finished/unfinished
Jesus paced the room. He could feel the sickness in every cell of his body and yet knew this was just the first day and that how he felt now would be nothing compared to how he would feel in two hours and that would be nothing again compared to how he would find himself come the first of the morning light. His skin burnt and irritated him and and the huge cavernous yawns which now came every few seconds felt like they were stretching and ripping apart every muscle in his face and neck. Sometimes he would sit on the chair and flop over holding his stomach, mucus running freely out his nose. He would snivel and look out from burning eyes and let out whimpers of suffering and curse. Then he would rise again, pace the room, lay down, shake and groan before getting to his feet once more, gagging and retching. Although he knew it to be impossible he still tried to find some moments of comfort, some way to pass some real amounts of time. Now when he lay himself down the beginnings of a restless feeling entered his feet and legs. This would get much worse, to the point of being unbearable, but for now it was just the beginning and he could alleviate the sensation by flapping his feet and creating waves of cool air over them. With no heating the flat must have been 1 or 2 degrees at most. Jesus knew it, knew his body must have been freezing even though he was burning up and sweating profusely. In the low lying shadows of the room Jesus felt a weird sense of stillness, timelessness and a silence which was haunting. Outside the sky was deep blue and grey and the loneliness and vastness of the universe made him feel like he was entering the initial wavering stages of an LSD trip, like the room was spinning lost through the dead black of space.
The wide bulky frame of Jean-Baptiste with his slightly in-turned lower lip where he had lost most his bottom teeth came to Jesus. He stood in Jesus' mind, at the front door, in those grubby white acrylic tracksuit bottoms he wore. Over his shoulder Jesus could see the street, the wintry mid-morning and the blustery gales sweeping old newspapers along walls and then way up high and off. Jean-baptiste had his hand out asking Jesus for money or heroin to tide him over until he got paid. Jesus did not ask any questions. The two had been hooked up as junk buddies for the past 8 months, running around the city like stray dogs, scoring and raising funds together, lending each other cash and splitting bags of brown and rocks of crack with filthy fingers tipped with grimy nails.So Jesus did not think. He ran back upstairs and returned with two ten bags of heroin and a small brown glass bottle containing just over 40ml of methadone. Jean-Baptiste told Jesus that he would make good in three days and then said, "er, actually, no... four days." Jesus waved the words away. Three or four. It was cool. An extra day was nothing between friends and made no difference.Well, it did make a difference: a big one. Today was the fourth day and it was a Saturday. Jean-Baptiste couldn't be paid today and he had obviously known so when he asked. Jesus now understood why three had become four. In the junk world, where survival is so harsh, there is a reason behind everything.
Jesus' ran hot tears. His head ached somewhere deep inside. He damned Jean-Baptiste. This was all his fault. He named him all the cunts under the sun and wondered why he would do such a thing. Of course, Jean-baptiste did not know that Jesus would be in such dire straits - not even Jesus knew that. If he'd have had even the slightest inkling that this may happen he would never have been so generous and trusting. Jesus reached for the TV remote and checked the time. It was only just gone 10pm. He wandered over to the window and stood looking out. He pressed his face against the glass. He was hoping against hope that Jean-baptiste may still keep his word and come into view out the dark. He thought of his name, over and over, sending out unconscious beams of messages he hoped Jean-Baptiste would pick up. Then he thought hard of where Jean-baptiste could be, trying to recall snippets of talk they had jawed away while passing the crack pipe back and forth. If he could only know where his friend was staying he could still, just, manage the walk. But Jesus did not know where Jean-baptiste could be. He cursed himself for that. How could he not know where to locate his junk buddy? Why had he never bothered to get exact details of his whereabouts.. the places he stayed? What kind of a real friendship must that be? And so Jesus watched the silent street and now the cold of the window pane induced an icy feeling within him and suddenly Jesus felt the heat of his fever freeze over and a terrible coldness eat its way right to the heart of his bones. His damaged foot throbbed as if the skin had been stripped bare. Jesus hunted through the piles of clothes on the floor. After some searching he found a large black coloured fleece jacket, put it on and zipped it up. Then he got into bed, shivering, and pulled the blankets tight up around him so as no air sneaked in. His face remained out in the room and his nose felt like it was chiselled out of ice.
Jesus snivelled. His body trembled and his teeth chattered. His nose ran an icy mucus which he rubbed against the top of the blankets so as he did not have to bring his hands out into the air. He began rocking his entire body, creating friction between his skin. On the TV some late evening political debate was taking place. The sound was muted but as the camera panned to the audience Jesus could hear laughing and clapping and imagined that it was in response to him. He peered around curiously like he was listening out for something. For a weird moment he had an intrinsic understanding of space and time, could see space bent around his body and feel the tiny weight of the infinite universe upon him. The standing lamp had illuminated a strange reality in the room. Jesus did not know what reality that was but there was something haunting and melancholic now present. He squinted his eyes tight shut and rocked his body more furious still. In the black front of his brain something was forming, he could feel himself giving birth to it as he scrunched his face up. He heard faint sounds from long out the past. Memories were coming; he could feel them. He would hear that sweet ghostly music soon and then see her, be carried away and dragged under a sea of shimmering memories, the sun filtering through from up above, sound and joy and youth echoing in the depths of his mind, a foreboding sense of tragedy inherent in the yield of the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment