20 Day Challenge #7

This is prompt 7: Open a book and pick a random sentence. Use this sentence to start your story. This sentence is from A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kenney Toole, which I just started reading. The sentence is in bold at the start of this prompt. I cheated a bit because I didn't choose this at random; I was reading and decided I liked this sentence and could use it to start better than a random sentence I had chosen earlier. This one is a bit heavy and kind of depressing, and I have no idea if I got the mindset of this character right, but this is where my brain went as I wrote.

          Neon signs flashed off and on, reflecting in the streets dampened by the light mist that had been falling steadily for some time.The light filtered through the windows of his second-story apartment, bathing his face in green and red light. He sat in his office, hands frozen on the keyboard. Writing had always come easily to him, the words flowing from his fingers so quickly he could hardly get them written down in time. But this was different. This was the summation of years of pain, the justification of his actions, the small apology for grievances too large to overcome. There were too many things to say, and no way to say them properly. He couldn't use a few words - or even pages full of them - to make up for his absence, for the way he had acted. He'd let so many things get in the way, had thought that being a tortured artist was a means to an end, the way to produce the kind of work that would really make people feel something. Writing became an excuse, failure a justification. Every night that he reached for the bottle he always told them it was the last time. The next one would get picked up, he'd make it big - but now he needed that comfort to get him through another day. He'd cut through his family ties, his pen as sharp a weapon as a knife. Now only his sister still spoke with him, in weekly phone calls full of pauses heavy with obligation.
          With a sigh, he closed his laptop and reached up to ran a finger along the side of the picture frame that held the photograph of his sons. He remembered when it was taken, three years ago, when they still both had blonde hair and large gaps of missing teeth. The last time he saw them was amongst a tangle of legs on the soccer field. He'd tried to make them out from across the street, but they'd changed so much it was hard for him to make them out amongst the crowd of teammates. A letter would do them no good, he knew, but he felt the need to leave something for them, to let them know he was thinking about them, even now.
          It felt right to do it on paper, he thought. If the words wouldn't come from the keyboard, maybe he could make it happen with his pen. It would be more personal that way. But when he had the paper and pen in front of him, nothing came out. After several more agonizing minutes, he realized that for once in his life he truly had no words. Maybe that was for the best. Writing had been the end of his life; he'd begun writing his final words as soon as he first picked up a pen. Now he didn't need any more words to protect him from his life.
          He got up and walked over to the closet where he'd tied up the rope. The rest was pain. Then a final twitch, and all was still. Outside, the mists turned to rain, and the neon signs flashed off and on.