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Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
Location: Liverpool - England
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________#1.02
John was ten, Cheryl fourteen. It was Summer in Liverpool, or at least as much Summer as Liverpool could allow; though warm, the sky was still covered by a pallid shroud of gray clouds, the sun smothered behind them. The Constantine siblings were collecting change - running through the streets, spotting shrapnel on the floor, swiping cash from abandoned tables, rattling for coins in phoneboxes and vending machines, even scooping currency out of fountains. John's pockets clinked melodically with copper and silver scrap as he joked, jostled, teased and cracked wise, no leg unpulled, no wool left without eyes to cover. Every hoodwink would receive an eyeroll from Cheryl, but then she'd turn away and hide her face as she giggled, tittering at John's uncharacteristic rambunctiousness; this was the only audience John cared about, the only performance he was moved to put on. An afternoon to forget their troubles and gallavant about town unfettered, acting every inch the children they were supposed to be.
At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu and the coffee and pointless childish musings that the recipient was far too polite to halt; meanwhile, John dipped his hand into the tip jar and came up with a fistful of silvers, surreptitiously slipped into his pocket as he picked a table outside. His sister ordered cola and sandwiches, plus one packet of crisps that they shared, littering the insides of their doorstop slices with the bag's contents - and then, when the owner was once again distracted serving another customer, the pair ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts faded into the distance behind them.
Back to the high street and the duo ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera. At the tills, John emptied his pockets onto the counter so that Cheryl could dutifully count out the correct amount, pushing the small pile of coins when finished toward the beleaguered cashier and returning what was left to John's trousers. They unwrapped it there and then, leaving the plastic behind before running off with their prize. The pair filled the roll in only a couple short hours, coming back to the same Boots to develop the film as soon as the last shutter clicked closed and the finished film rattled inside the camera. John turned out his pockets again to cover the fee, and when his remaining change came up short he and Cheryl made a show of digging in pockets and socks and purses, hemming and hawing while the attendant at the counter huffed and puffed in growing exasperation, until their combined performance become too tedious to deal with any longer, and the oustanding amount was waived entirely.
With the sunlight fading and the day coming to a close, but neither child prepared to surrender to the onset of evening even amidst shuttering businesses signalling them to go home, John and Cheryl sat on a high street bench and thumbed eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many of the pictures were marred by poor lighting, or an unfortunate lens glare, or even intrusion from John's clumsy fingers across the shutter as he'd played with the camera, but one photo stood out: Cheryl was standing center-frame, the Royal Albert Docks positioned neatly behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to free the sun and stream rays down onto the water, which bounced off the dappled surface to light up the picture from behind. The created effect sillhouetted Cheryl near-perfectly, and she was outlined in a way that looked evocative of the gold-flaked paintings of saints by the old masters. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the singular accomplishment of his young life so far; it captured a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to encapsulate an angelic quality about Cheryl. It was a glowing representation of John's sister though John's eyes. He loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their inevitable return home by any means necessary.
John's eyes could burn a hole through the photograph, such was the intensity of his stare. He'd not stopped stealing glances since he'd left the house, his hand dipping almost reflexively at intervals into the inside pocket of his jacket - pulling it out, unfolding it, swallowing all the emotion it projected for the scant few seconds he could bare, before putting it back away. He'd held it between his fingers whilst on the payphone, moral support to make the call; he'd held it flat in his palm as he'd stood in front of the fridge in the corner shop and chosen a Ribena instead of a Red Stripe; and now, he held it pinched between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, sat on the steps in front of Liverpool Lime Street station, waiting for a train to get in but not sure which or when. He was still having trouble believing it even existed, even against the evidence of his senses; the picture must have been at least a decade old by now, and he hadn't thought of it since even before going away to Ravenscar - yet here it was, unmarred save for creases down the fold lines and a scuffed corner. There it had appeared in his jacket pocket, John himself struck by nothing less than a bolt of divine inspiration to check a wallet he hadn't opened in years and truthfully had forgotten he even possessed. Such strange and terrible dreams he was having, to be followed by the rediscovery of what amounted to a personal sacred relic.
John felt, just out of sight - just down the road, around the corner...he couldn't be sure, and the feeling passed with such haste; and yet, a lingering sense of a hand proffered, a guide down an unknown path...
His stupour was interrupted by a swift kick to his side just beneath the ribs, a jolt of shock more than of pain but flash-in-the-pan anger rearing up all the same - he whipped his head up, scowl set and ready, only for the bubble to burst immediately as he clapped eyes on the one responsible.
"Hi, John."
"Hi, Chas."
There was a pregnant pause. Chas loomed over John; he was a tall man anyway, having the better part of a full foot over John, and from his standing position above his friend's seated perch he towered, blotting out the sun as John squinted up at him. In two years Chas had grown and changed; taller, sure, but the way he held himself had shifted too, more cautious now, guarded by default. His hair had grown out, and the mussed waves were struggling against a plain cap that attempted to tame the wild strands, while his hands, pockmarked and tan, idly scratched at a rough, couple-days-unshaven beard. Chas' eyes looked older than John knew he was. Overall, John was struck by how grown-up Chas looked. He wondered how he himself held up under his old friend's gaze.
"Didn't realise you'd gotten out. Could have met you at the gate."
John looked back at the photo one last time before stowing it away and standing up.
"No you wouldn't have." He replied. If Chas was offended, John couldn't tell. His face was inscrutable.
"Can't believe you remembered my phone number." Chas said instead, changing track.
"I can't believe you haven't changed it."
"I figured at least one of us should have stayed reachable for everyone else 'round these ends."
There was a sharpness to that last jab that did not pass John by. He counted off people in his head: Cheryl disappeared. His dad up and left as soon as he was cleared as a preliminary suspect. Gary dived into vice, and John...well, John went diving too. In the midst of the maelstrom, Chas had moved to London to escape it all - but apparently couldn't stop himself laying at least one lifeline for those left behind. It was good-hearted nobility that John remembered as characteristic of Chas, if even just a sliver of it. There was another pause in the exchange as John computed and processed everything through the brain-fog.
"You look like shit, John," Chas finally said, but with a tone of compassion rather than derision. "But at least you're out."
He gestured off to John's side, signalling toward the station-side Wetherspoons.
"Lunch?"
