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Aug. 25th, 2003 09:55 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
nyarbaggytep.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
just_writingA little something I've been mulling on for a while - I tend to write to about this length naturally.
A hand reaching for the cabinet door, shaking – the fact noted in an oddly calm way, filed away for later – too much for now.
"Light in bathrooms is always so harsh – why do I always end up in bathrooms when I look my worst?" the thought is wondered in the same manner.
Hand run nervously through hair, comes to rest at base of throat. "Nobody can possibly be watching. It’s stupid to feel self conscious", but does anyway.
"Depression in the absence of feeling" remembered from a textbook or training course, years ago.
"Why then, I must be Depressed. Not really surprising I suppose." Yearning. Knowing there is feeling under that statement somewhere – surely something should be felt about being Depressed? Nothing, but the lack noted.
From behind the thin door snoring from the slack love-hated (but mostly hated now) body in the hotel bed, exhausted and sleeping the sleep of one who has happily taken out all their troubles on someone else; remorseless. Twisted in the head so that all those troubles were that person’s fault in the first place, easier that way. And here in the bathroom – the recipient mostly believes it too. The small part that knows better is screaming – but is too muffled to make much difference – most of the time.
The cabinet door opens. There’s a small bottle of pills as recommended by the Doctor, who didn’t want to know what was really going on. Mercifully short appointment. Take two. With Water. Do not take on an empty stomach. Please read enclosed leaflet before beginning the course.
The light is still too bright, the glare from the spotless white porcelain and gold coloured taps intrusive. Hurting. Everything hurting – but from a distance.
Pills in the palm of the hand. Lots of little white pills. Like little termite eggs. Flash of memory – Ants Nest – boiling water – hundreds of ants desperately trying to save the little white eggs – sorrow. That was what sorrow felt like – boiling water in the nest, futile running – no escape, boiling water in the chest, boiling from eyes, boiling from throat – wailing – a smack for the trouble – more pain, boiling water pushed down gullet to boil in intestines –feel its presence, it’s still there, can’t get out now, been there too long, ground into the cells.
Temptation – all the pills and go back to bed. Nobody would know until tomorrow – mental image of spouse waking next to corpse – momentary thrill of pleasure and fear – small, cheap, fleeting.
Two pills. With water.
Waiting for effects.
Examine naked body in the mirror above the bath. All tiny signs of age and loss noted. Skin sagging a bit more, hair beginning to grey. Face examined in the mirror above the sink. The wrinkles around the eyes making small networks, the creases travelling from sides of nose down to dropping edges of mouth lending a melancholic air to what used to be a carefree face once. Or did it? Trying to remember when that word could legitimately be applied. Not sure it ever could.
Sudden moment of panic, the snoring has stopped. Heart stops, body freezes, consequences of having been responsible for early awakening run through like lightening with familiar precision, potential excuses run through, tried, tested and found lacking. No breath, lump in throat. What noise could have been made? Pills? Running water? Cabinet door? "But I was quiet." wailing like a slapped child in own head.
Sounds of body rolling over in clean starched cotton, sigh of breath, seconds later snoring resumes. Breath now, muscles in shoulders and chest slumping into exhausted relax. Pills beginning to take hold.
Turn off lights, wait for eyes to adjust to darkness, opening bathroom door, slowly, slowly. Creep carefully into room, avoiding the clothes on the floor, avoiding the looming bulk of the suitcase with the sharp corners. Misjudged, swift intake of breath as little toe on left foot stubbed against the corner, body freezing with a start, eyes darting to prone figure in darkness under glimmering white sheets. No reaction. Breath out slowly. Excruciating pain in toe – this will pass in time, ignored, blocked out.
Pain passes. Continue the tortuous journey. Get to edge of bed – here’s the difficult bit. Lucky, lots of sheet on this side, it’s a warm dry over-heated room. Take edge of sheet gently and lift sufficiently to sit slowly on the edge of the mattress. Move legs up onto bed, under sheets, lie back, head to pillow, and relax.
The warmth of relaxation and pills is beginning to seep through muscles, numbing, head becoming fuzzy. Now the screaming part has a chance.
"What are you doing? What the fuck was that? What a performance! Why are you so fucking scared all the time? Stand up for yourself goddamn it! This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this is NOT RIGHT!" But now the pills have their way, the voice slides back into its little screaming pit – where it is not heard again.
A hand reaching for the cabinet door, shaking – the fact noted in an oddly calm way, filed away for later – too much for now.
"Light in bathrooms is always so harsh – why do I always end up in bathrooms when I look my worst?" the thought is wondered in the same manner.
