Status: one shot || complete
Shame
Consumes Me
Shaking, screaming, still screaming. The pain, the fire, stop! Relief. Deep breath. Shudder.
Brown eyes once filled with joy and life swept the table in front of him. He was clutching at the furniture, muscle spasms beginning to cease. Laid out was paper to make hand – rolled cigarettes, an empty zip lock bag and a lighter, to name a few. The scruffy haired young adult stood up properly, eyes slowly fading back into the glossy haze that occupied them. They were bloodshot, and the pupils were beginning to dilate as the drugs hit his system. Falling back to its erratic “normalcy”. His face was sunken and a pasty pallor, making his red hair seem unnatural.
Alan shoved all of the objects into a cupboard drawer, shutting and locking it with a key hung around his neck. He slid a pair of sunglasses onto his face, brushing off his denim jacket. A quick trip into the bathroom to check his appearance was satisfactory and he left, car keys dangling from his index finger, clinking against each other quietly.
He didn’t return that night. Nor the next. When Alan finally did return home, he was unkempt. The sleeves of his jacket were frayed from the constant picking, and the right hand side of his jaw bloodied and red from nervous scratching. He found it a miracle he was allowed to go home – and get home without being pulled over thanks to his appearance. He was sweating, little beads forming on his forehead and trickling down the sides of his face, only to be swept away by his arm. There were damp patches along his back and under his arms too, his shirt sticking to him. His denim jacket was hanging in his hand.
He entered the house, all but running to the kitchen and snapping the thin chain from around his neck, the metallic sound of it hitting the tiles filling his mind. He jabbed the key into the lock, fingers fumbling and slipping as he tried to turn it. Alan grabbed the cigarette paper, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his new stash of marijuana, rolling it and once again fumbling, this time with the lighter, sticking the joint between his teeth.
Goosebumps were appearing along his flesh as he sucked in the toxic mixture, quivering hands replacing everything into the drawer. He cursed as he picked up the broken chain, tossing it into the bin. The key was taken into his bedroom, and with a yawn he put it in his sock drawer, sprawling out on the bed afterwards. Alan lay on his back for a few minutes, legs spread wide and bent at awkward – looking angles and arms above his head, fingers splayed and running across the headboard. The repetitive motion of sliding his fingers across the grain of the wood was soothing, and Alan found himself sighing deeply, leaning into the soft bed. He closed his eyes and nodded off with a snore.
He rolled another two joints in the morning. Or, at least, what he classified as the morning. He had slept for fifteen and a half hours and it was well into the afternoon. Three twenty seven, to be exact. He didn’t do anything that day. Alan simply sat and stared at the wall, watching all the pretty colours of the painting hanging on it swirl and mix; not unlike a kaleidoscope. As he reached upwards to scratch at his door, his phone rang, breaking his concentration. He jumped, eyeing the phone warily.
He moved as if to answer it, a noise halfway between a cough and an intelligible word choking out of his mouth. Alan cleared his throat and tried again, trying in vain not to make the scratchy sound again. “Hello?” He rubbed at his throat and poured himself a glass of water as he waited for a reply.
“Alan?” The voice on the end of the line said.
“Speaking.” He held back the urge to roll his eyes and began sipping at the water. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Tino. We met last night? At Austin’s twenty – fifth?”
Alan paused in his movements, glass still at his lips. “Tino…” He mused, leaning back against the counter.
“Uh… Yeah. You weren’t that drunk were you?”
“Not at all.” Alan reassured him quickly, ignoring his growling stomach and scouring his brain for any recollection of Tino. “Look… Tino… I’ll call you back – I’m starving.”
“Late lunch, huh?” Tino chuckled after he said this, the warm, deep sound resonating. “I’ll speak to you later then.”
“Yeah, bye.” Alan’s nails bit at his skin again as he hung up on the stranger. He turned to the clock – it was just after six. Puzzled, he grabbed a packet of chips from the freezer and dumped them onto a tray, preheating the oven. As he waited for it to warm up, he rolled yet another cigarette. He still hadn’t come down from his high. He sucked in the final lungful as he pulled his chips – nicely browned and crispy – from the oven.
The clattering of the tray on the tiles accompanied the duller thud of Alan’s fall and halt, his heart frozen in his chest. It began to stutter out a few more beats as Alan clutched at his phone, the numbers 911 flashing up on the screen. He didn’t make it to the green “call” button.
