(Will send them as soon as they go live)
Iâve been sitting across from my kitchen, with what started as a full bottle of whiskey, long past dripping wet, for the past three hours, twenty two minutes and thirty nine seconds. I counted. Watched the time on the microwave minuscule change every sixty seconds and the diluted sun light slowly fill the empty room. For every thought I had, I took a shot. The bottle has been empty for the last seventy eight minutes and nineteen seconds. The thoughts only ebbed, I should have grabbed a second bottle, but I couldnât move, so I began to replace all thought with numbers. An endless array of numbers.
Three hours.
Twenty four minutes.
Eleven, twelve, thirteenâ.
Thereâs a vibrating. No, a pounding. In my head? Oh aye, thatâs been there for hours. This, this one is new, or maybe I'm just barking mad. I cannae tellâ.
âDrew!â Jules? I'm hearing voices, thatâs never a good sign. âShit, you reckon heâs done something stupid?â Hmph.
âIt is early, he might be sleepâ Julian, put those bloody daggers away. You woke me up at the crack of dawn, he could be sleeping.â Georgia? I cannae be blootered after one bottle, can I?
âSure G, of course. Did you go back to sleep after I told you Mia was gone?â Mia⦠the pain that was never truly gone, resurfaces full throttle. The intensity brings everything Iâd tried for the pastâ bollocks, Iâve lost the numbersâ some odd number of hours, to drown. The endless, agonising thoughts burning like acid, begin to churn in my stomach and the unmistakable feeling Iâm going to puke bubbles to the surface again. Fuck.
I turn on the shower on full strength, the fog filling the room within seconds as I gingerly take off my jacket, discarding it on the tiled floor of my bathroom. I remove my shirt and tie, the fabric sticking to the cold sweat Iâve been harbouring for what feels like days. I kick of my shoes and socks, tossing my belt along with my trousers on the pile and step into the scorching heat.
The burn is instant, my skin turning pink with the force but the pain that should have greeted me is just a distant memory, I still feel naught. I start to scrub at my skin, harder and harder, trying to erase the numb deprecating feeling that's over taking me. Until every inch of my body looks raw but still I feel naught, just a vague memory of what should be there. I give up, again, and shut off the shower.
The silence that follows almost deafening but I continue to stand there, with no will to move. The fog has long gone and my body is covered with goose bumps when I finally bend to scoop up my discarded clothes. I entertain the idea of burning them, watching the flames engulf the rancid memories attached to them but I stop mid thought when my foot makes contact with a sharp edged card on the way out and my heart skips a beat, slowly starting to gain speed as the significance comes to the surface.