They'd eaten, and Chas had had a pint while John sipped on a glass of Pepsi. Chas had the tact to notice John's quick glances at his ale and feigned distaste for a second drink once he'd drained his glass. Instead, they departed to wander the high street, window shopping in the ONE Mall until John grew weary of the security guard side-eyes; they stopped at Greggs on the way back, and as John chewed on great mouthfuls of sausage roll he realized with a dual twinge of guilt and regret that today had been the best he'd eaten since commitment to the asylum, and more than that it had all been on Chas' coin. He couldn't come up with the words to thank him, but hoped Chas would understand. Chas did, though equally he would not voice anything out loud. Eventually they called it, both feeling the fatigue of the day but for different reasons, and parted company with a follow-up rendevous agreed for the morning.
That very morning arrived quicker than either expected and they found themselves on a bench in the Rupert Lane rec ground with the early-morning mist coiling about their ankles and sipping on hot tea from paper cups once again emblazoned with the Greggs logo - this time John's treat in some honour-bound attempt at repayment for Chas' inadvertant charity the day prior. They exchanged idle pleasantries as the hot liquid scorched their bellies and brought them around to the day awaiting them, but these tapered away as hastily as the last vapours of tea, and the pair lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Tension hung in the air, the atmosphere thick with all the thoughts and questions neither of them knew how to address. Eventually, Chas was the first to cross into the no-man's land that spanned the gap between them.
"Why'd you call me, John?" Chas asked.
John was disarmed, thrown askew by the question. It carried all the tone of a man finally shedding his burden, choosing to damn all consequence rather than bear the weight another second. John slow-turned to look at Chas, who did not return his gaze, only keeping his eyes locked on some distant horizon. After a minute, John answered:
"I said on the phone. Apologize. Make amends. See how you were getting on."
Chas sighed, the slightest hint of frustration in the motion.
"I meant, why'd you call me now?"
At this John was lost; the expression on his face must have said it all, because this time Chas did look at him before clarifying:
"Why now, two years later, and not then, before you threw yourself off that bridge?"
And there it was. The question hit John like a knife, sliding neatly between his ribs and popping his lungs like a balloon. His breath left him completely and his vision pulsed. He tried to stammer out an answer, willing the shaking in his hands to cease.
"You...you'd gone to London...Gary gone too - didn't, didn't want to bother you - you'd gone for a reason, thought it'd just all be neater if I..."
"I'd have come back. You know I would have. Hell, John, I came back yesterday. You could have said anything and I've have come back. You should have said something."
Tears welled behind John's eyes. He floundered for words, tripping over his own panicking mind.
"I understand why you didn't come with me. I understand you couldn't just give up on her. But to do that instead... I was still there for you, John. I'm still still here for you."
At that, the tears flowed freely; they were a stready stream, like a tap left on behind John's eyes, forgoing the wracking sobs for simple quiet, awkward weeping.
"I just..."
Through shaking breaths, John gathered what composure he could find, and considered his words before reciting them.
"Our friendship - you, Gary, Ch-Cheryl...it was - is - the only good, pure thing of my life. I just- if I was going to live, going to carry on? If I didn't want to end up face down in the Mersey again...I needed that back. However splintered, however small a part of it remained. I needed a light."
He patted his pockets, searching for the box he'd purchased that morning before meeting Chas, almost in anticipation of a conversation much like this one. He found it, and quickly put a cigarette to his lips, offering the box to Chas as well; he held up a hand to decline, but also raised a lighter in the other to spark John up. John took a few deep drags, and began to feel the knot in his chest loosen.
"I know I hurt you and Gary when you were already hurting over...over Cheryl. It wasn't fair. I'm sorry."
What else was there to say?
Chas sipped what must have been the cold and unpleasant dregs of his tea, stretching out the silence. John wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket as the flow of tears slowed to a halt. He felt lighter, adrift in the post-emotion calm that came after a good cry.
"Okay." Chas finally answered, anti-climactic as all get-out.
"Okay?" John replied, not sure whether this was a good or bad response.
"I can't say I like being back here. I'm not going to sit here and lie and say seeing this town and these old haunts don't bring back hard, hurting memories. I can't even say looking at you at all is easy, like you aren't wearing the same stained tshirt you had on yesterday, or weighing twenty kilos less than you should. It's all painful, and that's the truth of it. It's all why I went to London in the first place."
Now Chas did look at John, and he rested a warm hand on his old pal's shoulder as he continued.
"But it's good to see you alive. Cognizant. Rejoining the rest of the world, instead of running away from it. I guess, John, what I'm saying, is that however tricky this whole thing is...I'm glad to be here. With you."
They embraced, ever-so-briefly, with all the stuttering, stilted movement of two young men poorly attempting to express their affection and emotions.
When they parted, they both cleared their throats, and set eyes straight forward toward that far-off invisible point once more.
"Did you keep in touch with Gary at all?" John asked, changing the subject and happy not to linger on that prior topic any longer. "Or keep tabs on him at all? It...it would be good to see him again as well. To apologize."
Chas shook his head in John's peripheral, an expected answer despite the hope that had crept in to the corners of the question.
"No. He went dark even before I moved, and after you went away- Lester may as well have dropped off the planet."
John nodded absently, and then jumped as Chas suddenly stood and darted to a nearby bin to chuck his empty cup. He whirled around and looked at John with a face that said 'A-ha!', to which he could not help but return a slight smile.
"But," Chas said, "I do remember where his old ma used to live. I figure that's as good a place to start as any."
He stretched a hand to John, who studied it before seizing it and wrenched himself up off the bench.
"Alright then fella," he said, "lead the way."
At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu and the coffee and pointless childish musings that the recipient was far too polite to halt; meanwhile, John dipped his hand into the tip jar and came up with a fistful of silvers, surreptitiously slipped into his pocket as he picked a table outside. His sister ordered cola and sandwiches, plus one packet of crisps that they shared, littering the insides of their doorstop slices with the bag's contents - and then, when the owner was once again distracted serving another customer, the pair ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts faded into the distance behind them.
Back to the high street and the duo ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera. At the tills, John emptied his pockets onto the counter so that Cheryl could dutifully count out the correct amount, pushing the small pile of coins when finished toward the beleaguered cashier and returning what was left to John's trousers. They unwrapped it there and then, leaving the plastic behind before running off with their prize. The pair filled the roll in only a couple short hours, coming back to the same Boots to develop the film as soon as the last shutter clicked closed and the finished film rattled inside the camera. John turned out his pockets again to cover the fee, and when his remaining change came up short he and Cheryl made a show of digging in pockets and socks and purses, hemming and hawing while the attendant at the counter huffed and puffed in growing exasperation, until their combined performance become too tedious to deal with any longer, and the oustanding amount was waived entirely.
