Too Dead for Dreaming

The new wooden floors are fucking pungent, smelling purely of chemicals even I’d stay away from. I stare down at my bare feet, scuffed and weathered boots cast aside by the entrance. No care for socks.

The landlord steals a chance to glare at me, then looks back to Ren. —So what d’ya think, love?

—I love it, Ren purrs, putting on a stupid posh London accent. She only uses it, fakes it so well, when she’s drunk or when she wants something. And here she is, batting her lashes at our landlord who’s already fucking aching to throw me out onto the streets. —You’re so kind. I can’t thank you enough for this. And for letting my friend sign onto the lease so easily. I promise he’ll be on his best behaviour. She glares at me too, but it quickly melts into a smile.

With a literal tip of his hat, the landlord slinks away, blushing after Ren’s given him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek.

—Wanker, she gripes at the closed door, slamming it behind him.

—You were just thanking him! Basically pushed his face into your tits with that thank you. Sexuality as a weapon, eh?

—Try not to be so much of a misogynistic arsehole, Daniel. I could feel his bloody hard-on during that hug. She shudders and the smile she’d given me so easily is gone. Always pissing people off, me. An absolute talent of mine.

—Then stop being so fucking flirty whenever he comes by. I shrug easily, heading into the kitchen. —If you don’t want to deal with that randy codger, fucking move out.

The floor is freezing. I miss the old carpet, even with all my blood on it. Memories. The irremovable taint of weed, of spilled rum, of sweat. Its softness when I was rolling, absolutely lush. I wasn’t going to pay for another carpet cleaning, though; the stains wouldn’t come out. Not my problem anymore.

I can hear her sigh in the living room, a heavy, dramatic thing. Bloody performance artist. —I was going to, actually. But you were off dying in that dingy flat with those blooming scrubbers, and I wanted to help. Cheers, Danny.

Before I can say anything, I hear the door to her room slam shut.

—Could’ve gone without the daily reminder that I’m a shit friend, but thanks! I shout, but she doesn’t hear me.

The front door opens and for a second I think the landlord is back, probably to see if he can actually pork Ren or not, but it’s just Sam.

—You’re really staying here, then, Sam says as he enters the kitchen. He leans against the counter, watching as I make a brew. It’s annoying to have him watch, but I don’t have the energy to tell him to fuck off.

—So your girlfriend asked me to move in. Don’t worry, Bettley, I won’t shag her, even if she asks nicely. He’s throwing daggers with his eyes but I keep going, —she’s only throwing me a housewarming party, but don’t get all jealous on me, Sammy.

—Ha ha ha. Worsnop, you think I’m jealous of you? Worried that you’re gonna go after Ren now that you live in the same flat? I ain’t stressed, mate, but that’s precious. Just fucking adorable. He pats my cheek with a lighter hand than I expected, a smirk splashed across his face. —You two dated when you were 16 and you didn’t know what the fuck a clit was. Doubt you know what it is now. He scoffs.

I have a few choice stories I could tell him but why the fuck should I defend myself? I could not care less about other people’s pleasure when I’ve got an overwhelming concern for my own.

—Then what the fuck, Bettley? You’ve been an absolute little shit the past few weeks. Not that you weren’t already. You make Ren look average-sized. I suppose that’s why you two have stayed together so long. Balance each other out.

He rolls his eyes so hard that for a moment, I’m worried he’ll pull a muscle. —You really think the world spins around you. It doesn’t, you twat. He takes a second to light up a smoke, exhaling into my face deliberately, slowly. —I’ve been having some trouble with dealers, mate. And you’re such a shit already that it’s easy to be mad at you. Plus you’re my best customer. I dunno if you should be ashamed or proud of yourself. I’m still debating whether I love you for it or not, actually. Got me out of that awful job with you and Ben.

—I am always proud of myself and everyone should love me, those are the proper answers. Look at the state of me. I swing my arms wide, cup of tea flying out of reach. It crashes on the wall behind the stove, a million little pieces of porcelain swirling on the floor of the kitchen with a puddle of amber liquid. —I’m fucking perfect.

xxx

Ren demands everyone remove their shoes when the lads arrive for the party. Sam’s in the kitchen, laying out all of the alcohol we have in the flat, skirting around slivers of that cup I broke - no fucking way I was gonna clean it up. I’m sat in the middle of the living room, rolling spliffs with laced papers even though I’d tried to persuade Ren to do it - a woman’s job, that is, to roll up for her man. She’d nearly punched me in the face.

—The gang’s all here! I shout. Ben sits with me and within minutes the lot of us are smoking, puffing, trying to grind down the smell of bud into the new wood floors.

Everyone is barefoot. Barefoot, with a soft swaying music on the stereo, something to grab hips to, to pull someone closer, closer, something in Spanish. My feet are cold. This music so tender, sensual, not thunderous or rowdy, but slick with sweat, with sweetness. Different from anything anyone here has ever heard or will hear when it stops. No one is moving at all, except for Ren, maybe because she’s the only one of us who understands the music at all. The only Latin American Briton any of us know or will ever know, probably. Maybe we’re not moving because we’re all too sober, ill-prepared to feel inadequate about our lives just yet. Who the fuck knows.

—Ren, can you shut this Columbian shit off? Something in English, for fuck’s sake.

—Smoke more. Drink more. Be fucking merry, Benny boy, and shut up. She keeps moving, swinging her hips. James seems entranced, focused on her arse. That bloke, fucking daft in his obsession with asses. —No one else is here besides you lot. It’s not my fault you don’t know how to dance.

—Come the fuck on, Ben whines.

—Andaté a la putisma madre que te pario, Bruce. If it’ll calm your fucking tantrum, call your bitch-ass girlfriend and have her come. I’ll be generous and let her in.

Ren’s still dancing by herself when the door opens, writhing, inadvertently putting on a show for us. She is a music box, moving on her own.

A group of girls - women, really - enters the flat. A petite Asian woman with plump red lips and starry eyes, as short as Ren. A dark-haired, olive-skinned woman accompanied by a taller, paler redhead who looks so incredibly familiar that it makes my cock twitch, almost uncomfortably.
Then, a tall, tawny woman with an incredible head of hair, long curly tresses that tumble down like tamed snakes. Medusa walking, here, gracing us with her presence, ready to make men hard. A siren. An absolute goddess, standing in the doorway, flicking open a silver case and pulling out a long pink cigarette. Sobranies, I think they’re called. She lights up slowly, slovenly, eyes flicking across the scene of Ren’s living room. My living room, now.

Ada.
It’s Ada.

There is a fire underneath my skin, racing to get to the ends of my fingers, the tips of my toes. I don’t see anything else, anyone else - just her, standing in a haze of smoke. The only song I can hear is the fast drumming of my blood roaring in my ears. I’m shaking, covered in a sheen of cold sweat, that still-burning fire consuming me.

I could die on this wooden floor, bare feet gathering dirt. I could die and I would be happy because she is alive. I am dead. She is alive. She’s here.

I’m transfixed, spell-bound. A cloud of red hair and a tangle of pale limbs breaks the reverie as I’m knocked to the ground, smothered in kisses all over my face.
—It’s you! I’ve found you!

—Who’ve you found, Talia?

All these disembodied voices. The limbs above me form a shape, an hour-glass body, a tiny waist - curves like a guitar. Big blue eyes are boring down on me. A cruel smile like a threat.

—The guy from the music shop. You owe me a shirt, love. I’ll settle for a shag, though. She kisses me on the cheek, a sloppy kiss, leaving behind some saliva like a dog would.

She’s that slice of cherry pie, but right now she’s more like a cherry bomb, destroying any chance I may have had with Ada.