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Phil was tired.
Yes, tired in the traditional sense. He could barely even move from how every muscle in his body ached. He doubted he'd be able to walk without a worse limp than usual for the next week. But...
He was sick and tired of being sick and tired. How many lives had he been through already? 10? 20? He genuinely could not tell anymore. This one had started out alright. He'd been born in a suburban family, in modern-day Maryland. Nothing too bad, nothing too exciting. He had fun when he was a kid. That was the best part of the luckier of his lives. Before people started looking at him, before he'd find himself in the wrong crowd, before he'd lose the innocence he was always cursed with.
But that phase of his life had long passed by now. He was, what, 29? And stuck in a brothel. His parents had gone from a freak car accident. He hadn't had any extended family willing to take him in, so he'd been put in foster care. That was a nightmare, so he'd ran away from his home to try and make a better life for himself.
Looking back on how mean his foster parents were, though...he regretted ever leaving. He'd associated with some gangsters, just for food and shelter at first. By the first month, though, they'd had him hooked. No matter how many times he lived, sweet words and promises always managed to ensnare him until he was too tied up to ever escape. His first time doing more exotic work had been...10 years ago, yeah. Things had only gone downhill ever since.
The only comfort he had now, really, was that he probably only had a few more years left. Try as he might—and trust him, he used to try—he never made it to 32. Whether it was murder, or starvation, or any other grisly fate, he'd always died.
He was always going to die. And be reborn, and forced to get hurt, and then die again.
Why...
Why was he even born? Why was he forced in this cycle of life, Hell on Earth, and death? Was this some punishment for a life he didn't remember? Some sort of experiment by a being above? Just a cruel joke played by the universe?
...Phil was too tired to ponder. He was thirsty, too. His lips had long since dried out from last night's...activities, and were now cracked, and Phil felt dirty just by owning them. Slowly, painfully, he got up. He felt a few joints cracking. Great, I can finally experience the wonders of old age. Phil had always wondered what it was like to be old. To be wise and seasoned, not from reincarnating over and over again, but by simply having lived one long life.
These joint pains, though? They were not it.
Taking a deep breath to prepare himself—and wincing at how it aggravated his chest—Phil got up from the bed. It was a long, painful process. If he wasn't so experienced with this sort of pain, he might have just cried.
But alas, it was all in a day's work, now. Phil's bare feet hit the hardwood floor, and he shivered from the lack of proper heating. Stupid fucking houses and their shitty fucking infrastructure.
He took a step, found that he would do better using the walls as support for his bad leg. His boss didn't allow him to use a cane, at least not on the job. With how some people thought that his owning of a cane was invitation to use it as a weapon, Phil hadn't asked for one in years. He walked, bracing himself on the walls with his left hand, silently cursing whoever fated him to break his leg in every single fucking life. And, there they were, thank fuck. His clothes. Even though the people in the house had left for the day, it wasn't like he was going to test fate and stay. He had bosses to report to, clients to satisfy. And his body already ached, he didn't need any "disciplinary action" on top of it. He slowly got himself dressed in the clothes he'd worn yesterday, having to sit back on the bed to get his bottoms on.
After he was fully dressed, he ignored the stench of the clothing, and closed his eyes for a moment. He was still very tired. He blinked hard a few times, rubbed his eyes to get the crust out. Took in another breath, trying to get in more oxygen. Alright. He could do this. Just get some water, and then head back to the brothel.
He stood up again, feeling slightly more confident in his legs, now. Good, he wouldn't have to walk along the walls now, he didn't think. He just took slow, careful steps, avoiding the discarded clothes and such littered about the room. If you're going to hire a whore, at least make your room presentable, Those guys had called him dirty last night. He'd been too overstimulated to notice before, but now that he had enough mind to actually look at the room, he realized how hypocritical they'd been.
Stepping out of the room, Phil breathed a sign of relief. Thankfully, the stench of last night was pretty much nonexistent outside. He limped over to the kitchen; being brought over for the night in what was probably hundreds of houses at this point, Phil had a pretty good idea of layouts. Idly, he'd considered if he could ever manage to be an interior designer in one of his lives.
He walked over to the countertop of the kitchen, leaning on it and sighing in relief at how it brought pressure off his bad leg. Unlike the room, the kitchen was actually pretty nice. The dishes seemed to be fresh out the washer. Phil gingerly took a glass, admiring the fancy etching on it, and poured himself a cup of nice, refreshing tap water. Considering how he usually just drank the leftovers of whichever person he was serving as eye candy for at the brothel, it was actually an improvement, having a glass all to himself.
Phil had wanted to savor the water, but as soon as he brought the glass to his lips, he realized how parched he really had been and gulped it all down. He quickly got himself another cup, supping at it more carefully this time around.
If...if Phil closed his eyes for a moment, he could pretend that he lived here. Pretend that he lived in a normal house, worked at a normal job, and was able to drink water and enjoy the small gifts of life.
Fate wasn't Phil's friend, though, so he doubted if life had any gifts for him in the first place. But, standing there, drinking his water like he owned the place, it was nice to pretend.
Phil drank the last of his water. Make-believe time was over. His boss said he wanted Phil to be back by 8:00 sharp or else, and checking a clock on the wall, it was 7:15. Phil just needed to take the 10-minute metro ride to right in front of the brothel, and he'd taken the same bus to the house.
Phil saw a washcloth on the sink, it was still wet. He soaped it up with the dish-soap also on the sink, and washed out the cup. After drying it with a paper towel, he placed it back on it's spot in the pantry.
And, with another heavy sigh, he walked out the kitchen, out the house, and back to the brothel.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.