With the sunlight fading and the day coming to a close, but neither child prepared to surrender to the onset of evening even amidst shuttering businesses signalling them to go home, John and Cheryl sat on a high street bench and thumbed eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many of the pictures were marred by poor lighting, or an unfortunate lens glare, or even intrusion from John's clumsy fingers across the shutter as he'd played with the camera, but one photo stood out: Cheryl was standing center-frame, the Royal Albert Docks positioned neatly behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to free the sun and stream rays down onto the water, which bounced off the dappled surface to light up the picture from behind. The created effect sillhouetted Cheryl near-perfectly, and she was outlined in a way that looked evocative of the gold-flaked paintings of saints by the old masters. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the singular accomplishment of his young life so far; it captured a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to encapsulate an angelic quality about Cheryl. It was a glowing representation of John's sister though John's eyes. He loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their inevitable return home by any means necessary.
John's eyes could burn a hole through the photograph, such was the intensity of his stare. He'd not stopped stealing glances since he'd left the house, his hand dipping almost reflexively at intervals into the inside pocket of his jacket - pulling it out, unfolding it, swallowing all the emotion it projected for the scant few seconds he could bare, before putting it back away. He'd held it between his fingers whilst on the payphone, moral support to make the call; he'd held it flat in his palm as he'd stood in front of the fridge in the corner shop and chosen a Ribena instead of a Red Stripe; and now, he held it pinched between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, sat on the steps in front of Liverpool Lime Street station, waiting for a train to get in but not sure which or when. He was still having trouble believing it even existed, even against the evidence of his senses; the picture must have been at least a decade old by now, and he hadn't thought of it since even before going away to Ravenscar - yet here it was, unmarred save for creases down the fold lines and a scuffed corner. There it had appeared in his jacket pocket, John himself struck by nothing less than a bolt of divine inspiration to check a wallet he hadn't opened in years and truthfully had forgotten he even possessed. Such strange and terrible dreams he was having, to be followed by the rediscovery of what amounted to a personal sacred relic.
John felt, just out of sight - just down the road, around the corner...he couldn't be sure, and the feeling passed with such haste; and yet, a lingering sense of a hand proffered, a guide down an unknown path...
His stupour was interrupted by a swift kick to his side just beneath the ribs, a jolt of shock more than of pain but flash-in-the-pan anger rearing up all the same - he whipped his head up, scowl set and ready, only for the bubble to burst immediately as he clapped eyes on the one responsible.
"Hi, John."
"Hi, Chas."
There was a pregnant pause. Chas loomed over John; he was a tall man anyway, having the better part of a full foot over John, and from his standing position above his friend's seated perch he towered, blotting out the sun as John squinted up at him. In two years Chas had grown and changed; taller, sure, but the way he held himself had shifted too, more cautious now, guarded by default. His hair had grown out, and the mussed waves were struggling against a plain cap that attempted to tame the wild strands, while his hands, pockmarked and tan, idly scratched at a rough, couple-days-unshaven beard. Chas' eyes looked older than John knew he was. Overall, John was struck by how grown-up Chas looked. He wondered how he himself held up under his old friend's gaze.
"Didn't realise you'd gotten out. Could have met you at the gate."
John looked back at the photo one last time before stowing it away and standing up.
"No you wouldn't have." He replied. If Chas was offended, John couldn't tell. His face was inscrutable.
"Can't believe you remembered my phone number." Chas said instead, changing track.
"I can't believe you haven't changed it."
"I figured at least one of us should have stayed reachable for everyone else 'round these ends."
There was a sharpness to that last jab that did not pass John by. He counted off people in his head: Cheryl disappeared. His dad up and left as soon as he was cleared as a preliminary suspect. Gary dived into vice, and John...well, John went diving too. In the midst of the maelstrom, Chas had moved to London to escape it all - but apparently couldn't stop himself laying at least one lifeline for those left behind. It was good-hearted nobility that John remembered as characteristic of Chas, if even just a sliver of it. There was another pause in the exchange as John computed and processed everything through the brain-fog.
"You look like shit, John," Chas finally said, but with a tone of compassion rather than derision. "But at least you're out."
He gestured off to John's side, signalling toward the station-side Wetherspoons.
"Lunch?"
They'd eaten, and Chas had had a pint while John sipped on a glass of Pepsi. Chas had the tact to notice John's quick glances at his ale and feigned distaste for a second drink once he'd drained his glass. Instead, they departed to wander the high street, window shopping in the ONE Mall until John grew weary of the security guard side-eyes; they stopped at Greggs on the way back, and as John chewed on great mouthfuls of sausage roll he realized with a dual twinge of guilt and regret that today had been the best he'd eaten since commitment to the asylum, and more than that it had all been on Chas' coin. He couldn't come up with the words to thank him, but hoped Chas would understand. Chas did, though equally he would not voice anything out loud. Eventually they called it, both feeling the fatigue of the day but for different reasons, and parted company with a follow-up rendevous agreed for the morning.
That very morning arrived quicker than either expected and they found themselves on a bench in the Rupert Lane rec ground with the early-morning mist coiling about their ankles and sipping on hot tea from paper cups once again emblazoned with the Greggs logo - this time John's treat in some honour-bound attempt at repayment for Chas' inadvertant charity the day prior. They exchanged idle pleasantries as the hot liquid scorched their bellies and brought them around to the day awaiting them, but these tapered away as hastily as the last vapours of tea, and the pair lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Tension hung in the air, the atmosphere thick with all the thoughts and questions neither of them knew how to address. Eventually, Chas was the first to cross into the no-man's land that spanned the gap between them.
"Why'd you call me, John?" Chas asked.
John was disarmed, thrown askew by the question. It carried all the tone of a man finally shedding his burden, choosing to damn all consequence rather than bear the weight another second. John slow-turned to look at Chas, who did not return his gaze, only keeping his eyes locked on some distant horizon. After a minute, John answered:
"I said on the phone. Apologize. Make amends. See how you were getting on."
Chas sighed, the slightest hint of frustration in the motion.
"I meant, why'd you call me now?"
At this John was lost; the expression on his face must have said it all, because this time Chas did look at him before clarifying:
"Why now, two years later, and not then, before you threw yourself off that bridge?"
And there it was. The question hit John like a knife, sliding neatly between his ribs and popping his lungs like a balloon. His breath left him completely and his vision pulsed. He tried to stammer out an answer, willing the shaking in his hands to cease.
"You...you'd gone to London...Gary gone too - didn't, didn't want to bother you - you'd gone for a reason, thought it'd just all be neater if I..."
"I'd have come back. You know I would have. Hell, John, I came back yesterday. You could have said anything and I've have come back. You should have said something."
Tears welled behind John's eyes. He floundered for words, tripping over his own panicking mind.
