A claustrophobia of a sticky foul aroma surrounds me. Incoming thoughts only beat at my skull; bystanders to the commotion within a white convoluted mass. An image of muffled hair and thick lips frequently appear before my eyes as though I’m flicking through a picture book but only of the same image, over and over again. A repetition of a seemingly familiar face. Me? Is it me you’re looking for?
Damn. The window. A draft scratches my skin leaving goosebumps.. like a touch. I pull myself up against determined gravity to push down the pane. Exhaling in relief, the throbbing noises outside are numbed.
Warm water runs over my face and as I scuff at the tap, shoving my forehead right under the nozzle. Ah, that’s nice. Oh shit, that’s hot. A metal shaft strikes the edge of my head as I try to shake myself out of a bowl of Satan’s spit. A rosy bulge blooms on the forehead of a misty, mirrored being.
I stumble to the fridge to get some ice for a nagging pain from my temple. Thin tributaries of sweat and trickling blood conjoin into a puddle of salty crimson as my fingers rest against the prominent pulsation. Did i leave the sink runnning? Reaching into the freezer I grab a handful of –god, that’s cold-only to drop a few cubes.
Thankfully the subtle resonance; a smooth yet steady echo from some temporal lobe is somewhat externally comforted by ice in a shivering palm. Down I sink shamefully to crispy-cold marble. “One is intoxicated with power, another with changing the world and the last, just with intoxication.” Dad did always have a point an opinion. A criticism of how his carbon-copied failures rather than alpha-male legacies were so different from him on the inside. Yet so similar. Maybe that’s why Dad made it a point to be brutally honest. Maybe he couldn’t confront his own demons so he attacked ours. Maybe his denial of his own flaws was fed by his insecurity. Maybe this is me? Is it me you’re looking for? Clear icy fluid trickles from my raised elbow, pass my sleeve and down to my ribs. And then down my cheeks to my chin.
It seems like a great and vicious cycle; bitterness, high, happiness, break a vase, sadness, need for bitterness to drive away the sadness. Like re-living through many births, unaware that you’re trapped. My mouth had become accustomed to the striking taste.I don’t know how it started. I just remembering it being there, always; wherever i went, whenever with whomever. It was always an option but over time it became the only one.
The irony lies in this moment that I constantly find myself in. My stains are buried deeper than I’m aware of, blotching my every move as a person. Yet I’m only able to see them, let alone scrub them off until I have an empty bottle in my hand. The sober fraction of my day inherits my father’s staunch denial while the fuzzy remainder lies in a drunken pitiful acceptance of my problem. At this point, my Nirvana out of this crapulent rotating wheel only seems to take me off a cliff into delirium tremens.
But I don’t want that. That is why I’m here.
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