Clouds. Cotton wool. A comfortable numbness. That pleasant warm swirling sensation, like you’re back in the womb. Such a wonderful feeling. Then the killjoy drudges of reality have to ruin it by making their presence felt. Voices in the distance. Cold, hard floor pressed against your skin. The incessant buzzing of Beelzebub’s minions as they explore exposed flesh to ascertain whether or not you are dead and edible.
Then your own body aligns itself with the opposition. Head starts to pound as blood surges back into oxygen-starved brain cells. Arm finally complains that it can’t bear the full weight of your body for more than a couple of hours. Face realizes that the carpet it’s making love to doesn’t smell so good from such a close proximity. And then the final betrayal – the worst of all. The one you can’t ignore. It starts as a dead feeling in the pit of your stomach. Then it kicks. Then it adds a few interesting sound effects, just in case you missed the tactile message. Another kick. Call it a heave. The surge of saliva at the back of your throat. Head still spinning, so you wonder what you should do with all this accumulating liquid.
Then a blaze of light as your eyes snap open and you sit up, gasping, hand over your mouth, looking for a receptacle. Gotta be close. No time to search. There – a dustbin! Throwing yourself across the room. Crouching on all fours. It kicks again. You try to let it out, give it what it wants, but it resists, toying with you. Feeling that you could explode from the pressure. Something has to give. And then it does. And you wish it would stop.
*
She was gone. One look around the room could have told me that, but I kept looking anyway, hoping that I would find some indication that she’d be coming back. Her handbag draped across the back of a chair, perhaps. Or a hastily scribbled note – “Off to buy breakfast.” But there was nothing of the sort.
I hated those mornings when I’d wake up wondering who it was lying next to me, what her name was, where I’d met her, and how she’d died. Fortunately, this wasn’t one of those.
Nevertheless, I still felt terrible. On so many levels. I’d finally stumbled across the perfect woman, only to let her slip through my fingers. I’d been played like a foolish child, like a friendly puppy willing to do anything to please its new master. And of course, my head and belly were still aching.
And the stench in the room! Unbelievable! You’d have thought that university students would take a bit more pride in their surroundings. I decided to do my bit for the environment. Searching through the chest of drawers closest to me, mainly a storage space for the standard student stockpile of two-minute noodles, I found some deodorant and aftershave, still in the gift box it had come in. Liberal doses of both sprayed and poured into the dustbin seemed to take the edge off its new flavour, but I’d lost interest in my temporary accommodation. Making sure that I hadn’t left anything behind, including the room’s key which was tucked safely in my pocket, I was about to take my leave when I saw a box of matches lying innocently on a shelf next to the door. Well, it couldn’t make things any worse…
As I closed the door behind me, the dustbin was nicely ablaze in the centre of the room. Fire was such a cleansing tool. I was sure the two first-years would appreciate my friendly gesture.
♠
Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning
Also now available from Walmart, of all places… https://www.walmart.com/ip/Burning-Roses-eBook/213541267
Till next time. Cheers.
Burning Books 