"I understand why you didn't come with me. I understand you couldn't just give up on her. But to do that instead... I was still there for you, John. I'm still still here for you."
At that, the tears flowed freely; they were a stready stream, like a tap left on behind John's eyes, forgoing the wracking sobs for simple quiet, awkward weeping.
"I just..."
Through shaking breaths, John gathered what composure he could find, and considered his words before reciting them.
"Our friendship - you, Gary, Ch-Cheryl...it was - is - the only good, pure thing of my life. I just- if I was going to live, going to carry on? If I didn't want to end up face down in the Mersey again...I needed that back. However splintered, however small a part of it remained. I needed a light."
He patted his pockets, searching for the box he'd purchased that morning before meeting Chas, almost in anticipation of a conversation much like this one. He found it, and quickly put a cigarette to his lips, offering the box to Chas as well; he held up a hand to decline, but also raised a lighter in the other to spark John up. John took a few deep drags, and began to feel the knot in his chest loosen.
"I know I hurt you and Gary when you were already hurting over...over Cheryl. It wasn't fair. I'm sorry."
What else was there to say?
Chas sipped what must have been the cold and unpleasant dregs of his tea, stretching out the silence. John wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket as the flow of tears slowed to a halt. He felt lighter, adrift in the post-emotion calm that came after a good cry.
"Okay." Chas finally answered, anti-climactic as all get-out.
"Okay?" John replied, not sure whether this was a good or bad response.
"I can't say I like being back here. I'm not going to sit here and lie and say seeing this town and these old haunts don't bring back hard, hurting memories. I can't even say looking at you at all is easy, like you aren't wearing the same stained tshirt you had on yesterday, or weighing twenty kilos less than you should. It's all painful, and that's the truth of it. It's all why I went to London in the first place."
Now Chas did look at John, and he rested a warm hand on his old pal's shoulder as he continued.
"But it's good to see you alive. Cognizant. Rejoining the rest of the world, instead of running away from it. I guess, John, what I'm saying, is that however tricky this whole thing is...I'm glad to be here. With you."
They embraced, ever-so-briefly, with all the stuttering, stilted movement of two young men poorly attempting to express their affection and emotions.
When they parted, they both cleared their throats, and set eyes straight forward toward that far-off invisible point once more.
"Did you keep in touch with Gary at all?" John asked, changing the subject and happy not to linger on that prior topic any longer. "Or keep tabs on him at all? It...it would be good to see him again as well. To apologize."
Chas shook his head in John's peripheral, an expected answer despite the hope that had crept in to the corners of the question.
"No. He went dark even before I moved, and after you went away- Lester may as well have dropped off the planet."
John nodded absently, and then jumped as Chas suddenly stood and darted to a nearby bin to chuck his empty cup. He whirled around and looked at John with a face that said 'A-ha!', to which he could not help but return a slight smile.
"But," Chas said, "I do remember where his old ma used to live. I figure that's as good a place to start as any."
He stretched a hand to John, who studied it before seizing it and wrenched himself up off the bench.
"Alright then fella," he said, "lead the way."
Third Fae court splintered off from Seelie/Unseelie and formed of Fae from both original courts who have either been exiled or are simply bored of the endless war between the two courts and have joined ranks with the third to stage a coup and uproot the original courts to instate their own council.
Got, need, need, got, got, need, got, need.
>never say when or even IF you're posting
>drop posts whenever you want and make funny jokes in the ooc after
>win
It's so simple honestly.
>drop posts whenever you want and make funny jokes in the ooc after
>win
It's so simple honestly.
I've heard of sub-tweeting but this is crazy work.
<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>
I'm still trying to sort out what skibidi means. Not literally, but more so how its actually used in language.
It means 'random' and can be used basically 1:1 in place of that word. The random penguin is now the skibidi toilet.
@Half Pint do you have any recommendations for an image hosting site that’s UK friendly?
You can upload images to an album in your own guild profile for hosting purposes.
<Snipped quote by Roman>
Patiently waiting for the first issue of Hellblazer to hit my feed
<Snipped quote by Supermaxx>
Location: Liverpool - England
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________#1.01
A DREAM
I am curled into a fetal ball, spinning and kicking aimlessly in a void of soft-light nothingness. I cannot see - my senses are blinded, numbed - but all around me, pressing against my skin, I feel colour and light flow through this shared liminal space and onwards toward the seams in reality. Claustrophobia settles in as the pressure maintains and my discomfort only builds as the space begins to shrink and trap me; my muscles scream against themselves as I push back against the encroaching darkness, attempting to divert or at least postpone my fate, but all efforts are ultimately futile. The void holds my chest in place, unable to expand and draw breath into my lungs - pressure, pressure, inside and out, on the verge of suffocation, lungs wailing and heart thundering for air, air, sweet air! - then the nothingness open beneath me and spits me out, a wad of primordial ooze, a stain upon the carpet. A cold mire clings to my skin. There is nothing here, just myself and the mud, a bog that spans as far as the horizon and further still.
With some difficulty, I stand, knee-high in thick black mud. I stand for years. Sunless days pass me by and I gaze up at starless night skies, straining every sense I have for a single sign of life. It takes several lifetimes, but eventually I hear it: a blunt, rhythmic thudding, somewhere in the distance beyond the mud. I cannot see a source - but the thudding is all there is, and so I move toward it.
John Constantine's room was a shithole.
It was, at least, in keeping with the rest of the house - a council hostel for deprived and houseless persons, suffering from budget cuts and the lack of care from its rotating cast of residents, most of whom were recent releases from either the prison or Ravenscar. Some left the city; some just left the hostel to find some other derelict to haunt. Others still just found themselves remanded back into penal custody. John had only been here a couple weeks, shown in with little more than a blanket and a few pairs of jeans to his name, and he'd already seen three other residents of varying stability come and go. He expected a new replacement any day now.
