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
iii.
There’s a mad old tosser shouting about the world ending on the tube, holding the queue up. I already feel like I’m dying internally - I don’t need to fucking hear this right now. Massive fucking exhale. I need a cigarette.
Instead, I run my fingers through my hair (luscious, who am I kidding), touching the ridges of my scabs, fingernails dipping beneath the edges to lift, lift, lift until I’m peeling them off. I’m bleeding again and I feign surprise at the blood on my fingers and a tiny hag of a woman lets me cut in front of her in the queue.
—Thanks, love. She touches me as I pass by, concerned, and it feels like death, her touch. I creep away from her and towards the crowd of people eager to get home. Or as close to home as they can get, anyway.
It’s always after work, when Ben leaves early and I have to stay behind, when anything that we had in our pockets becomes nothing, when I’m alone, when I’m sober, more sober than the morning, more sober than the sobriety after a comedown, that I feel like my skin is being ripped apart. My thoughts line up too easily, little bloody fucking soldiers, and all the years of living in mediocrity burn at the bottom of my throat. My stomach is acting like a fucking washing machine, spinning and churning and before I know it, I’m ralphing as the train pulls up. People on the platform edge away from me and into the cars and Jesus bloody Christ, I want to laugh so hard that I do and I spray even more. Bile, mostly.
—Gum?
An outstretched hand, palm up, gum in the fucking centre. I can see ink hearts ringing their way around a brown wrist, the tattoos red. Blood red, bright red, pale red, shades, like a bracelet.
I snatch the gum out of her hand, not even glancing at her face.
—Alright.
The word tastes like blood and bile. I stuff the gum into my mouth.
—The flavour better fucking last, I say as I walk into the car closest to me. I step through my own puddle of vomit on purpose. I get in just in time; she doesn’t. The tall girl - woman - stands opposite the closed doors, looking at me when I glance back. Her, with the gum. She glances down at her palm, grimacing as the train pulls away.
xxx
I throw all my weight into my small bed, with loose springs that groan under me, and I sleep for what feels like hours, days, time stretching Rip Van Winkle-status. If only we could all sleep through the war-hell of our lives like that lazy bloke.
When I wake up, it’s only been two hours. It occurs to me that I’ve seen that tattoo ink heart bracelet before, recognise that palm as one that gave me eucharist in the form of a pill that sent my head into a hazy heaven. I can’t attach it to face, though, and really, how many girls have offered something up to me, trying to fix me?
I never have the heart to tell them, I ain’t in it to get fixed.
Just fucked up.
Instead, I run my fingers through my hair (luscious, who am I kidding), touching the ridges of my scabs, fingernails dipping beneath the edges to lift, lift, lift until I’m peeling them off. I’m bleeding again and I feign surprise at the blood on my fingers and a tiny hag of a woman lets me cut in front of her in the queue.
—Thanks, love. She touches me as I pass by, concerned, and it feels like death, her touch. I creep away from her and towards the crowd of people eager to get home. Or as close to home as they can get, anyway.
It’s always after work, when Ben leaves early and I have to stay behind, when anything that we had in our pockets becomes nothing, when I’m alone, when I’m sober, more sober than the morning, more sober than the sobriety after a comedown, that I feel like my skin is being ripped apart. My thoughts line up too easily, little bloody fucking soldiers, and all the years of living in mediocrity burn at the bottom of my throat. My stomach is acting like a fucking washing machine, spinning and churning and before I know it, I’m ralphing as the train pulls up. People on the platform edge away from me and into the cars and Jesus bloody Christ, I want to laugh so hard that I do and I spray even more. Bile, mostly.
—Gum?
An outstretched hand, palm up, gum in the fucking centre. I can see ink hearts ringing their way around a brown wrist, the tattoos red. Blood red, bright red, pale red, shades, like a bracelet.
I snatch the gum out of her hand, not even glancing at her face.
—Alright.
The word tastes like blood and bile. I stuff the gum into my mouth.
—The flavour better fucking last, I say as I walk into the car closest to me. I step through my own puddle of vomit on purpose. I get in just in time; she doesn’t. The tall girl - woman - stands opposite the closed doors, looking at me when I glance back. Her, with the gum. She glances down at her palm, grimacing as the train pulls away.
xxx
I throw all my weight into my small bed, with loose springs that groan under me, and I sleep for what feels like hours, days, time stretching Rip Van Winkle-status. If only we could all sleep through the war-hell of our lives like that lazy bloke.
When I wake up, it’s only been two hours. It occurs to me that I’ve seen that tattoo ink heart bracelet before, recognise that palm as one that gave me eucharist in the form of a pill that sent my head into a hazy heaven. I can’t attach it to face, though, and really, how many girls have offered something up to me, trying to fix me?
I never have the heart to tell them, I ain’t in it to get fixed.
Just fucked up.
♠ ♠ ♠
It's been almost a year with this baby - I really need to update more often.For the five of you who have subscribed: thank you. And to my readers, of course, when I assumed I only had one (A ♡). You're all lovely.
x.