Kon-Ban-Wah

So he gets up in the morning and his chest hurts and his head is spinning from the sleeping drugs, antibiotics and nightmares. He’s sweated foul, sour brine into the bedsheets and filled the air with dead and dying pictures from the past. Now he’s awake and fresh experiences flood into his sagging heart. A few deep breaths later and he is coughing up green foetuses into the toilet. He’s missing something and he’s missing a lot.

His weekend: work on Saturday and a heart full of sad mist. A night at a pub surrounded by strangers. A twenty minute Sunday lunch after which he stands in the car park of the ‘family’ pub and is half blinded by the sun. No trousers that fit. A pint in a pisshole. An old girlfriend. An old friend. A tired heartbeat. The dream of sleep and the terror of dreaming. The possibility of a new body.

A new body in a new place with no people; just trees and dogs that will protect him from the sicko’s and maniacs.

He is on drugs. On so many drugs that now he can barely think. So many that he doesn’t know where the grands go. In his everyday life he just spends to forget and wakes with the shakes. He begins to hope that there is a God. He is buggered.

Then the drive to work. Sun stabbing his retina and smoke sending his fragile lungs into a painful shrink. Spastic breath…flying phlegm…windscreen wipers that cannot put it back together again. And now he’s late for work and the boss is unhappy and he doesn’t know why he’s there and he could just about kick the place to smithereens. He hears himself being sociable and wishes he was somewhere dark, smoky and with the faint tinge of sex. A sultry woman that will make love to him and ask no questions; ask for no blood; ask for nothing.

And in this funky paradise he could die.

But in the cool evil of a Monday like this his instinct screams for him to rip and run. Forget the wasted money. Forget the old times. Waste away on the steps of an old museum in the tourist off season.

But what does he do? He stop writing, walks to his parents patio and subjects his lungs to more smoke. His mind to more doubt. His heart to more pain. Hands that will not put it back together again.

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