Tomorrows can do their worst because the yesterday's did their best.
The Helping Hand Cont The office was soaked in shadow, the desk cubicles of the 15th floor empty of the vibrancy that had filled them all day - all but one. Amongst the darkness and the first sliver of moonlight that shone through the window a desk lamp broke through the darkness with a tired man in a strained and stretched tie working beside it. George had struggled through his Thursday afternoon and the seven empty polystyrene cups and their collective coffee scent were proof of that. Now, on the last of what felt like a million tax returns, he could finally see the finish line and his questioning as to why all this paper work had landed on his desk was starting to fade, overshadowed by the recollection of a freshly drawn pint and a pack of pork scratchings. George knew this was far from the sort of dream a 24 year old should have at this time in his #life, but it was a dream nonetheless . So now there he was, eyes straining at his monitor and fingers stretching out across his keyboard hammering every letter and number he came across, every one acting as a stepping stone to getting him closer to the car park and away for a just a few more hours before it started all over again. 'Save as...', George thought for a moment and briskly typed in 'A waste of your fucking time, George' which made the desk jockey giggle to himself before it was quickly adjusted and changed to 'Stephenson 18/3/10', followed by a sigh of relief and a quick shutdown of his desk and his working #life. The car park was like his floor, no sign of any inhabitance but his own. A sad excuse for a motor was sat in the corner hugging the wall, with it's 'Don't worry, feel crappy' air freshener dangling in the rear view mirror, which swung as he slammed the door shut. George let out another flush of air, another bit of work weight he felt needded to be off his shoulders and turned the ignition. His escape wasn't a fast one, he was like a snail crawling towards the exit barrier in a Micra shaped shell. He recieved an unresponsove glance from the overweight night guard in his box and proceeded to climb up out of the underground and into the open. He was out. Done for a day that had been one of his worst. He didn't show it though, he simply let it wash over him, like a shower with water that wasn't going as hot as it could be, ready for the same routine the following day. He looked left before pulling out, imagining the requests he was going to have chucked his way at 9am tomorrow. Then right. The worrying possibility that he'd be driving out around the same time again as he had for the past two months. Then left again. Pulling out and then everything coming to an almighty clunk. He'd stalled and leaning forward in his seat as much as he could he'd in turn smacked his forehead on the steering wheel. The pain sliced across his forehead like that geeky twat from those kids books, he didn't give it a soothing rub though as his hands were on fire enough as it is. The anger that he'd been trying to subside all night was swelling in his stomach. Turning and churning making his insides scream and writhe in frustration. Those long spindly fingers that had been hammering the keyboard were now clutching the steering wheel as if he was trying to strangle it. He shut his eyes trying to relax, "count to ten, George - just calm down a little bit". Then everything went still, he couldn't hear the Tv from the security guards hole, nor the creak from his miserable excuse for a car. All he could hear was the screaming. The screaming inside his head that refused to go any further than his lips. His eyes shut tighter still, his breathing becoming heavier and the churning in his stomach becoming stronger, the grasp on his steering wheel like it was choking all his stress away. Then finally he opened his eyes, and looked out onto the street and the night sky - that's when he saw him. Poking out from the outline of one of the many faceless buildings was a figure, standing stock still on the very edge, staring out across the city that George was in the depths of. Then as if he'd been searching for him all night, the eyes of this stranger met George's before venturing his gaze back out into the sea of the city and taking one foot off to meet it. The man fell, and George was there to see it.
For all the students working through the night, don't see daylight as a terrifying image. You made it, just keep going.
This town is full of yesterday's and I want to move to tomorrow.
