Wine Glass

To my fine few who are waiting for me to update Razor Bones Shredding.. it will happen, I've just been too ill to type without it coming out backwards…

I'm sitting here, alone, in the small living room of my small apartment in this small city where nobody knows their neighbour's names. Where nobody wants to know their neighbour's names, coz nobody cares. I've sold the TV in a failed attempt to save more money and try to assimilate myself back into the everyday life of myself... but it hasn't worked. There's always the radio, and I won't throw that out, won't bear to be parted from music. Blessed music, which drowns out my life, echoes my story and makes a decent stand-in for the real-life people who should be hear, but aren't.

Its grey in here; the walls, the floor, the ceiling. I sit on a grey couch, wearing grey clothes and looking out of the window framed with grey curtains. There is colour here, I just can't see it anymore. A feeling of strange peace floods me as I notice the sun begin to go down. I switch off the radio (am slightly scared when the silence rushes back to hit me in the face like a padded brick) and pad over to the window in my grey socks to watch the sun die in a glowing symphonised hum. I watch the sky above me darken slowly, as the lucky horizon begins to bleed. At first, it is soft, glowing in shades of peach and apricot, but it begins to grow heavier. The pale, pastel, innocent virgin blush stains to heavy crimson and blood. The trees in the far off distance, where the land remains unraped, stand out stark and soulless, guarding the abused sky from watchful eyes who can't help it. The sky bruises, the air becomes cold as all traces of innocence spills away, as the red clots beneath sky-skin, cloud-cover and changes into purple, blue, navy- cold colours like death... the sun is enmorgued in the tomb of the earth. But it will rise again.

I am left behind after the dirge of birdsong stop selling their albums and overdose themselves like burnt-out musicians waiting for the next big hit.

The whine of the cars below me, never leaving, ever-present, slowly blocked out into the background. And I close the window.

I listen again to the clock on the wall behind me, the grey clock with the pendulum, slicing away life minutes, tick by tock by tick. Who is it ticking for? Whose life does the pendulum overbalance as it flails out and pushes the surrounding life-pillars over, with each carefully calculated move of the hand?

I return from the kitchen with a glass of wine, and it is white in the wind-chime bowl of the delicate glass, like a collarbone, the elegant curve of a throat. I run a finger around the rim, to hear biting cries from its torn-wound mouth. I sip from it, the meaty taste which leaves my mouth running with blood taste. I don't even like white wine.

I am suddenly filled, enraged with a desire to go out and drink, to get drunk, hammered out of consciousness, mashed into the pavement; slaughtered, butchered like cattle on hooks, hanging woefully, stagnant and still, with their ribcage pulled back and their emotions out for all to see.

I want to be like that, want to be laid bear on a hook before you, hook in my head to cease the clamouring, insides pulled out and left away, so I don't feel this anymore, my skin branded as you once did with your caustic touch. I don't love you still, but I want to be loved. I want to talk to someone, so I pick up my phone and listen with concentration to the recorded voice on the other end. It isn't very good conversation, so I put the bone back down into its cradle.

I'm beginning to feel... different. A hazy sort of... something. Like numb. Like cold. Flying. Thank you... to the little white circles which make the pain go away. Stick to the aspirin. It won't fail you like some other drugs. Maybe I should have listened to the directions, not ignored them as I have been ignored. Maybe... I want you back... maybe.

I find my suicide note. It's very cleverly disguised, even I didn't know it was my suicide note, even the doctor. It' called another name, its name is prescription. It's not, as would be more poetic, a sharply silver to cut my wrist and see the blood bead and roll down like drops of wine from a wine glass, yes please.

It's the sleep... ish... ness. Such a cliche. So overused, over dramatised, overstated, overdose.

Mmmm...

Pick up the phone, wanting some comp'ny. Mebbe there'll be someone on th' other line th's time?

I dial the three three times three, and i have a voice in my ear.

i dunno y the greyn ess of th e ceilin-g is now th efl oor, but it makes no diffff erenssss 2 me...

This is my final statement, my suicide note in medical green and the end of my life.