Too Dead for Dreaming

I wake up hungry. Ravenous.

I want to rip something apart with my bare hands, devour it whole without bothering to chew. Something, someone. No big difference. Something with meat, something with blood. Something I can sink my teeth into and never let go.

Tear through the kitchen. Rummage through the drawers. Whatever is closest, whatever I can eat, cooked and raw, but nothing satisfies the hunger. It feels like I haven’t eaten in ages. I am insubstantial.

Eat.
Eat.
Eat.

I can’t find anything else.

But now there is a hole growing at the base of my stomach, growing and growing and growing, spreading outwards.

Eat.

The hole gets bigger. It’s black, it’s blackness. Nothing. It spills onto the kitchen linoleum, spreads until it’s under the stove, under the refrigerator. It keeps growing, keeps going.

Eat.

I find something else, I don’t know what it is, but I stuff it in my mouth, teeth gnashing an awful sound, devouring. Devouring. Something stabs the middle of my tongue, piercing the soft muscle, all of those taste sensors screaming, I can hear them, can feel them. Flooded with copper, iron - something bitter and disgusting.

I spit whatever is in my mouth, spit it into the hole that I’m staring into and it’s staring back, and I spit again. I look.

It’s blood.

I should have known - I know that taste anywhere.

Is it mine?

Maybe it belongs to Jesus.

xxx

The floor is freezing fucking cold.
I’m curled into a ball, into a fetal position, clutching the leg of a chair because I didn’t want to fall into my own abyss that knew my name and yelled it, so loud I can still hear it, so loud my ears are still ringing. That hole of my own making.

Ryan hovers over me, stuffing something putrid into that fat gob of his. Around whatever he’s chewing, he says, —you alright there mate? The bloody gall this tosser has.

—Do I fucking look alright to you?

He shrugs, eats some more. —You’ve looked better, yeah. Had less blood on your face. Remember that time you went down on that girl and she was on the rag, you came out of your room looking like you were fucking dying. He’s laughing, cackling. I don’t remember that at all, but then again, maybe his memory functions properly. Maybe he cares more. Maybe he just wants stories out of me, so he can tell his idiot, scumbag friends when they come over to smoke in a circle like a bunch of teenage scrubbers. —Maybe you wanna clean up though. It’s right there. Corners of your mouth…no. Nah, you’ve smudged it mate. Stand up, I’ll get it for you. He licks his thumb in preparation, a wad of food clinging to the edge of his nail.

I want to throw up.

—I’ll deal with me own blood, thanks.

Somehow, I manage to stand on my feet. My entire body is trembling, shaking violently. Ryan raises an eyebrow as I walk to the sink, splashing water on my face. My chest is heaving. I can’t breathe.

I want to die.

I’m hyperventilating, the world is spinning again, can’t breathe, someone is yelling, just another episode, and my knuckles are turning white from how hard I’m gripping the kitchen sink just to keep myself standing. The yelling gets louder and louder but I can't make out the words. Maybe it’s her. Maybe she’s back, gonna leave me a note with a scrawled heart, coloured in with lipstick kisses.

—Danny? Danny. Fucking respond, Danny, bloody hell! Danny!

My goddamn luck. It’s just Ryan.

—Do me a favour, lad. I say, turning around. My hand’s got a tremor but at least my vision is stable. I’ve had way too much interaction with my flatmates the past few days, breathed the same circuitous air so often that now I’m getting as sick as them. Just another episode of going fucking mental. —Make me a brew. Two sugars and a shitload of milk. I want it bloody creamy.

—Are you alright?

—You ask me that one more time, Davies, and I’ll kill you. He looks at me with wide eyes, eyebrows raised, but nods and gets working on making a pot of tea.

—I’ll bring this to your room when it’s done.

I nod in response and somehow make it back to my room, falling into bed so quickly that the springs almost push me back off the mattress.

My back hurts. I really need to stop sleeping on the fucking floor.

xxx

Seventeen cups of tea later, I’m knocking on Ren’s flat door. I almost want to bellow —POLICE, OPEN UP! but that would hardly be a threat to her and it would probably take her longer to answer.

Ren’s face is flushed when she yanks the door open, standing in the middle of the doorframe. She’s using the handle for leverage and her free hand is pulling up a skirt over a shirt that’s clearly not hers. There’s a massive bruise on the inside of her thigh that I know better than to ask about right now. —What the hell do you want?

She’s trying to brush her hair back, trying to look composed, but her lips are seven kinds of swollen. I’m about 99% certain I’ve interrupted some good ol’ fashioned rockin’ and rollin’ .

Sam hasn’t shown up at the door yet and Ren won’t let me in, so I poking around her, looking into her hallway. —Where’s Sam?

She sighs and moves aside to let me through.—I swear to God, Danny, if you knocked on my door the way you did and interrupted us for a fucking hit, I’m gonna smack the living shit out of you and Sam’s going to be jealous that he didn’t get to you first.

—You’re too short to even swing high enough to reach my face.

—They invented heels for a reason. Sam! Your boyfriend is here. She makes a face at me and sits on the couch, crossing her legs like a proper little lady.

If Ren’s in a state, Sam is that much worse, hair going every which way, face all red with exertion. He didn’t bother to even put on his trousers.—Worsnop. You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that? If you’ve interrupted us for a -

—Yes, I know, if I interrupted you for a hit, I’m gonna get smacked so hard my mum will feel it. I fucking get it. I didn’t come for a hit. I plop down next to Ren, poking her bruise so hard she yelps and slaps my hand away. —Ren, you bruise like a fucking peach. Bettley, I can show you how to properly hold her legs when you’re going to town on her. I have some experience. Don’t think I ever bruised you, Ren.

She rolls her eyes so hard, I’m afraid she’s going to pull a muscle, and if looks could kill, Sam would have killed me by now.

—Okay, sorry, sorry. I didn’t come for a hit. I came because I think I’m dying. Like really dying. So I figure, Bettley’s the neighbourhood healer, eh? Maybe I should get his help, have him write a little something on his fake prescription pad and then I’ll be all fixed up. Fucking dandy. See? Not exactly a hit.

—What do you mean, you think you’re dying? All of a sudden, there’s a nervous edge in Ren’s voice. Her face softens with concern; I almost wish I hadn’t said anything. Even Sam seems upset. But Ren’s my best mate and the only one who would actually believe me. Maybe I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have said anything. Now she’s gonna baby the fuck outta me.

I shrug, —just that. I think I’m dying. Can’t eat…Well, that’s a half lie. Can’t sleep. And I’ve had so much tea today that I feel like I’m gonna piss out the East India Company, so don’t even say I just need a brew.

—You need a doctor, Ren murmurs. —Why didn’t you tell me before?

—Because I’m not scared. I don’t care if I die or if I don’t. But if I do, I just want it to be on my terms. Anyone got a smoke?