Long weekend hangover

Apologies for the lack of a post over the long weekend. With bachelor parties and music festivals keeping me busy I managed to lose track of the time.

This story is an edited version of something I wrote last year. It has some personal elements to it and during my long-weekend hangover I spent some time polishing it up a bit because I couldn't get it out of my mind.

As always I'd be more than open to any feedback or criticisms of work posted here and hopefully I'll have something a bit lighter for next week.


Chemical Imbalance
By Tim Harvey

Adrenaline.
Six-thirty.
Am.

Alarm clocks sound harsher, sharper, and more painful on certain days. Some find them at their worst on Monday. Some, like me, find the pressure of the alarm at its most powerful on Friday. It pushes you out of bed, cuts through the lazy fog of sleep, and bites so hard that you wonder if you'll ever sleep again.
I have to go to work. I need a smoke.

Nicotine.
Nine-thirty.
Am.

A strange rattle follows me to my desk. I search for its source as my computer loads. My hands cradle my head as I read emails and the rattle stops. The cool steel and glass of my watch resting against my temple seems to calm my mind. When I put my hands back down I notice the watch rattling around my shaking wrist.
I take off the watch and step outside for some fresh air.

Wine.
Twelve-thirty.
Pm.

“I haven't seen you for ages. How are you?” She sits across from me, a glass of white in front of her, a cigarette in her hand.
“Plugging along.” It comes out drier than I expected.
A frown crosses her face, her forehead wrinkles and she rests the cigarette in the ashtray. “What's up?”
“Nothing. I'm good, how are you?”
Her big brown eyes narrow and she focusses on me, on my face and my sagging shoulders. “You look so tired. I hope work isn't killing you.”
I smile weakly. “Killing me,” I repeat quietly.
“Come on John. I haven't seen you since you got that new job. I've barely heard from you for two months now. Tell me everything.” She picks up the cigarette and takes a long drag, leaning back in the chair. Her arms fold over her chest and she waits for everything.
Where to start? “It's good.” I take a drag from my cigarette.
“Bullshit!”
“Why?”
“I care about you, that's why. What's wrong?”
I think about what is wrong? “Do you ever feel like things are moving too fast?”
“No, not really. But things are moving fast for you John,” she sucks on her cigarette. “That's a good thing!” Her smile is bright and wide. “I'm proud of you getting that job, you know?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course!” She puts the cigarette back in the ashtray and takes her glass of wine, sipping slowly.
“What happened to us?”
She pauses, placing the glass carefully back on the table. Her eyes drift across the sky behind me and she takes in a deep breath. “John, we've been over this.”
“And?”
Her chest rises. When it deflates she is looking into my eyes. “And, I don't love you the way that you still love me.”
“I know. Can I ask you another question?”
She sighs and picks up her cigarette, sucking in the last of the tobacco. “What?”
“Why don't you love me the way that I love you?”
“God! How many times are we going to go over it? I thought you were over this John!”
“I'm not over you,” I look down. My cigarette is mostly ash.
“I have to go.” She collects her bag and stands up.
I stand up and move around the table. My arms wrap around her, my hands on her warm back. Music fills my head and I sing gently into her ear, “It's never over. My kingdom for a kiss -”
“- Upon her shoulder,” she finishes the line and we sway together. “You have to get over me John,” she whispers into my chest. “We've been apart for four months now. Get some help.”
“Help me then.”
She pushes away, but her fingers linger on my chest. “I mean professional help, like a doctor or something. If you don't,” She sighs and looks away. “You're going to hurt yourself. I have to go.”
And she leaves.

Vodka.
Caffeine. Guarana.
Sugar. Taurine.
Nine-thirty.
Pm.

This is how Friday night begins. Surrounded by people, but somehow lonely. The drink kicks in.
“Smoke?”

Nicotine.

I open my eyes.
“D'you see that chick?”
My eyelids flutter.
“Oi, seriously! D'you see her?”
A hard slap to my shoulder snaps me out of it. I look around. The booth surrounding us is made of hard old wood, varnished countless times over the years yet still scratched and worn. Red leather under our bodies.
“Come on man!”
Another hard slap connects. I look towards where my friend is pointing. She is attractive, but not to me. Too tall. “Too tall.”
“Fag.”
I feel awake.
“She's too tall for a short-arse like me. Next round?”
“You're up.”
“Fine.”

I swing past the girl as I make my way to the bar. The dance-floor is bare, but it's still early. She looks down at me and I make eye-contact. She smiles. I smile and walk on. Her hair is black and her dress is red. She is thin. I watch her eyes look towards her feet as I smile. Tilting her head down, she appears to shrink. To accommodate my stature. Her movement, subtle yet inviting. To everyone else she shied away from me.
Only we know what took place.
“Two pints of Pale, and two vodka, soda and limes.”
I turn, rest my elbows on the bar and look back at her. She is gone.

Vodka. Soda.
Lime.

I bring the boys their drinks.
“Smoke?”

Nicotine.
Ten-thirty.
Pm.

I am starting slow, but I can feel the music, loud over the edges of the booth. My head dips and sways. I'm not drunk, but it's coming. Like a speeding train, I can feel it coming. The conversation, contained within our booth is tame and repetitive. Music is what I want. My feet jump and I know life in the booth is going nowhere. “Bored!”
“We boring you John?”
“Let's get out there.” My head moves towards the floor. The light of day is gone. Night is here. The only light is artificial and bright, like my smile.
One of them shuffles out of the booth, “okay.”
“Drinks first.”

Vodka. Sugar. Caffeine. So much caffeine.

