He can't tell what anything was or who anyone was. All he knew was the dancefloor. A vinyl colour-changing dancefloor that's not special to this nightclub. He's had twelve, thirteen, fourteen, he's forgotten. All he knows is that it's too much for him to remember anything that ought to happen. The people around him are all drunkenly dancing and moving about to the point where he could barely move a few inches himself. The dancefloor is filled to the brim with drunks and users ignoring the world around them in order to have fun. The man looks up to see the changing lights. Red to yellow to blue to purple then back to red. He'll soon find it obnoxious if he stares at it for too long, but it fits the mood. Sweat drops from the man's forehead and onto the ground. The dancefloor seems to be getting hotter with all the people continuously coming in. He notices a few more people jump to the dancefloor. He ignores them. He continues to jump around to the music and scream nonsensically. Up and down, up and down, up and down, down, down, down, down, down. No longer are people coming in. Before anyone could ask, blood starts oozing from his head and his mouth. Pandemonium erupts from the dancefloor and people run. The music stops, the lights stop flickering and more blood runs free; it's nearly encompassed all of the dancefloor. Corner to corner blood is drenched. Blood starts soaking to the man's dirty white buttoned shirt and black jeans. Barely alive, the last two things he hears are footsteps and scoffs. The man's name hasn't been decided yet. Jean-Paul sounds good though. End.
Kierkegaard street. Conroy looks at his screen; twenty lines were now written. Not his best by any means but he sees to it that it could be developed further. It was twenty-two past three. He sits in his chair as he broods over what happened in Kierkegaard street. He looks at the twenty lines and copies it all before moving it to another blank document. The blank white screen once again. He isn't appalled or frustrated by it as much as he thought he would. Instead his mind is curious as he thinks over about what happened a few hours ago. He looks at the blank white screen again. The thought of the nearly run down apartments, flickering street lights, obnoxious neon signs, dark alleys was disgusting, but it did ask a few questions. He opened a new tab and started jotting down research questions for his book. A man who indulges in the darker parts of life is something that needs extensive research on. Time after time his questions were given mediocre and rather untrustworthy answers. No matter how much he tried to word it differently or how many forums and articles he found, he felt as if none of them were authentic. A few forums were disgusting to look at as the respondent goes into fantasy-like details that didn't seem real. A few were also just jokes that didn't actually help him. Conroy closes all the tabs he's opened and comes back to the blank white screen. He thought about it for a few moments -- thinking about how to get proper authenticity. No website or book seemed to exist that could help him out. Kierkegaard street. He thinks about it for a few minutes in silence. A ding from his phone. He checks to see a message from Marv. 'Four weeks.' is all it said. He stares at the message for a few moments before putting his phone on his desk once again. His leg starts to fidget. He bites his lower lip as he ponders what to do. Kierkegaard street. Another ding from his phone. He grabs it and tenses up a little as soon as he sees the notification. A message from his father -- a good afternoon message followed by a question asking if he's busy. He thinks about it for a moment and stares blankly at the message. He then opens up his messages and replies that he isn't, also asking what asking was for. Conroy watches his father type and delete messages for a few seconds before asking him if he wants to call. He did need to call his parents. A quick 'yes' and suddenly a phone call appears. He takes a deep breath before answering it.
"Hello?"
Hello? Conroy?" the sound of his father brings a smile to his face. "Conroy! Hello! How are you?" Conroy can picture the bright and goofy smile of his father from the other end. He wonders if his father ought to pull a dopey yet funny joke about not being able to hear him or ask him for a bit of his long hair. It's been a few months since he saw his family. He knows his father planned to grow out his hair too. Conroy's smile becomes larger.
"I'm fine dad."
"Hello? Hello? I can't hear you." he can hear his father snicker quietly on the other line -- as expected. Conroy laughs, sinking into his chair a little bit to be more comfortable.
"Ah don't worry about it I can hear you. How are you?"
"Oh I'm doing alright," he wasn't technically lying, "I'm writing. Trying to find inspiration and all that". He recalls the twenty lines and finds it decent enough.
"Okay Wunderkind. How's the book going?" Conroy looks to the blank white screen and chuckles a little in a sarcastic tone. "Eh. I haven't been writing as much as I want to." He says as he rubs the back of his head. "Ah it's alright. Sometimes you just don't have anything. Am I right?" His father is speaking an inconvenient truth.
"Yeah, you're right dad. It's just been hard, you know. Finding real research."
"What do you mean real research?" Conroy stands from his desk and walks over to his window. He looks outside and sees the snow has calmed. The city beyond looks beautiful and the park looks fully populated again. He sees a bench from the park that has its handle broken and wonders how long it's been in that state. "Like," Conroy gets back to his conversation. "I don't know. The book kind of needs research on topics I've never even really seen before or even read about before."