He rubbed his eyes, pushing off lingering drowsiness, which only gave way to a burgeoning hangover. Cans of Tennent's Super littered the floor, and his mouth was rank and dry with the aftertaste of cigarettes and lager. Gods but his head pounded, sounding a throbbing beat that seemed to swell and warp the walls. He could barely face the thought of moving, but a tiny voice, breaching the surface of his booze-fuelled oblivion ever-so-briefly, demanded water - to drink, to bathe, and Christ, to piss. John started slow and carefully pushed himself up on matchstick arms to a sitting position; the change in temperature as the duvet fell off his body was barely noticed, both because of the thin ineffectiveness of the sheets in the first place, but also because the movement pushed waves of nausea through him. He quickly became sweaty and clammy as his body prepared to vacate its contents, but no such luck, as welcome a purge might be; he instead just dry-heaved and tasted bile in the back of his throat. A plastic bag hung looped around one leg of the bedframe, an impromptu bin, and John hocked thick phlegm into it. The need for water overwhelmed him, and he could ignore his bladder no longer; he fished a stained pair of jeans from the corner of the bed and pulled them on as he hopped strategically through litter, cigarette butts, and dirty laundry to his room door, before making a quick dash down the hallway to the bathroom to shower and piss and drink gluttonously from the tap. His hangover, a fetid miasma of muscle ache, migraine, and nausea, crashed laboriously against him in waves - but with his pills, a handful of ibuprofen, and a couple slices of stale bread standing in for breakfast, he attempted to soldier through it.
Two hours later, out of the house and in the sunshine and lighting his third cigarette, the hangover had eased off; he'd sweated most of it out, and the smell clung to him, at least somewhat masked by tobacco. Still, though John had showered, the same could not be said for his clothes - jeans and a plain t-shirt beneath a Harrington jacket, an ensemble he had worn all week. Today, though - today was Universal Credit day, which meant today was also launderette day, and refilling his prescription day, and getting some more cigarettes day. All of that he stumbled through with heavy footsteps and a lulling head, pausing only briefly to enjoy a meal deal in the park as he waited for the pharmacy to re-open after lunch: an egg mayo sandwich and a full-fat coke were ambrosia in his hands. John found a moment of stillness on the bench after eating, another cigarette idly burning between his fingers, and he seized upon a fleeting feeling of peace - only for it to be broken just as quickly as the world rushed back in. Shrieking children and bluetooth speakers and obnoxious estate agents taking an early finish all pulled him back to a reality he had been trying to escape, or at least tune out; instead, he resolved to collect his pills, and then dash into the co-op on the way back to stock up, before he retreated back to his room to wile away the hours until sleep claimed him once more.
ANOTHER DREAM
The thudding persists, and so do I. Slowly at first, every step demanding all my body has to give just to wrench my foot free of the mire, placing it forward and plunging it back into the muck just to repeat the motion, over and over in a monumentous effort that feels further out of reach every second...and yet, I glide effortlessly across the bog without movement, the mud motionless around me as I sail across the surface without a ripple, pulled forward along an invisible track. I see both; I do both; the thudding grows ever-louder as I strive onward.
I find myself, all of a sudden, in the centre of the swamp. There is a small grove of scorched trees here, their trunks charred and cracked, limbs twisted, split and blackened. They form a crude circle around a singular mound of dirt, upon which rests a great wooden block, stained with all manner of blood, muck, ooze, and foul scum and viscera. The thudding is at its loudest here, crescendoing in a violent volume that slams against me, and as I listen I can begin to discern shadowy, obscured figures surrounding the block. They look roughly human in a crude, unfinished sort of way; their outlines frayed and warping, faces blank and featureless yet radiating malice. Each of them clutches a cleaver, chopping incessantly at something upon that filty slab. The scene hurts to look at, but I cannot avert my gaze, cannot resist peering closer, desperate to see the meat they are butchering; when I finally make it out, I simply faint.
John was cold when he awoke. Almost feverish; he could feel the sweat clinging to his flesh, gluing sheets to skin, but there was a draught through his room that carried away all heat. His door was slightly open and drifting voices filtered through the gap - some manner of conversation, two stern voices and one self-affacing one. John knew immediately what was playing out beneath him: police visit, having either returned a runaway, delivered a new tenant, or just here to question around an existing one. Any way you sliced it, John was not interested. He reached for clothes and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a shirt from a carefully folded-and-stacked pile atop a chair in the corner, then once more quietly padded down the hallway to the bathroom. He'd hoped he could just sit on the bog until the voices beneath him stopped and left, and then continue his day unassailed, but the squeaking bathroom door had already betrayed him; footsteps came up the stairs, and John listened to them tread past the lavatory to the doorway on his room, and then back again. They paused at the closed door, and then several light knocks sounded that let him know the jig was up; he stood, flushed, and prepared to meet whichever pig on the other side wanted to ruin his day before it had even begun.
John opened the door to be face-to-face with some wet-behind-the-ears PCSO, a young lad who looked only slightly less scrawny and slightly less pre-pubescent than John did himself. John ignored his introduction, as well as the timid wavers in his voice, to peer around him instead, noticing the broken window at the end of the hall. The shattered edges of the pane had been taped over, and a towel hastily hung across the opening, but this was clearly where the draught was coming from - and judging by the wiped-away remnants of fresh blood staining the sill and yet to be scrubbed out of the carpet immediately below, this was the likely catalyst for the current police presence. John sighed, an affectation the young faux-officer in front of him did not appreciate, before he was lead downstairs to join the actual police officer and the only other present resident of the house for 'questioning' in the form of a righteous and bullying lecture.
Lectures were the theme of the day; it opened with the porcine duo, John only permitted to make his escape after an hour in that uncomfortable kitchen, and then he was on his way to receive another at the local job centre. He was lucky enough to get only a brief dressing down from the receptionist, before sitting for another hour and then being called for a more expansive diatribe from his appointed case worker. He left that onerous meeting and the depressing, brutalist building that played host to it with a mixture of relief and dread swilling in the pit of his stomach; his next agenda item was the worst of the week - his therapist. He'd not opted for CBT when presented with a choice by the nurse overseeing his release from Ravenscar; such an active course, requiring such conscious and actionable behaviour from him, seemed an unconquerable mountain. Instead, he'd chosen what seemed to be the less arduous of the treatments offered, and so it was he was locked into a six-month minimum of guided counselling. This was to be only his third session, but already the urge to play truant had blossomed within him; only the looming spectre of the asylum battled the feeling, a forced remand back to that hostile cage and its darkened corridors the ever-present consequence of failure to comply with his mandated release conditions. So it was he would indeed attend the third floor of a city-centre office building, and sit beneath buzzing fluorescent lights as a well-meaning, but ultimately ineffectual practitioner nodded solemnly along as John played association games with his own train of thought. Occassionally his therapist would scribble something down in a notepad, or attempt to pry further past the surface level John kept them on, efforts recognized and halted quickly. These were the worst lectures: the ones John gave himself, forced for fifty minutes a week to talk around events he'd rather pretend never happened, faltering under the eye of some blasé, courts-assigned third party - and all while he inwardly berated himself for being incapable of seizing the opportunity for healing and resolution and a pathway toward being even an small percentage closer to a human being with worth and purpose.
