Coffee Shop.

Josh walked the creaky steps, carefully balancing the wooden tray topped with teapot and cup. He found himself a comfy seat in the form of a cushy leather sofa, framed by oriental cushions. Opening up his laptop he stared at the surrounding room. Walls pasted with loud prints on one side, the other, printed copies of sheet music erratically pinned over each other to form a blanket to the bare wall. A set of 50 photographs on mounted boards are placed perfectly around the room, each showing a different theme, highlighted by its title: 36/50, New Skin, a man with folded arms proudly exhibits his new ink, a realistic looking heart in the centre of his chest, caged with bustling wings bursting out of the sides onto his shoulders. 6/50, Dream’s Helm, a hooded figure in dark clothing wears a gas mask, his body concealed by the black night. 10/50, Coffee and Shoes, is exactly that; a cup of coffee sits on a bed of autumn leaves, next to the foot of a male fitted with blue Converse.

Anxiety has filled my lungs and now I can’t breathe. People are watching me; every face in the room is staring at me, eyes burning holes in my skin. I can feel myself gasping for air, wriggling about on the floor, like a worm trying desperately to get itself off the road. I can see heavy boots over my head, coming closer, I can feel the pressure disappear as the boot closes in overhead, I feel my bones crush, my blood spurt out and dirty the shoe. Back to room though, no one is watching, everyone minding their own business. Wiping sweat off my face and sipping my tea. What a dick head I am.