Status: Messy hair, sleepless nights, & craft beer - cheers to that for helping me write again for the first time since April.
Too Dead for Dreaming
prologue
We got Jesus in our living room.
Not some bloke named Hay-Seuss, but, like, the messiah. You know, the saviour.
Complete with crosstops but sans cross.
I'm sprawled on the floor, hands and fingers and feet and toes stretching to touch everything they can.
My senses are on fire. Burning bush and that. Sort of. Maybe.
—Oi, Jesus, mind passing the voddy next to you? My throat is dry.
But he doesn't respond, just stares at me from under thick lashes.
—Jesus, ya bastard, pass the bloody vodka. Please.
—Danny, who the fuck are you talking to? Ben’s face is all eyes that stare at me mad-like. I can feel the caterpillars above my own eyes furrow together as I try to figure out why.
—Jesus, you arsehole. Can't you see him, he's right fucking there. The Saviour. Come on, Jesus, don't be a prick, pass the bottle.
—Danny, Cameron claps a lightning bolt on my shoulder, but maybe it's a hand, —you need to get off LSD, mate.
—Who the fuck is Alice Dee? I'm not on any bird, mate. You're losing it.
I start laughing. Laughing so hard I'm rolling, rolling all around, the carpet scratching and clinging to the skin of my arms and my hair and my clothes and my fingertips and soon everyone is laughing, great roars like claps of thunder.
I sit up and look to the corner where Jesus was looking at me like I was some disaster he wanted to fix but he’s gone. Abracadabra. I knew the lad was fucking magical.
And then someone screams. And I’m pretty sure God hears it. And I open my mouth to laugh again but all I taste is that vodka Jesus never passed and all I taste is that blood Jesus gave up to his followers.
But I think it’s mine.
Not some bloke named Hay-Seuss, but, like, the messiah. You know, the saviour.
Complete with crosstops but sans cross.
I'm sprawled on the floor, hands and fingers and feet and toes stretching to touch everything they can.
My senses are on fire. Burning bush and that. Sort of. Maybe.
—Oi, Jesus, mind passing the voddy next to you? My throat is dry.
But he doesn't respond, just stares at me from under thick lashes.
—Jesus, ya bastard, pass the bloody vodka. Please.
—Danny, who the fuck are you talking to? Ben’s face is all eyes that stare at me mad-like. I can feel the caterpillars above my own eyes furrow together as I try to figure out why.
—Jesus, you arsehole. Can't you see him, he's right fucking there. The Saviour. Come on, Jesus, don't be a prick, pass the bottle.
—Danny, Cameron claps a lightning bolt on my shoulder, but maybe it's a hand, —you need to get off LSD, mate.
—Who the fuck is Alice Dee? I'm not on any bird, mate. You're losing it.
I start laughing. Laughing so hard I'm rolling, rolling all around, the carpet scratching and clinging to the skin of my arms and my hair and my clothes and my fingertips and soon everyone is laughing, great roars like claps of thunder.
I sit up and look to the corner where Jesus was looking at me like I was some disaster he wanted to fix but he’s gone. Abracadabra. I knew the lad was fucking magical.
And then someone screams. And I’m pretty sure God hears it. And I open my mouth to laugh again but all I taste is that vodka Jesus never passed and all I taste is that blood Jesus gave up to his followers.
But I think it’s mine.