The weekly impotent rattling of his own bars, slamming against the walls of a cage he had constructed around himself - it all exhausted him. These were the booze nights, the trudging journey back to the house intermissioned only by a stop at the offy for as much as alcohol as the cash in his pocket would get him, the only question in his mind whether to aim for greater liquid volume or percentage potency. After making his purchase he returned to his room and closed his door, stuffing a towel underneath to block the draught, and drank himself into oblivion once again.
A FINAL DREAM
I am lying on my back, strapped to the slab by great leather belts that restrain my limbs and body and head so tightly all I can do is wriggle my digits and whip my eyes around in their sockets, searching in the dark for an escape or a perpetrator. There is nothing, only an expansive pitch darkness and a chill in the air that cascades goosebumps across my skin and puts a bitter cold in my bones. Then, suddenly, they're there - the shadows, holding their terrible cleavers, gathered on all sides and pulsing with hatred. The cleavers rise in unison; and then the thudding begins again.
Over and over the cleavers rise and fall, carving away at my body. They start at my feet and I cannot move as every falling blade bloodlessly hacks away a sliver of flesh, only for the blows to keep coming, the steady rhythm of their cutting and carving never ceasing, never slowing. A shadow looming at the base of the slab deftly plucks away each hewn strip of flesh and tosses it over its shoulder, discarded into a pit dug in the mid behind it. I thrash and struggle and attempt to break my ties with all my might, but it's no use; I am bound so thoroughly that my efforts are futile, and instead I can only strain my eyes to watch as the thudding grows louder and the cleavers move up my body until the noise and glint of the blades is all there is. I am portioned up neatly and thrown away. The last cleaver falls across my eyes. I am returned to the dark.
Everything melts away as the pit swells and opens up, swallowing the world. The figures, the trees, the slab and the mud - all dissolves as I fall, now little more than scattered remnants of a spirit long-forgotten. My descent is slow and gentle, a slow sink, but eventually it ceases and my ethereal feet stand on solid inky blank. In front of me is a woman, softly humming and cooing a soothing melody, her refrains interspersed with lilting sobs. She is clutching something to her chest, rocking ever-so-slightly; in front of her lies a bloodied pile of gore and viscera, the scraps of my body cut and quartered. I reach out with ghostly hands to console her, to ease whatever burden troubles her so - but my hands fall through her. She turns. She has my sister's face. I see through her eyes as she raises her own arms to clutch my neck, watching as she slowly strangles what is left of me.
John woke with a franticness he hadn't experienced in years, if ever. He tore off his bedsheets and tossed clothes around his room and kicked litter and cans around the floor, ripping through his surroundings in desperate search for a piece of himself he'd deliberately buried; a piece that now, in a waking fugue, he feverishly sought to exhume. He dug through jean pockets and cuffed shirt sleeves and discarded cigarette packets, and then, in a moment of clarity - it was so obvious, why didn't he try there first? - he went to his Harrington and fished in the inside pocket for a cheap velcro wallet, empty save for some rolling papers and years-old receipts and-
His quarry. He got goosebumps again as his fingers pinched the glossy paper, and pulled out a folded photo that every neuron in his limbic system told him to stop, put it away, don't look, you don't need to, don't want to, shouldn't, can't - the tips of his fingers found the edges of the paper regardless and unfolded the square.
John barely glanced at the old photograph before he dropped it reflexively and cast his gaze away; his whole body flinched before going rigid. He was dumbfounded, all thought functions having seized up and clattered to a halt. His vision swam and his heart and lungs sped up involuntarily as the surroundings seemed to swell against him. He sat back upon the bed, half-collapsing as his legs buckled beneath him; he screwed his eyes shut hard enough to hurt, blood pounding in his ears. John was breathing but he felt suffocated - his chest was like a spring wound tighter and tighter, twisting his innards into a tense ball, every gasp for air a renewed threat that the whole thing would burst and punch a hole clean through John's sternum. It would kill him and set loose every devil and fear, every insecurity and bad thought he'd ever had, an endless tide of poison to spread and burn and rot and everyone would see and recoil, ridicule, flee and ostracize-
There was the briefest sensation of a kindly hand rested upon his shoulder, and then it was all over. The coil unwound, slowly but surely, and John opened his eyes as his breath came back to him. He let go of the bedframe he'd been unconsciously clenching, his knuckles brilliant white and hands aching, and carefully, deliberately, picked up two pill boxes that sat alone atop his singular chest of drawers. He pulled a foil rack from each and pop-pop released the pills he needed into his waiting palm, briefly reading the words 'citalopram' and 'clozapine' with glazed-over eyes as he put the boxes back and swallowed the pills dry. With gathered resolve and steady, controlled breathing, John bent to retrieve the photograph from where he'd dropped it, holding it open with two hands as he stood. The photo was of a young girl, center-frame, an expanse of water behind her and the light of the sun reflecting off it to illuminate the subject from behind, giving her an ethereal golden outline. He pushed back tears as he studied the photo.
He finally tore his eyes away to dress, pulling on his jacket before he pocketed his pills and carefully re-folded the photo and tucked that away too. He checked what cash he had and then, downstairs, drank a pot of tea without milk or sugar and put away half a pack of digestives before heading for the front door.
John's hand felt heavy on the doorknob, and he hesitated. His other hand went to his jacket pocket and brushed fingers over the folded photograph of his sister.
With a short breath, and a resolute nod to himself, he left.
I am curled into a fetal ball, spinning and kicking aimlessly in a void of soft-light nothingness. I cannot see - my senses are blinded, numbed - but all around me, pressing against my skin, I feel colour and light flow through this shared liminal space and onwards toward the seams in reality. Claustrophobia settles in as the pressure maintains and my discomfort only builds as the space begins to shrink and trap me; my muscles scream against themselves as I push back against the encroaching darkness, attempting to divert or at least postpone my fate, but all efforts are ultimately futile. The void holds my chest in place, unable to expand and draw breath into my lungs - pressure, pressure, inside and out, on the verge of suffocation, lungs wailing and heart thundering for air, air, sweet air! - then the nothingness open beneath me and spits me out, a wad of primordial ooze, a stain upon the carpet. A cold mire clings to my skin. There is nothing here, just myself and the mud, a bog that spans as far as the horizon and further still.
With some difficulty, I stand, knee-high in thick black mud. I stand for years. Sunless days pass me by and I gaze up at starless night skies, straining every sense I have for a single sign of life. It takes several lifetimes, but eventually I hear it: a blunt, rhythmic thudding, somewhere in the distance beyond the mud. I cannot see a source - but the thudding is all there is, and so I move toward it.