"Well how much research have you been doing?" He can hear his father sit upright.
"The web isn't trustworthy. I've searched the library and there's nothing I can find that's even remotely what I'm asking for. I don't really have anything to fact-check my book". A few seconds of silence pass as Conroy waits for his father's reply.
"There are other means of gathering information you know."
"Yeah?" A slight chill goes down Conroy's spine. He notices that his window is slightly open. Still, he opted not to close the window for now and walked back to his chair and sat. "What else can I do?"
"A lot of things, Conroy. You can dig deeper, look at research papers, videos, even interviews could work too." Conroy's eyes open wide in surprise. A thought comes into his head immediately followed by sudden fast-paced heart-beating.
Conroy looks at the blank white screen in front of him -- he ponders about the thought that came into his head. He doesn't think it's an outright terrible idea, but at the same time he believes it could end in disaster. The blank white screen argues for the idea. "Conroy? Can you hear me?" his fast-paced heart-beating slows and his eyes move away from the blank white screen. "Yeah dad. I can hear you." he says as he rests his arms on his desk.
"Well you know, either way you choose I'm sure is the best option. I know you can do it ." he can imagine the smile on his father's face again. "Yeah dad. I know." he misses them so.
Both Conroy and his father fall silent for a few minutes before Conroy hears voices coming from the other line. Before he could ask, the phone call ended. He continued to sit in silence for a little before a ding from his phone came once again. He checks it to see his father bidding farewell as his mother asked him to do something. His father also asked to call once again whenever Conroy was free. Conroy replies with a simple sure and goes back to sitting in silence. He thinks about Kierkegaard street. It wouldn't be the worst idea. He turns to the blank white screen. He switches tabs and checks his email and sees the old email from the publishers. A small hint of annoyance lingers on Conroy's face. Four weeks to write something -- anything. He wonders if he could write twenty-three-thousand words in a matter of four weeks. The document was still blank and he surmises that it could stay like that with his current inspirational trajectory. The thought of broken beg buttons, dirty streets that need caring for, apartment buildings that barely comply with the living standard, chipped away granite pavements and tacky, obnoxious lights came to his mind once again. The street is ingrained into his mind. The shadows that lurked around the street all stuck with him too. It's a disgusting place, Conroy thinks, but one that could be used in the right hands. He dichotomizes the two possibilities on hand. He could research for the book without ever stepping foot in Kierkegaard street ever again. He could find not so known works and find great and accurate inspiration without risking anything. But he could find nothing, leaving the four weeks to be all for nought. His job would be under fire and his paycheck would likely be cut in half. He didn't have anything other than his writing gig and to lose it would essentially mean to lose everything he's worked up for in his whole twenty-six years of life. If he can't find anything then he'd be a has-been, living off the success of only one book. The embarrassment would be too much and he feels as if he'll end up a shell of his former, creative self. He needs to write the book, there's no doubt in his mind. If he can't, then it's over. If he can't because he looked in the wrong places, he'd never forgive himself. So the idea of Kierkegaard street. To Conroy's eyes, a gold mine for knowledge and inspiration, it's the place where he's guaranteed to get at least something for his troubles. If he decides to dip into the world of shadows, he'd get valuable research and be able to write with the authenticity he wanted. He feels like it's a way of getting first hand knowledge about how that part of the world worked and it would be able to get him past the twenty-three-thousand requirement in no time for he'd have so much to write about in such great detail. But he could also be dragged in far deeper than he would like. The shadows that dwell in Kierkegaard street are ones that Conroy has never even conversed with. He doesn't know who they are and what they do. If it all goes wrong and he's with the wrong people it could end with terrible consequences that he can't even think about.
He stops himself.
He doesn't know anything. He switches tabs and sees the blank white screen again. He thinks for a moment about all the knowledge about the shadows he's found so far. A minute or two of silence. He checks the clock and sees twenty-two until. He closes his laptop and grabs his overcoat from his couch. He takes his phone and checks if his wallet is in the back of his pocket. He walks up to his bookshelf and grabs a notebook and grabs a pen from the pen holder above it. He walks to the door and steps out of the apartment. He takes a look at the place and notes the window. He opted not to close the window for now.
Kierkegaard street was not too far off. He remembers it was just past the city's public library.
Another ding from his phone. He hastily checks it and sees a message from his father. 'You are at the right track. I believe in you to do the right thing. Good luck!' The message was heartwarming. He quickly texts back to point out the error in his first sentence as a joke and says thank you. He sighs and stays still. His hand rests on the doorknob to his apartment as he contemplates his next actions. He stays still for a minute. He needs to finish the book.