Jack Jones: A Fictional Narrative

The breeze was frigid and the air smelled of car exhaust. The night sky was blank, with only the moon to light it. And yet, it was as black as a stray cat strolling by a damp alley. But what was to expect on a cheap motel balcony? Charred cigarettes sat on ash trays as Tom took another puff out of the smoke, staring at the blank canvas of the sky.
“Isn’t it funny?” Tom wondered, “Every time I take a breath out of this cigarette I lose life, and yet it gives me a short period of peace.”
Recently been through a dozen dames, he thought Jenny was just another girl. Hazel-coloured eyes paired with a black ponytail, she looked gorgeous. An honest girl, hard to come by these days, and now she was gone.
“I deserve this,” Tom sighed, “how many more

In disappointment, he took another sip. As thoughts clouded his mind, his stress overwhelmed him. He wanted another chance, another life. It was all he wanted, but not one he deserved. Wanting to fall asleep, he just hoped for the nightmare to end.
Paper shreds were scattered on the floor as children can be heard playing from afar. Tom was in a different place, from a different world. Clocks were scattered inside an old apartment, ticking at different paces. Pictures and memories were framed on the walls that surrounded Tom. There was a window, with a view of a brick wall. Equipped with no door and no escape, Tom just sat there trying to put the paper pieces together.
He knew he was going nowhere, but what else was there to do? Stare at a static brick wall and hope for something to happen? But that was exactly what Tom was doing. Staring, waiting, and hoping. It was a narrow chance, an impossibility, and Tom knew that.
The clocks were irritating Tom, he wanted to destroy them all. It was almost like it was counting down, and Tom didn’t like it. Tom smashed the clocks into pieces, but they kept coming back. There was no point in doing anything, and Tom was slowly entering the phase of