Too Dead for Dreaming

I wake up on the floor with fingers tangled into my hair, gently tugging something away. Fingertips dance along my forehead as something beneath me shifts.

My head is fucking raging.

I open my eyes, looking up to see a rheumy-eyed Ren, her hair tangled, her lips vermilion. I look at her hands. Her fingertips, her fingers. I know her touch.

—Why are your hands all bloody bloody? I laugh at my own joke, then wince at the noise. She rolls her eyes and picks up a pile of tiny shards of glass, showing them to me. They glitter maliciously under the light.

—Someone knocked a bottle of vodka over your head last night, Danny.

—Jesus? That tosser. I groan as I sit up and away from her lap. The room is a blur. There’s rubbish everywhere, heaped on the sofa, near the telly, crowded into the corners. Last night’s evidence, necessary when your memories have holes.

—That Jesus bit was funny last night, but no, not him. Just some girl having a bad trip and raving about somebody sticking a snake down her throat.

—What the fuck?

Ren shrugs her shoulders. —Something about Sam’s gear last night turned everyone into a religious nutter. Seeing shit, speaking in fucking tongues. Jesus ain’t stepping into this flat anytime soon. We’re all lost causes, she finishes with a sigh.

I’m not going to contradict her – too fucking right, she is. Not that any of us care, really. We’re content fucking ourselves up, partying until the sun comes up and sleeping until it goes down again. None of us are complaining unless we wake up hungover and drug-less. Which is most of the time.

—Was she hot? I say quietly, watching as Ren rubs the sleep from her eyes.

—Was who hot?

—The girl who knocked the bottle over my head. I lie back, resting my head on her lap. She snorts.

—Why, you gonna ring her?

—Only if she’s hot. And if she promises to not smash bottles on my head. She could smash her body against mine, though, I won’t object to that.

—Wow, would you look at that. Danny Worsnop’s got standards for girls now.

—Damn right. Have to have them or I’d end up with a girl like any of my ex’s. Fucking mental, the lot of them.

—Yeah…hey, fuck you, I’m a part of that list! She shoves me off her lap, laughing. —Then again, I’d have to be mental to date you.

—I like ‘em crazy.

She stands up, looking at the state of the flat. —Get the fuck off the floor and help me clean. I raise my eyebrow, snorting at the suggestion. —I’m serious, Worsnop. I hope you know you’re paying me to get your blood cleaned out of my carpet.

—No fucking way, you nutter.

—You like me crazy, baby. Come on, get to cleaning.