Phial

She lies there, barely moving, only the faint rise and fall of her chest animating her. Never have I seen, nor touched, something so painfully beautiful. She stretches, purrs, and her eyes open. Witnessing the smile that creeps across her sumptuous lips, when lit as she is by the morning sun, is surely why I’m alive. 1

The light in her eyes illuminates the bleak darkness of my reality as lightning does the night sky. Here, in bed with me, in this moment, she is all that I want, all that I need. And here, she is still alive.2

My reflection greets me in the window of the bar, which, today, will be my office. My eyes are buried somewhere in the deep nothingness of my skull, and my figure couldn’t be more frail if I were truly dead, rather than just dead inside. I manage not to pitch a fit, and simply shudder for a few torturous seconds. It’s only the after effect, I tell myself. You’re wearing a suit, for fuck sake. If you can’t hold it together in a suit, call it quits. 3

I brush my hair from my eyes, compose myself, and float through the door. Of course everyone here stares at me. Luckily, it’s just the bar girl and my supplier. He nods. I nod. She fixes her face of servitude. 4

“Jack, no rocks”. 5

Her smile is almost convincing. I put effort, a considerable amount, in to my returning one. She hands me Jack, and him and I move to the corner where Mr. Fisk sits. He looks smug, hateful and dangerous. I wonder what face an enemy would meet, as I straddle my chair. 6

“You look like Death’s dead dog.”7

“And you’re breathtaking conceptual art.”8

His comment is not far wrong, and I’m almost certain he knows I’ve been using again. Sure enough…9

“I know you’re fucking around again. Not good for business, you know?”10

I try not to jump out of my skin. I succeed, barely.11

“I know.”12

He leans back in his chair, adjusts his tie, clicks his neck, left, and then right. He runs a hand over his shaven head, and concern creeps across his face, as brief as innocence, before smugness resumes its reign.13

“What’s so bad about right now? Why you got to go back… wherever it is you go, all the fucking time? I don’t see the appeal. Live in the now… not your fucking memories. You’re 26, for fuck sake. Just shot it to kids with nothing better to do, like you’re supposed to.”14

His smile is not so sinister it prevents me injecting a little signature moxie into my spiel.15

“What can I say? My mother was a vice riddled Lady whilst I was in her womb… and before and after that, come to think of it…’ 16

He laughs, a sharp, jolting laugh, and then slams his fist on the table, squashing the humour that just escaped from him - as if it were an insect. Again, not without considerable effort, I hold myself in my skin.17

“Business it is then.”18

I feel like an insect. Hold it together. Hold it together.19

“I need 50 phials.”20

“50 phials?”21

“Yeah. Five-oh. 50.”22

His eyes narrow, dubiously. I greedily guzzle down most of Jack and meet his gaze. 23

“You’re going to be able to offload that in a week?”24

“No problem.”25

And I’m not even lying. The number of past-purveyors is ever increasing. I realise I have something to do with this, (at least, locally), but I swallow this recognition as it rises in me like bile.26

“In your condition? I mean, look at you. You can barely focus on me. Your body’s here… but your head ain’t.”27

I don’t have a fucking clue what to say. My body jolts, as if attempting a carefree shrug; my cheek compliments it all with a graceful twitch. I’m glad when he eventually speaks again.28

“If you’re confident that I won’t be sat next to an empty seat this time next week and if you’re sure that the occupant of that seat will have my money, then, like you say, no problem.”29

It takes me an internal millennia to realise I’m said occupant, and I try to smile, though I’m sure it’s far more grimace like, in actuality.30

“No problem.”31

Yet again, his eyes narrow, like a television screen’s disappearance when you cut the power, and I try not to disintegrate under their concentrated appraisal. Apparently, I do well enough, as he soon busies himself with a briefcase under the table. He slips something into his pocket, (excess phials, presumably), and slides the briefcase to my side. He straightens himself in his chair, rotates his shoulders, and then raises his drink. 32

“To commerce, my dissipated friend.”33

I raise what’s left of Jack, touch his glass with mine, and return his toast.34

“To commerce.”35

After slamming his now emptied glass down, he makes a satisfied sound, stands, and looks down on me. He’s a mountain and I’m a mole hill.36

“Remember, you can hide in the past from most things… but not from me.”37

His smile seems to have been bequeathed to him directly from Beelzebub, so great is its delighted menace. With me sufficiently warned, he takes his leave. 38

When he’s out of sight, I slouch in my chair, exhale like it’s never going to end and involuntarily shake. This is not apprehension, nor completely relief, no; it’s primarily anticipation. Anticipation of submerging myself in the many niches of my memory. I have what I need to go back. I have what I need to see her. 39

“One more for the road, Lady. I need it.” 40

The blood is enveloping the carpet. It’s consuming the room, the World, for all I know. Ever spreading red, wet and meaningful. I’ll drown in it, if I’m not careful. On this sea of death, she floats, mutilated, shattered and torn. My tears are blood. My scream is blood. Her head is almost severed. Her torso is a canvass of carnage. I collapse at her side, the torment consuming me. Her heavenly features are indistinguishable, and I become grief. I rock, back and forth, and hold her hair in my hands. Sodden and heavy, I hold it. And there, amongst the gore and crimson, I see the boot print. I stand, and attempt to run out of the door. The dreamlike quality of my perception makes each stride decades long and the walls close in on me, blocking my exit. I fall down the stairs, stumble through the door, out into the foreboding, impossibly black street. The thud of their escape reverberates in my head, each step shaking me. I try to follow the sound, distinguish its origin, but it is everywhere and everything. Thud. Thud. Thud. I stumble, I trip, and my face scrapes along the concrete which seems to be made of sandpaper, and I slide on it for an eternity. I disappear into a chasm of pain, and never return the same. 41

I can’t seem to shake the effects of last nights failed attempt, and as I look into the mirror, my reflection judgementally looks back. Who are you to criticise, you shabby fuck? My shaking is almost incessant, and I need to lie down. I collapse on my mattress, which is my only possession (other than my suit and record player). Beethoven, Symphony No. 3, continues to dance around the room, and even that cannot rouse me. My ties to reality are rotting and scarce. I need to put on something more than my damn pants, and get out on the street, do business. But how can I? I feel like I can barely stand. My senses are betraying me, images of the past raping my present. Stationary objects shaking, my body contorting and my mind reeling at moments most untimely. Still, if I don’t offload what’s left of these phials, my internal torture will seem like a massage compared to what Mr Quark’s external comeuppance would feel like. I’m stirred from my day-mare by a knocking at my door, and stealthy like wind, I move toward my peep hole. When looked at in this way, she looks abnormal, but not unrecognisable. Her impatient hopping inexplicably delights me. I unlatch my many locks, one by one, until, eventually, I can open the door.42

“And how the fuck are you?”43

She beams up at me, the complete embodiment of youth and delusion combined to great effect. She is at that golden peak, where she is untouchable, fantastic and fascinating. And I love her for it. 44

“I’m super, you big freak.”45

She skips into my apartment and as I close the door behind her, I allow my mind to open the idea of meeting Emily 8 years ago, when we could have been at the same stage of life and my very presence wouldn’t cripple her like poison. 46

“You seem… chipper.” 47

“Ewww… fuck off! I will never be chipper. Never. No, like I said, I’m super. Why? Because today’s the day Emily has her picnic.”48

She grins at me, with eyes brimming with something like fondness. I hate to make that look disappear.49

“No. Today… today is all about business.” 50

God forgive me for involving her in this.51