Shaking, screaming, still screaming. The pain, the fire, stop! Relief. Deep breath. Shudder.
Brown eyes once filled with joy and life swept the table in front of him. He was clutching at the furniture, muscle spasms beginning to cease. Laid out was paper to make hand – rolled cigarettes, an empty zip lock bag and a lighter, to name a few. The scruffy haired young adult stood up properly, eyes slowly fading back into the glossy haze that occupied them. They were bloodshot, and the pupils were beginning to dilate as the drugs hit his system. Falling back to its erratic “normalcy”. His face was sunken and a pasty pallor, making his red hair seem unnatural.
Alan shoved all of the objects into a cupboard drawer, shutting and locking it with a key hung around his neck. He slid a pair of sunglasses onto his face, brushing off his denim jacket. A quick trip into the bathroom to check his appearance was satisfactory and he left, car keys dangling from his index finger, clinking against each other quietly.
He didn’t return that night. Nor the next. When Alan finally did return home, he was unkempt. The sleeves of his jacket were frayed from the constant picking, and the right hand side of his jaw bloodied and red from nervous scratching. He found it a miracle he was allowed to go home – and get home without being pulled over thanks to his appearance. He was sweating, little beads forming on his forehead and trickling down the sides of his face, only to be swept away by his arm. There were damp patches along his back and under his arms too, his shirt sticking to him. His denim jacket was hanging in his hand.
He entered the house, all but running to the kitchen and snapping the thin chain from around his neck, the metallic sound of it hitting the tiles filling his mind. He jabbed the key into the lock, fingers fumbling and slipping as he tried to turn it. Alan grabbed the cigarette paper, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his new stash of marijuana, rolling it and once again fumbling, this time with the lighter, sticking the joint between his teeth.
Goosebumps were appearing along his flesh as he sucked in the toxic mixture, quivering hands replacing everything into the drawer. He cursed as he picked up the broken chain, tossing it into the bin. The key was taken into his bedroom, and with a yawn he put it in his sock drawer, sprawling out on the bed afterwards. Alan lay on his back for a few minutes, legs spread wide and bent at awkward – looking angles and arms above his head, fingers splayed and running across the headboard. The repetitive motion of sliding his fingers across the grain of the wood was soothing, and Alan found himself sighing deeply, leaning into the soft bed. He closed his eyes and nodded off with a snore.
He rolled another two joints in the morning. Or, at least, what he classified as the morning. He had slept for fifteen and a half hours and it was well into the afternoon. Three twenty seven, to be exact. He didn’t do anything that day. Alan simply sat and stared at the wall, watching all the pretty colours of the painting hanging on it swirl and mix; not unlike a kaleidoscope. As he reached upwards to scratch at his door, his phone rang, breaking his concentration. He jumped, eyeing the phone warily.
He moved as if to answer it, a noise halfway between a cough and an intelligible word choking out of his mouth. Alan cleared his throat and tried again, trying in vain not to make the scratchy sound again. “Hello?” He rubbed at his throat and poured himself a glass of water as he waited for a reply.
“Alan?” The voice on the end of the line said.
“Speaking.” He held back the urge to roll his eyes and began sipping at the water. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Tino. We met last night? At Austin’s twenty – fifth?”
Alan paused in his movements, glass still at his lips. “Tino…” He mused, leaning back against the counter.
“Uh… Yeah. You weren’t that drunk were you?”
“Not at all.” Alan reassured him quickly, ignoring his growling stomach and scouring his brain for any recollection of Tino. “Look… Tino… I’ll call you back – I’m starving.”
“Late lunch, huh?” Tino chuckled after he said this, the warm, deep sound resonating. “I’ll speak to you later then.”
“Yeah, bye.” Alan’s nails bit at his skin again as he hung up on the stranger. He turned to the clock – it was just after six. Puzzled, he grabbed a packet of chips from the freezer and dumped them onto a tray, preheating the oven. As he waited for it to warm up, he rolled yet another cigarette. He still hadn’t come down from his high. He sucked in the final lungful as he pulled his chips – nicely browned and crispy – from the oven.
The clattering of the tray on the tiles accompanied the duller thud of Alan’s fall and halt, his heart frozen in his chest. It began to stutter out a few more beats as Alan clutched at his phone, the numbers 911 flashing up on the screen. He didn’t make it to the green “call” button.
Shaking, screaming, still screaming. The pain, the fire, stop! Relief. Deep breath. Shudder.
♠ ♠ ♠
921 words.