enveloping water
a silent world tinted blue
rhythmic, breathe and stroke
08 July 2009
05 July 2009
Mannequins. (Part 2?)
Damn mannequins.
I sit in bed, back up against the headboard, for awhile, as the nightmare's tendrils slowly loosens its grasp on my waking mind. The cold steel in my hands is heavy and slicked with sweat from my palm, and my finger twitches on the trigger. I set it down on the nightstand, reluctantly, as hissing sprinklers from outside my window still brought with it fresh memories of eternally animated polyethylene.
I stumbled into the bathroom, hands searching for the light switch. I finger the stunted plastic nub upwards, and am rewarded with silence and darkness. Flipping it down and then up again, a yellow bulb flickers solitary, and then stays lit, accompanied by a steady drone. My eyes adjust uncertainly, and I reach out for the small, cracked sink, steadying myself against a sudden wave of nausea. From the other room, I hear another quick series of clacks as the hissing stops and the sprinklers recede into their holes. Eyes properly adjusted, I wrestle with the rusty faucet for bit, and a steady trickle of water emerges. The wave of nausea passes as I cup my hands and gather some water, splashing my face with it. I look up into the broken mirror and an unfamiliar face stares back at me. A haggard man in an amber room. His matted dark hair accentuates his pale grey eyes. Our eyes are locked to each other. He looks like he's been in a fight, a nasty one. It's left him with a still fresh scar across his right cheek, and a blackened right eye to go with it. Another wave of nausea hits me, one I cannot quell, and I dry heave into the basin. Something warm trickles down my jaw, and I know what it is before I even look back up at my doppelganger. The scar is open again, and I wash it off, dabbing at it with a dirty towel. The medicine cabinet is stocked with a half empty bottle of cheap vodka, some gauze and some adhesive bandages. Cheap vodka on what's left of the gauze and a couple adhesive bandages to hold it all together. The makeshift dressing stings as I gently apply it to the scar. My hand comes away slowly testing the integrity of the dressing, before I leave it as is.
Only as I leave the dingy bathroom do I realise how sore and bruised I feel. How sore and bruised I am. My whole body protests as I stretch back out on the bed, eyes to the cracked paint on the ceiling. I wonder about her. About how she's doing, and if she's enjoying herself. I push her out of my mind reluctantly, hesitant to let go of her intoxicating aura. I wonder about what I'm to do next, and where I need to go. There are things that need to be done, things that require a specific sort of attention.
I sit up too fast, and my body screams at me, tired muscles craving attention. I glance around, seeking my coat. I spy it, draped over framework of a chair with no seat. I toss it on, and even as my hand passes through the sleeve, it reaches for the inside pocket. The coat pocket holds a crumpled pack of cigarettes stained with someone's blood, perhaps mine. I contemplate taking just one, but instead bring the pack with me to the door. It sticks a little but with a bit of effort, much to my body's chagrin, I get it open, and the sunlight once again assaults me.
I lean back on the door frame, putting a cigarette to my lips. Patting the coat, I find my lighter. It's a beat up thing, it used to be shiny and new. It was a gift from her; she was always one to give out thoughtful gifts, things that were useful. The coat was her idea, too. The lighter still works, but the chrome finish has long begun flaking off, exposing the shoddy imposter for what it is. It worked, and that's what mattered. It never failed me, and it served double duty as a memento of better times. I struck the flint a couple of times before it gave me good light. I took a long drag on the cigarette, feeling the smoke course with my respiration. It took some of the pain away, some of the soreness. I closed my eyes and let it out, a steady flow.
I sit in bed, back up against the headboard, for awhile, as the nightmare's tendrils slowly loosens its grasp on my waking mind. The cold steel in my hands is heavy and slicked with sweat from my palm, and my finger twitches on the trigger. I set it down on the nightstand, reluctantly, as hissing sprinklers from outside my window still brought with it fresh memories of eternally animated polyethylene.
I stumbled into the bathroom, hands searching for the light switch. I finger the stunted plastic nub upwards, and am rewarded with silence and darkness. Flipping it down and then up again, a yellow bulb flickers solitary, and then stays lit, accompanied by a steady drone. My eyes adjust uncertainly, and I reach out for the small, cracked sink, steadying myself against a sudden wave of nausea. From the other room, I hear another quick series of clacks as the hissing stops and the sprinklers recede into their holes. Eyes properly adjusted, I wrestle with the rusty faucet for bit, and a steady trickle of water emerges. The wave of nausea passes as I cup my hands and gather some water, splashing my face with it. I look up into the broken mirror and an unfamiliar face stares back at me. A haggard man in an amber room. His matted dark hair accentuates his pale grey eyes. Our eyes are locked to each other. He looks like he's been in a fight, a nasty one. It's left him with a still fresh scar across his right cheek, and a blackened right eye to go with it. Another wave of nausea hits me, one I cannot quell, and I dry heave into the basin. Something warm trickles down my jaw, and I know what it is before I even look back up at my doppelganger. The scar is open again, and I wash it off, dabbing at it with a dirty towel. The medicine cabinet is stocked with a half empty bottle of cheap vodka, some gauze and some adhesive bandages. Cheap vodka on what's left of the gauze and a couple adhesive bandages to hold it all together. The makeshift dressing stings as I gently apply it to the scar. My hand comes away slowly testing the integrity of the dressing, before I leave it as is.
Only as I leave the dingy bathroom do I realise how sore and bruised I feel. How sore and bruised I am. My whole body protests as I stretch back out on the bed, eyes to the cracked paint on the ceiling. I wonder about her. About how she's doing, and if she's enjoying herself. I push her out of my mind reluctantly, hesitant to let go of her intoxicating aura. I wonder about what I'm to do next, and where I need to go. There are things that need to be done, things that require a specific sort of attention.
I sit up too fast, and my body screams at me, tired muscles craving attention. I glance around, seeking my coat. I spy it, draped over framework of a chair with no seat. I toss it on, and even as my hand passes through the sleeve, it reaches for the inside pocket. The coat pocket holds a crumpled pack of cigarettes stained with someone's blood, perhaps mine. I contemplate taking just one, but instead bring the pack with me to the door. It sticks a little but with a bit of effort, much to my body's chagrin, I get it open, and the sunlight once again assaults me.
I lean back on the door frame, putting a cigarette to my lips. Patting the coat, I find my lighter. It's a beat up thing, it used to be shiny and new. It was a gift from her; she was always one to give out thoughtful gifts, things that were useful. The coat was her idea, too. The lighter still works, but the chrome finish has long begun flaking off, exposing the shoddy imposter for what it is. It worked, and that's what mattered. It never failed me, and it served double duty as a memento of better times. I struck the flint a couple of times before it gave me good light. I took a long drag on the cigarette, feeling the smoke course with my respiration. It took some of the pain away, some of the soreness. I closed my eyes and let it out, a steady flow.
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