seventeen steps.  Always. And yet, standing on the fourteenth step, there were still four to go.  He went down to the bottom of the stairs once more and began counting slowly and out loud under his breath this time, as he climbed once more.

“...fourteen...fifteen...sixteen...seventeen—” Still one more step.

Okay, he thought to himself, maybe I did hit my head harder than I thought. But that was after…

Aron felt the top of his head.  Yep, definitely a bump there.  He waited too long to ice it at this point to prevent the swelling for sure.  But not a concussion. Other than the step issue, there was no confusion or dizziness; he wasn’t lightheaded or nauseous.  Not even a headache, except for the sore spot on the top of his head.  Just flabbergasted about the stairs.  Strangely, he didn’t feel particularly panicked like he normally would be if he had miscounted or tried to not count at all, as he had done so many times before.  Worried that he might be going mad, sure.  But not that sense of impending doom like he was about to be smote on the spot by some unforeseen force or suffer an impromptu heart attack and drop dead.  

He hefted his bag up onto one shoulder and procured his keys from the front pocket, sliding them into the lock and entered his apartment.

“Fucking. Weird.” he muttered to no one in particular.  He resolved himself to figuring it out later as he pulled his keys from the door and closed it behind him.

...cont(?)

...not sure if I’m going to go psychological thriller or fantasy/magic with this one.  We’ll see!