As I lay broken

As I lay broken

The glaring strip light of morning cruelly shakes me from my intoxicated coma. Too hot, dry mouth, brain half bleached, last nights happenings merely drying smears on an otherwise sterile plane. A clenched fist of emotion holds my throat tight. As I tentatively survey the room, sparks fly in my brain like a sadistically timed fireworks display. It is as if my neurons are backfiring. My eyes sting and a wave or nausea turns my stomach over while beads of putrid sweat congregate on my forehead like mocking soldiers.

I turn my wrist to check the time, 10:37. 10:37 and 24, 25, 26 seconds. Everything is moving, changing, I cannot shield myself from the day with duvet. I will get up, get a drink, yes. As I try to pull myself into a seated position my whole body strains and aches. I feel bruised and every movement is laborious.
I recall his eyes shining with mischievous intent as he buried his head under the duvet and bit down on my warm naked thigh. I squealed in mock horror but there was delight in my eyes. His mouth. Warm, vicious, wet, tender, forceful, secretive.

As I drag myself, zombie like towards the kitchen, my dressing gown falls open to reveal perfect dental imprints on both thighs. Yesterdays shadows preserved. Dark smoky butterflies, held for display, without pins.
I run the cold tap and search for a clean glass amongst the bustling city of empty bottles and differently stained receptacles. I will deal with that later, too much to bear right now. I half heartedly rinse one glass and fill it with the cold rushing water. I glug at it urgently, all the while smelling the sweet edge of rum not entirely removed from the glass rim.
Yet more shadows, ghostly remnants. Do I even want to remove all traces? When the mess is cleared, washing up done, surfaces are clear, clothes are tumbling in the sudsy machine drum and my body is submerged in a deep hot bath, what will be left?
As sweat, saliva and sexual secretions drift away from my skin, what will I retain?
All I know is that for now, I am in no hurry to be clean. I will wear them like last nights clinging dress, pungent with the smells and flavours of yesterday.

I refill my drained glass and before turning off the tap I splash my face with cold water. I go back to perch on the sofa, pushing the duvet out of the way as I make the descent. I feel stupid now. Why am I clinging to the experience so much? You both had fun, now move on. Don’t get attached.

I breath in the silence and exhale deeply, attempting to blow the tension away. My heart slows a little and I feel the good morning whispers from my friend nicotine. I pick up my pack of baccy, roll a fag and light up. No ashtray. Fuck it, I will use my glass. What a slob, I wonder if other people do gross things like me when alone, behind closed doors.

I think of the words ‘Hangover’ and ‘Comedown’ I had never realised what perfectly descriptive words they were. I breathed out smoke, watching it twirl gracefully up to the ceiling. I always enjoyed the sensation of smoking. Even as a kid I knew I would smoke. I never minded the smell even though our living room at home was always thick with drug mist.
I began buying little 12.5 gram packs which would last a whole week. I only really smoked around friends, it was more of an exhibition than a genuine desire .
Even after hearing terrible stories of throat and lung cancer, seeing photographs of tar stained lungs, hearing how it can block your arteries and seeing the increasingly graphic images and words on fag and baccy packets. I still secretly thought smoking was cool.
I needed them now though, I was utterly enslaved by them. Stupid girl.
I took another puff and blew it towards the finger dappled window pane. It shot across the room before being forced backwards like a silent A bomb set off by glass. Everything is moving and everything changes/comes to an end. I just have to accept that. Our only ties to the past are memories and mementos. I have plenty of both.

I decide to run my bath. I turn the hot tap on full and squirt a little body wash in to make bubbles. I think I am ready for a coffee now, the nausea has faded mostly. I can’t find a clean spoon so I pour the coffee straight from the jar into my tall mug. Not enough. Ah shit, too much. Oh well, I like it strong. I wonder what to do with the sugar, too much is a disaster so I plunge two fingers into the glistening white mound and attempt to pinch around a teaspoons worth. This made me laugh. How the fuck can I estimate a teaspoon worth or sugar using only two sticky fingers and hung-over eyes?! The kettle began to boil, steam rushing upwards from the spout, right underneath my left elbow. I jumped and dropped the teaspoons worth of sugar all over the counter and floor. Goes quite far, one maybe teaspoons worth. Shit my elbow hurts! I run it under the cold tap, which was fairly tricky and my awkward pose brought to mind an amputee limbo dancer.

I finish making the coffee and go to check on my bath. There is a distinct lack of bubbles, dunno if it’s due to the inferior body wash or lack of whooshing by hand. I should have whooshed.
I put down my coffee, reach to add a little cold to the bath, undid my dressing gown and swing it onto the bathroom door. I plunge my feet into the bath and then slowly lower my body in. It was deep and ever so hot. My skin tingled, stingy nettle kisses.
I lay my head back and closed my eyes. Submerged in hot wetness, soothing my aching muscles.

When I opened my eyes the first thing I saw was a long black hair clinging to my thigh. It must be his. I pick it up and look at it closer. It was a very thick hair, much thicker than mine and I pluck a hair from my head to compare. I hold them side by side, mine red, thin and fragile, his thick, strong and black. I wrap them around my finger, twist them into one and then dip my finger into the water where they drift off, still entwined.

Just before he had left to make his long journey home we had kissed in the hallway. It had turned quickly from a goodbye kiss into something more insistent and passionate and we had held close, our breaths quickening, my body certainly wanting more.
My hand slipped under water. I let my fingertips trace the outline of the bruise. Despite the hot water, Goosebumps rose on my thighs. Memories swirl in my mind. I force myself under water, feeling tiny bubbles fill my ears and nose. Under here the only sound is my heart thudding. My hands slides inside my thighs.

I will miss him.