si'k ag'in
I open the door and step out into the street. The air is warm and damp after the rain. My body is heavy. My bones ache. It is mid-afternoon, and the beginning of the second wave of sickness. It arrives like clockwork. Each day I wake at about 1100, throat painful and dry, skin burning, bones hollow and brittle. My girlfriend strokes my face and it feels like a thousand hot knives scraping down my flesh. I wince and say nothing, rise and down three 30ml measuring caps of methadone. This holds me till the second wave which begins mid-afternoon. In this weather it is particularly uncomfortable: a dull, cavernous aching in the bones, dryness of throat enamoured by the diuretic weather, flesh fevered and heavy.
I start from Earlsfield SW16 for
I arrive at Vauxhall, disembark, descend five flights of stairs and pass three more barriers before an escalator takes me to the
A train approaches, bringing with it a vile gust of warm air. I fail to finish a learned piece on the value of friendship from a Gallo wine advertisement. The doors open and I step in. I sit and rest my head again the glass, aware of the thick sweat leaking from my scalp. My hair squelches as I lean back and try to rest. I cannot rest however as I am too aware of the sweat dripping from my armpits and coursing down my sides. I feel foul. I wipe my arm over my face and marvel at my clothing which is now translucent.
The train arrives at Oxford Circus. My heart leaps: I’m halfway. A horde embarks and some loathsome OAP glares at me, wanting my seat. I remain. Some pious fuck makes a pantomime of giving up his seat, and she makes one accepting it. I hope my degenerate appearance makes her feel uncomfortable. I grin at her and swig K, sweat pouring down my neck and dripping from my eyelashes.
The train finally reaches
2 comments:
Enjoyed your story immensely. You are tremedously talented and I get such joy from reading your posts everyday, even when the subject matter veers into dark territory.
thank you...i'm very flattered
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