it's not getting any easier, i know that. night-time's the worst. i flop around in the swallowing darkness, click the tv off, can't keep my eyes open.
flopped on the couch, not following what's on. one minute, hard polish snow falls on the third reich. next moment, australians are talking about the shark attack they survived in blazing golden sunshine.
stuttering flickering dreams. hitler with a dorsal fin upon his back. herman goering moves silently, hugging the seabed until he's directly below the toothy expendable blonde teens...
i sigh. i click it off and lumber to my bed like the hulk with a hangover. the whole flat's warm these days. the junkies downstairs must have fixed their meter again. it's always like this now. when my bare feet cross the floor, i can feel their heat.
in bed though, it's another story. all the ghosts of my life, circling the bed like vultures. they feint, move in suddenly, going for my eyes. ramming themselves down my throat and rubbing my face in it.
the most hideous horror-movie ever made. the holy grail of teenage bloodshed. slaughterhouse sex and gratuitous virulence.
it's not like watching. not a goldfish-bowl spectator. i'm embedded in it, wriggling like a thing on a pin. soft pulpy flesh ripped open by skeleton keys. and when i scream, only nothing comes out.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment