I was suffering from a mild bout of vertigo which just so happened to coincide with the fact that I hadn’t had a drink since my first of the day at 8 am, roughly six hours previous. My moods and mental health were so debilitated by this point that everything about me was determined by what drugs were flowing through me or wearing off.
I dressed well, but rarely showered. The afternoon was shot. I wanted reasons to move through it. A dinner party invitation had my name on it, so I figured I’d take my time with the remainder of my motions. There weren’t many left to make anyway. A cocktail for lunch. A bottle for dessert. I’ve always been a sucker for a girl in a cowboy hat.
“You’re just like a lady in a book I’ve never read. Hold me far. April’s just the worst.”
“Let’s find some loud place to whisper.”
“Just up here.” I tapped my temple with a thumb.
“This lady’s whereabouts just happen to be vanishing.” I got all scrunched up inside. Couldn’t help it. The world worries me this way, the way I get. Dangerously close to scrubbed away.
I made whatever haste there was to make of the situation. I desired barer walls. “Let’s run like little kids. Wild. Arms flailing. Concentrate!” There was little left for me to do. Drift. Settle. Moan about it. Always beleaguered and distressed. I wanted to sit in a small café with a few odd characters and plan a heist. I was starting to distrust my own face.
“Regained composure. Huh. It stands but doesn’t reason.”
“I’ll be…your accomplice tonight.”
“Your unhappiness is as good as mine.” “Call it off. Nothing I say needs to be heard. I’ve gotta get in more.”
After regrouping with much intent and not an upchuck to mention, I staved off a few drinks with some opium butter, and then I didn’t feel much at all except lonely and romantic. And then? And then I felt like dancing. Night’s coal-black ruin cloaks nicked thoughts. To sit here, drink on the sill, typing, checking the window, messing around, really. Not much of a someone. Just a hack, distracted and defunct. Cheered down. In love with a Bolshevik girl named Ana. Relatable in less than a few ways. I am no longer locking any doors.
“It’s like falling asleep to people softly speaking a language that you don’t understand. A lulled incomprehension that leads to no follow-up questions. The television’s at church.”
“The cameras here are all crooked. The angles won’t add up.”
“Spill some of that over this a way.” “What’s it you, Ma Damn? What is it to you?” “Who. That’s who.” Reeling forwards. A corny lob of body parts. Stirred. Chased. Straightened. It was damn windy out, late and later as it all went. I hate the wind.
Recalling comes and recanting goes. I am part of what I am, always halfway saying that I almost am. Perhaps there is a mistake here. But I am no longer concerned about who it is who is making it or who is not. In the throes of nightmare’s fighters, crueler than indifference makes a difference, I swallowed hard and wrestled with ghosts. When I woke up I shouted out the date. Then I went back to sleep. Then it was lighter. I drew the shades. Then I opened them. The light was just another thing to no longer avoid. I walked around screaming the date:
“Sunday, April 3rd!”
It was nice out but it was horrible in. I took care when pouring the vodka into a tiny glass. I held the glass high. Raised it up; raised it down, flinched twice and drank it off cleanly. I shook my head and didn’t waver from my task then poured another. I whispered, “Mission accomplished,” as I raised it. I drank that one down too. And then another. And then another. And then? Don’t worry about it. The flags are all blowing the wrong way, Your Heinous. I’m through.