Hand run nervously through hair, comes to rest at base of throat. "Nobody can possibly be watching. It’s stupid to feel self conscious", but does anyway.
"Depression in the absence of feeling" remembered from a textbook or training course, years ago.
"Why then, I must be Depressed. Not really surprising I suppose." Yearning. Knowing there is feeling under that statement somewhere – surely something should be felt about being Depressed? Nothing, but the lack noted.
From behind the thin door snoring from the slack love-hated (but mostly hated now) body in the hotel bed, exhausted and sleeping the sleep of one who has happily taken out all their troubles on someone else; remorseless. Twisted in the head so that all those troubles were that person’s fault in the first place, easier that way. And here in the bathroom – the recipient mostly believes it too. The small part that knows better is screaming – but is too muffled to make much difference – most of the time.
The cabinet door opens. There’s a small bottle of pills as recommended by the Doctor, who didn’t want to know what was really going on. Mercifully short appointment. Take two. With Water. Do not take on an empty stomach. Please read enclosed leaflet before beginning the course.
The light is still too bright, the glare from the spotless white porcelain and gold coloured taps intrusive. Hurting. Everything hurting – but from a distance.
Pills in the palm of the hand. Lots of little white pills. Like little termite eggs. Flash of memory – Ants Nest – boiling water – hundreds of ants desperately trying to save the little white eggs – sorrow. That was what sorrow felt like – boiling water in the nest, futile running – no escape, boiling water in the chest, boiling from eyes, boiling from throat – wailing – a smack for the trouble – more pain, boiling water pushed down gullet to boil in intestines –feel its presence, it’s still there, can’t get out now, been there too long, ground into the cells.
Temptation – all the pills and go back to bed. Nobody would know until tomorrow – mental image of spouse waking next to corpse – momentary thrill of pleasure and fear – small, cheap, fleeting.
Two pills. With water.
Waiting for effects.
Examine naked body in the mirror above the bath. All tiny signs of age and loss noted. Skin sagging a bit more, hair beginning to grey. Face examined in the mirror above the sink. The wrinkles around the eyes making small networks, the creases travelling from sides of nose down to dropping edges of mouth lending a melancholic air to what used to be a carefree face once. Or did it? Trying to remember when that word could legitimately be applied. Not sure it ever could.
Sudden moment of panic, the snoring has stopped. Heart stops, body freezes, consequences of having been responsible for early awakening run through like lightening with familiar precision, potential excuses run through, tried, tested and found lacking. No breath, lump in throat. What noise could have been made? Pills? Running water? Cabinet door? "But I was quiet." wailing like a slapped child in own head.
Sounds of body rolling over in clean starched cotton, sigh of breath, seconds later snoring resumes. Breath now, muscles in shoulders and chest slumping into exhausted relax. Pills beginning to take hold.
Turn off lights, wait for eyes to adjust to darkness, opening bathroom door, slowly, slowly. Creep carefully into room, avoiding the clothes on the floor, avoiding the looming bulk of the suitcase with the sharp corners. Misjudged, swift intake of breath as little toe on left foot stubbed against the corner, body freezing with a start, eyes darting to prone figure in darkness under glimmering white sheets. No reaction. Breath out slowly. Excruciating pain in toe – this will pass in time, ignored, blocked out.
Pain passes. Continue the tortuous journey. Get to edge of bed – here’s the difficult bit. Lucky, lots of sheet on this side, it’s a warm dry over-heated room. Take edge of sheet gently and lift sufficiently to sit slowly on the edge of the mattress. Move legs up onto bed, under sheets, lie back, head to pillow, and relax.
The warmth of relaxation and pills is beginning to seep through muscles, numbing, head becoming fuzzy. Now the screaming part has a chance.
"What are you doing? What the fuck was that? What a performance! Why are you so fucking scared all the time? Stand up for yourself goddamn it! This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this is NOT RIGHT!" But now the pills have their way, the voice slides back into its little screaming pit – where it is not heard again.
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Date: 2003-08-25 03:30 pm (UTC)It's 0226h....
Date: 2003-08-25 06:31 pm (UTC)Wonderful! It put me in mind, particularly, of a character in Douglas Coupland's most recent to hit paperback ("All Families Are Psychotic").
Do you think it's likely that you would ever write more about this / these characters, or is it just a sketch that you had to push out? (Just curious)....
Re: It's 0226h....
Date: 2003-08-26 03:50 am (UTC)Interested in what gender people thought the person was.
Re: It's 0226h....
Date: 2003-10-16 01:11 am (UTC)I know women snore too ;-)