John Constantine's room was a shithole.
It was, at least, in keeping with the rest of the house - a council hostel for deprived and houseless persons, suffering from budget cuts and the lack of care from its rotating cast of residents, most of whom were recent releases from either the prison or Ravenscar. Some left the city; some just left the hostel to find some other derelict to haunt. Others still just found themselves remanded back into penal custody. John had only been here a couple weeks, shown in with little more than a blanket and a few pairs of jeans to his name, and he'd already seen three other residents of varying stability come and go. He expected a new replacement any day now.
He rubbed his eyes, pushing off lingering drowsiness, which only gave way to a burgeoning hangover. Cans of Tennent's Super littered the floor, and his mouth was rank and dry with the aftertaste of cigarettes and lager. Gods but his head pounded, sounding a throbbing beat that seemed to swell and warp the walls. He could barely face the thought of moving, but a tiny voice, breaching the surface of his booze-fuelled oblivion ever-so-briefly, demanded water - to drink, to bathe, and Christ, to piss. John started slow and carefully pushed himself up on matchstick arms to a sitting position; the change in temperature as the duvet fell off his body was barely noticed, both because of the thin ineffectiveness of the sheets in the first place, but also because the movement pushed waves of nausea through him. He quickly became sweaty and clammy as his body prepared to vacate its contents, but no such luck, as welcome a purge might be; he instead just dry-heaved and tasted bile in the back of his throat. A plastic bag hung looped around one leg of the bedframe, an impromptu bin, and John hocked thick phlegm into it. The need for water overwhelmed him, and he could ignore his bladder no longer; he fished a stained pair of jeans from the corner of the bed and pulled them on as he hopped strategically through litter, cigarette butts, and dirty laundry to his room door, before making a quick dash down the hallway to the bathroom to shower and piss and drink gluttonously from the tap. His hangover, a fetid miasma of muscle ache, migraine, and nausea, crashed laboriously against him in waves - but with his pills, a handful of ibuprofen, and a couple slices of stale bread standing in for breakfast, he attempted to soldier through it.
Two hours later, out of the house and in the sunshine and lighting his third cigarette, the hangover had eased off; he'd sweated most of it out, and the smell clung to him, at least somewhat masked by tobacco. Still, though John had showered, the same could not be said for his clothes - jeans and a plain t-shirt beneath a Harrington jacket, an ensemble he had worn all week. Today, though - today was Universal Credit day, which meant today was also launderette day, and refilling his prescription day, and getting some more cigarettes day. All of that he stumbled through with heavy footsteps and a lulling head, pausing only briefly to enjoy a meal deal in the park as he waited for the pharmacy to re-open after lunch: an egg mayo sandwich and a full-fat coke were ambrosia in his hands. John found a moment of stillness on the bench after eating, another cigarette idly burning between his fingers, and he seized upon a fleeting feeling of peace - only for it to be broken just as quickly as the world rushed back in. Shrieking children and bluetooth speakers and obnoxious estate agents taking an early finish all pulled him back to a reality he had been trying to escape, or at least tune out; instead, he resolved to collect his pills, and then dash into the co-op on the way back to stock up, before he retreated back to his room to wile away the hours until sleep claimed him once more.
ANOTHER DREAM
The thudding persists, and so do I. Slowly at first, every step demanding all my body has to give just to wrench my foot free of the mire, placing it forward and plunging it back into the muck just to repeat the motion, over and over in a monumentous effort that feels further out of reach every second...and yet, I glide effortlessly across the bog without movement, the mud motionless around me as I sail across the surface without a ripple, pulled forward along an invisible track. I see both; I do both; the thudding grows ever-louder as I strive onward.
I find myself, all of a sudden, in the centre of the swamp. There is a small grove of scorched trees here, their trunks charred and cracked, limbs twisted, split and blackened. They form a crude circle around a singular mound of dirt, upon which rests a great wooden block, stained with all manner of blood, muck, ooze, and foul scum and viscera. The thudding is at its loudest here, crescendoing in a violent volume that slams against me, and as I listen I can begin to discern shadowy, obscured figures surrounding the block. They look roughly human in a crude, unfinished sort of way; their outlines frayed and warping, faces blank and featureless yet radiating malice. Each of them clutches a cleaver, chopping incessantly at something upon that filty slab. The scene hurts to look at, but I cannot avert my gaze, cannot resist peering closer, desperate to see the meat they are butchering; when I finally make it out, I simply faint.
John was cold when he awoke. Almost feverish; he could feel the sweat clinging to his flesh, gluing sheets to skin, but there was a draught through his room that carried away all heat. His door was slightly open and drifting voices filtered through the gap - some manner of conversation, two stern voices and one self-affacing one. John knew immediately what was playing out beneath him: police visit, having either returned a runaway, delivered a new tenant, or just here to question around an existing one. Any way you sliced it, John was not interested. He reached for clothes and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a shirt from a carefully folded-and-stacked pile atop a chair in the corner, then once more quietly padded down the hallway to the bathroom. He'd hoped he could just sit on the bog until the voices beneath him stopped and left, and then continue his day unassailed, but the squeaking bathroom door had already betrayed him; footsteps came up the stairs, and John listened to them tread past the lavatory to the doorway on his room, and then back again. They paused at the closed door, and then several light knocks sounded that let him know the jig was up; he stood, flushed, and prepared to meet whichever pig on the other side wanted to ruin his day before it had even begun.
John opened the door to be face-to-face with some wet-behind-the-ears PCSO, a young lad who looked only slightly less scrawny and slightly less pre-pubescent than John did himself. John ignored his introduction, as well as the timid wavers in his voice, to peer around him instead, noticing the broken window at the end of the hall. The shattered edges of the pane had been taped over, and a towel hastily hung across the opening, but this was clearly where the draught was coming from - and judging by the wiped-away remnants of fresh blood staining the sill and yet to be scrubbed out of the carpet immediately below, this was the likely catalyst for the current police presence. John sighed, an affectation the young faux-officer in front of him did not appreciate, before he was lead downstairs to join the actual police officer and the only other present resident of the house for 'questioning' in the form of a righteous and bullying lecture.