I swim through the crowd. My head is held high and I scour the floor. My mate follows, sipping slowly. Eye-contact, left, right. Few return it. No spark. We shuffle through the people, bobbing and dipping.
Spark.

Dopamine.

I position myself near her spot, where she watches the people dancing. Her body is lean and covered in a shimmering green dress. I watch red hair dance across her shoulders. I am not drunk enough for this. Sliding next to her I nod, and pretend I just wanted a better view of the DJ. Her glowing green eyes do nothing to hide her boredom. She moves off of the wall, pushing against it like a swimmer making a lap. The splash of people parting as she enters the fray catches me and I spill my drink.

Scotch. Soda.
Vodka. Caffeine.
Repeat.
Eleven-thirty.
Pm.

I find her. Red hair shining through the depths of the club. Through all the tight-white t-shirts and sweat. Eye-contact. I nod. She drifts towards me.
“Hey,” her mouth at my ear.
“Hey,” over the music. “Drink?”
She nods and I take her hand.

Shots. Shots. Shots.

I watch her fingers wrap around the hem of my t-shirt. She turns away and drags me into the ocean. It's dim and loud. She stops and I run into her. Dipping her knees, she presses up against me and we move together.
She moves around and tries to tell me something, “.”
“What?” I say into her ear.
A bored look crosses her face and she begins to float away. She won't look at me but I press up against her, holding her tight. I rest a hand against her cheek. She raises her eyes and I try to see what she is thinking.
I kiss her.

Dopamine.
Two-thirty.
Am.
“Wanna take this some place else?”

I wake up in a cab. Things are moving too fast. There are details I forget to mention. What club were we at? What happened to my friends? I know these things, I think. What is the name of the girl sitting next to me? What is my name.
Her bedroom is dark and big. White walls. White sheets. She flicks the light on and busies herself tidying up piles of clothes on the bed. She yawns and climbs in, flicking the light off. I climb in next to her, rolling onto my side. Gently moving the hair from her face I kiss her.
My knuckles run across her cheek, “Flick the light on.”
“Why?”
The light goes on. I am sitting on the bed, shirt over my head. “I'm getting undressed.”
She watches and starts pulling her clothes off.

Dopamine. Pheromones. Serotonin.

Paracetamol. Codeine.
Ten.
Am.

This is how Saturday morning begins. She looks at me with vacant eyes. I don't try to kiss her. My smile, so fake it hurts. “Maybe we should exchange numbers, or something.”
“I don't think so.”

Diazepam. Too much.
Twelve-thirty.
Pm.

I sleep, at home. In my bed I am safe. I should stay here forever. The world rocks. My windows shake. Sunday morning.

Adrenaline.
Two-twenty.
Am.

Oxazepam. Temazepam. Diazepam. Codeine. Paracetamol.
Scotch.

If I can sleep forever, then I can forget about everything. The week will begin again. I watch the ceiling and fight it. I can stay here forever.
Forever.

Scotch. Scotch. Scotch.

Sunday night begins but I am lost. Finally. A haze of chemical-induced sleep clouds the world.

Oxygen.
Quarter to ten.
Pm.

The mask over my face is sweaty and cold. Lights flash bright and loud through the windows that line my coffin.
“What did you take?”
How did I wake up? “Where am I?” I pull the mask off my face. The paramedic gently rests it on my chin.
“What did you take tonight?” Her hands are delicate and she stares at me, her face full of concern.
“Alcohol. Sleeping pills. Something...” I can only think in bursts.
“And what was your intention with taking all this?”
Intention? “To sleep, I guess. To sleep forever.”
“You intended to not wake up?”
“Yes.”
She turns in her seat and speaks over a phone attached to the wall. “We have an overdose coming in... Yes,” she looks back at me. “He's conscious, and speaking... Yes,” her eyes are so big and such a vibrant blue. The flashing lights reflect each beautiful speckle in her ocean-like irises.
She hangs the phone up and leans over me, resting her gloved hand against my cheek. “What happened to make you take the pills?” This isn't a medical question. “You seem like a nice guy. If this is about some chick, she's not worth it.”
I smile and rest my head on the pillow of the stretcher. She puts the oxygen mask over my mouth.
I can breathe again.

Citalopram.
Six-thirty.
Am.

I see her at the gym, for the first time in two weeks.
“Hi John! I haven't seen you here lately, how are you?”
“I'm good. Really good.”
“That's good John. I was so worried when we had lunch a few weeks back. You looked terrible.”
I scratch the back of my head, itchy with sweat. “Yeah. Look, I'm sorry about how I acted that day.”
“It's okay,” she mumbles.
I step closer and place my hands on her arms, red and warm, and slippery with sweat. “No it's not. It's unfair of me to keep dragging up the past. I promise you, I'm over it Jess.”
Her eyes widen and she looks up at me, “really?”
“I promise.”
She wraps her arms around my waist. My chest becomes a pillow and she gently sways in my arms. “It's never over,” she sings quietly to me. “My kingdom for a kiss -”
“- Upon her shoulder,” we finish together.
“I'm not over you,” she whispers.
“I know Jess.” I hold her tight.


Hope you found something in that story. I would just like to point out that if you know anyone who seems a bit offish, or not their usual self, have a talk with them. They may be fine, but they may not be. Let them know you care.

Also as I'm now posting this on Facebook (a scary prospect in itself) I won't be using the mailing list setup on the blog. For the readers that don't have Facebook accounts, I'll just send you an email when a new post is up. For the rest of you, you can find links on my timeline.

Cheers.