Too Dead for Dreaming

Fork to plate, fork to food, fork to mouth. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.
Eating feels mechanical, ritualistic, and I’m choking everything down with a half-hearted smile. Even my mum couldn’t make this food taste good.

—Alright? Georgina asks eagerly. Always willing to please, that one. She’s got us all sat down, all of us scruffy lads with weary eyes and scraggly hair ruined from the previous night’s proclivities. Only Georgie and Ben look composed, clean as a whistle.

As Ben’s girlfriend, Georgie’s made it her life’s purpose to make sure he’s well-fed, at least on Sundays. The supposed sabbath. Misery loves company; Ben, whether through smooth persuasion or coercion, convinced her to invite us all along every Sunday, like a religious service. None of us want to be the arsehole that misses it, so we show up each weekend, looking like we crawled out of the gutter. A few times we did, hands skimmed and blessed by grimy rat tails.

Our lives are a right mess. I haven’t showered in days, because the hot stream of water loosens the scabs on my scalp and I feel like I’m dying in the middle of the bathroom. Knowing the fuckers that are my flatmates, they wouldn’t even bother to call the police and I’d rot away in the shower, naked and shrivelled, and no one would give a rat’s arse about whether I wanted to be cremated or buried. Although I’m still not sure myself; maybe I’d like being ashes. Someone could sprinkle me into spliffs, that’ll be my going-away party, my funeral. Light me up and burn me away, until I settle like dirt in your lungs.

Yeah, that could work. Better write that down somewhere later. Put it in a song that makes people wanna cry like Crüe’s Home Sweet Home. Take me in your heart, feel me in your bones. That sort of shit. Yes. That could work.

I sigh heavily and dive back into eating. I’m dazed, dozing out of the conversation floating around me, not at the centre but on the margins. On the outside looking in, but not seeing anything. To keep from actually tasting Georgie’s disgusting excuse for breakfast, a traditional English this time around, thank fuck she didn’t make a Yorkshire pudding.

—Danny.

—Danny.

—DANNY!

Three separate voices, snapping me out of my reverie. Well, shit, I forgot to pretend like I gave a fuck. Ben’s got this disapproving look I’m sure not even my dad could perfect and Georgie looks like she’s about to cry. Fucking hell, the problems with that one. Playing house with all of us too broken to go back home. She has to be fantastic in bed, that must be why Ben keeps her around. Either that or he enjoys being taken care of, fed like a child. Mother issues, probably, with that one. I ain’t touching that. I’ve got my own set of problems that I don’t intend to fix, don’t take me on for your own.

—Sorry, Georgie, were you saying something? I was just enjoying your food here, this is delicious.

—Oh, brilliant! She says with a radiant smile. She’s pretty fit, gotta give her that, although the smile makes her look too innocent. —We were all just talking about when you’d bring along one of your many girls to our Sunday brunches.

—I’m not the sort to bring girls home, love. We all share a collective, forced laugh.

—What if you found that bottle babe, eh? Would you bring her if she wanted to come near you? Ben goes.

—Or that girl you took home with ya from my party a few days ago, she was nowt to scoff at. When you girls wear red lipstick - something about it, blows my mind, James says. He’s got this dumb, moony expression on his face, the same one he usually gets when he sees a girl with an arse he needs to literally stop and appreciate. Daft.

—Don’t be an idiot, the girl he took home from your party is the same one that smashed a bottle over his head. Sam says this calmly, while my heart beats erratically, like it did when I was on his gear, seeing the saviour and feeling the carpet beneath my fingers.

—What? Ben and I say at the same moment, standing up, ready to run towards the exit to find her or something. My philosophies and song lyrics are out now, unimportant when compared to a girl. That sloppy heart, lipstick kisses. Ben glances at Georgie, who looks like she’s going to murder him, and he sits back down, clearing his throat, clearing the air. Imagine him married, settled down, taking out the trash as Georgie gives him that same look. Not so innocent now.

—I took her home… My mind stumbles back to the memories of James’ latest party, blurry around the edges. Someone played Helter Skelter that night, I think. I drank too much, wrote myself that note. Look alive. I found big bruises in the shower the next morning, but didn’t think of them, or the scratches on my back. —Sam, you know her?

—Yeah, I know her, she’s a mate. Ada. The fuck’s going on?

—I have to find her.

—Alright, I’ll bring her along to another party.

—Now, I need to find her right now.

—Danny? Georgie’s giving me that same wild, murderous look. —Can you just finish your breakfast and we can all get on with this later? Come on, don’t be a knob, sit down. She practically hisses. Sssit down. I do as I’m told. Everyone eats, a tense silence between all of us. Cam raises his eyebrows, probably as worried as the night I saw Jesus, looking at me like there’s something very wrong with me.

Maybe I’m seeing things again. Feeling them unnecessarily.

I need to find that woman. A-D-A, Ada with red lips and a cigarette whose ashes settle like dirt at the bottom of your lungs. A song, pushed up against the wall.

Now that I think about it, those scratches were probably made by her. She could tear me up and I’d beg for more.