Lectures were the theme of the day; it opened with the porcine duo, John only permitted to make his escape after an hour in that uncomfortable kitchen, and then he was on his way to receive another at the local job centre. He was lucky enough to get only a brief dressing down from the receptionist, before sitting for another hour and then being called for a more expansive diatribe from his appointed case worker. He left that onerous meeting and the depressing, brutalist building that played host to it with a mixture of relief and dread swilling in the pit of his stomach; his next agenda item was the worst of the week - his therapist. He'd not opted for CBT when presented with a choice by the nurse overseeing his release from Ravenscar; such an active course, requiring such conscious and actionable behaviour from him, seemed an unconquerable mountain. Instead, he'd chosen what seemed to be the less arduous of the treatments offered, and so it was he was locked into a six-month minimum of guided counselling. This was to be only his third session, but already the urge to play truant had blossomed within him; only the looming spectre of the asylum battled the feeling, a forced remand back to that hostile cage and its darkened corridors the ever-present consequence of failure to comply with his mandated release conditions. So it was he would indeed attend the third floor of a city-centre office building, and sit beneath buzzing fluorescent lights as a well-meaning, but ultimately ineffectual practitioner nodded solemnly along as John played association games with his own train of thought. Occassionally his therapist would scribble something down in a notepad, or attempt to pry further past the surface level John kept them on, efforts recognized and halted quickly. These were the worst lectures: the ones John gave himself, forced for fifty minutes a week to talk around events he'd rather pretend never happened, faltering under the eye of some blasé, courts-assigned third party - and all while he inwardly berated himself for being incapable of seizing the opportunity for healing and resolution and a pathway toward being even an small percentage closer to a human being with worth and purpose.
The weekly impotent rattling of his own bars, slamming against the walls of a cage he had constructed around himself - it all exhausted him. These were the booze nights, the trudging journey back to the house intermissioned only by a stop at the offy for as much as alcohol as the cash in his pocket would get him, the only question in his mind whether to aim for greater liquid volume or percentage potency. After making his purchase he returned to his room and closed his door, stuffing a towel underneath to block the draught, and drank himself into oblivion once again.
A FINAL DREAM
I am lying on my back, strapped to the slab by great leather belts that restrain my limbs and body and head so tightly all I can do is wriggle my digits and whip my eyes around in their sockets, searching in the dark for an escape or a perpetrator. There is nothing, only an expansive pitch darkness and a chill in the air that cascades goosebumps across my skin and puts a bitter cold in my bones. Then, suddenly, they're there - the shadows, holding their terrible cleavers, gathered on all sides and pulsing with hatred. The cleavers rise in unison; and then the thudding begins again.
Over and over the cleavers rise and fall, carving away at my body. They start at my feet and I cannot move as every falling blade bloodlessly hacks away a sliver of flesh, only for the blows to keep coming, the steady rhythm of their cutting and carving never ceasing, never slowing. A shadow looming at the base of the slab deftly plucks away each hewn strip of flesh and tosses it over its shoulder, discarded into a pit dug in the mid behind it. I thrash and struggle and attempt to break my ties with all my might, but it's no use; I am bound so thoroughly that my efforts are futile, and instead I can only strain my eyes to watch as the thudding grows louder and the cleavers move up my body until the noise and glint of the blades is all there is. I am portioned up neatly and thrown away. The last cleaver falls across my eyes. I am returned to the dark.
Everything melts away as the pit swells and opens up, swallowing the world. The figures, the trees, the slab and the mud - all dissolves as I fall, now little more than scattered remnants of a spirit long-forgotten. My descent is slow and gentle, a slow sink, but eventually it ceases and my ethereal feet stand on solid inky blank. In front of me is a woman, softly humming and cooing a soothing melody, her refrains interspersed with lilting sobs. She is clutching something to her chest, rocking ever-so-slightly; in front of her lies a bloodied pile of gore and viscera, the scraps of my body cut and quartered. I reach out with ghostly hands to console her, to ease whatever burden troubles her so - but my hands fall through her. She turns. She has my sister's face. I see through her eyes as she raises her own arms to clutch my neck, watching as she slowly strangles what is left of me.
John woke with a franticness he hadn't experienced in years, if ever. He tore off his bedsheets and tossed clothes around his room and kicked litter and cans around the floor, ripping through his surroundings in desperate search for a piece of himself he'd deliberately buried; a piece that now, in a waking fugue, he feverishly sought to exhume. He dug through jean pockets and cuffed shirt sleeves and discarded cigarette packets, and then, in a moment of clarity - it was so obvious, why didn't he try there first? - he went to his Harrington and fished in the inside pocket for a cheap velcro wallet, empty save for some rolling papers and years-old receipts and-
His quarry. He got goosebumps again as his fingers pinched the glossy paper, and pulled out a folded photo that every neuron in his limbic system told him to stop, put it away, don't look, you don't need to, don't want to, shouldn't, can't - the tips of his fingers found the edges of the paper regardless and unfolded the square.
John barely glanced at the old photograph before he dropped it reflexively and cast his gaze away; his whole body flinched before going rigid. He was dumbfounded, all thought functions having seized up and clattered to a halt. His vision swam and his heart and lungs sped up involuntarily as the surroundings seemed to swell against him. He sat back upon the bed, half-collapsing as his legs buckled beneath him; he screwed his eyes shut hard enough to hurt, blood pounding in his ears. John was breathing but he felt suffocated - his chest was like a spring wound tighter and tighter, twisting his innards into a tense ball, every gasp for air a renewed threat that the whole thing would burst and punch a hole clean through John's sternum. It would kill him and set loose every devil and fear, every insecurity and bad thought he'd ever had, an endless tide of poison to spread and burn and rot and everyone would see and recoil, ridicule, flee and ostracize-
There was the briefest sensation of a kindly hand rested upon his shoulder, and then it was all over. The coil unwound, slowly but surely, and John opened his eyes as his breath came back to him. He let go of the bedframe he'd been unconsciously clenching, his knuckles brilliant white and hands aching, and carefully, deliberately, picked up two pill boxes that sat alone atop his singular chest of drawers. He pulled a foil rack from each and pop-pop released the pills he needed into his waiting palm, briefly reading the words 'citalopram' and 'clozapine' with glazed-over eyes as he put the boxes back and swallowed the pills dry. With gathered resolve and steady, controlled breathing, John bent to retrieve the photograph from where he'd dropped it, holding it open with two hands as he stood. The photo was of a young girl, center-frame, an expanse of water behind her and the light of the sun reflecting off it to illuminate the subject from behind, giving her an ethereal golden outline. He pushed back tears as he studied the photo.
He finally tore his eyes away to dress, pulling on his jacket before he pocketed his pills and carefully re-folded the photo and tucked that away too. He checked what cash he had and then, downstairs, drank a pot of tea without milk or sugar and put away half a pack of digestives before heading for the front door.
John's hand felt heavy on the doorknob, and he hesitated. His other hand went to his jacket pocket and brushed fingers over the folded photograph of his sister.
With a short breath, and a resolute nod to himself, he left.
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