Es, pt. 5/?

Your brain is on fire and you can’t sit still. Your boots are thawing by your apartment door and your red wool overcoat and purple plaid scarf are haphazardly draped over the back of your blocky beige love seat. You are standing absent-minded in front of the open and glowing refrigerator door, lost as to why it’s open and why you have a bag of green bell peppers dangling from your left hand. You’re barely able to hold yourself steady as a quake rockets from the peak of your crown and spazzes down your left side, causing you to jerkily throw the bag into the fridge. You slam the door, the army of half-full liquor bottles on top jittering like potable windchimes.

You stagger back into the pantry, and the wooden knob on the door digs into the small of your back. You wince, and the heat in your head grows all the more. You imagine you must be flushed, a blushing olive, steam blasting out of your ears. Limping, your left leg isn’t working right now thanks, you get to the kitchen sink and fill a dirty glass to overflowing with tepid water and knock it back, gulping noisily. Much of it runs down your chin and neck, soaking the front of your shirt. You belch loudly, and refill the tall glass, the water much colder now. You chug, you belch, you refill. This goes on.

You’re panting at 6 pints and your stomach is groaning in protest. You try to burp again, but it brings friends, and you fountain stomach acid and water and bits of a BLT into the dirty dishes. You’re glad you had the wherewithal to avoid the draining rack, and you purge hard, amazed at the velocity. How could a stomach spasm so hard, eject its contents so far? Your head is still blazing, and you’re crying and snotty and gasping for air and dry heaving and sudden as it started, it’s gone.

Your wipe your face with your shirt and blow your nose into the fabric before lifting it off and throwing it into the corner to be fetched later when you have a fuck or three to spare. You stare at your reflection in the frosty, dark window that looks out into the snow covered community garden between the buildings. There you are, glassy eyed, topless save for your ratty ass “no one’s going to see this so who gives a fuck” bra, and you grin. You can’t help it, and there you go, splitting your face. But it doesn’t last long and you sigh heavily before reaching to the cabinet over the sink and taking down three amber bottles.

The clonazepam is a small white pill, like an aspirin. That one you chew, despite the yellow warning label to the contrary, and it doesn’t do much to improve the taste in your mouth. The citalopram is rust coloured and looks like a football. You pair it with the tiny blue oblong aripiprazole and dry swallow the pair. You grab the discarded glass, barely fill it, and swish the clonazepam dust around in your mouth, your tongue scraping the residue from the grooves in your molars. You swallow, and your stomach gurgles, but everything stays down.

To celebrate, you roll yourself a pitiful roach with what scrap is left from the dime bag you got last week (they just aren’t made to last) and light up. The acrid smoke from the burning paper soothes your nostrils, and opens your lung to the pure white smoke that you suck down so greedily. You hold your breath, midget joint pinched between the nails of your right thumb and forefinger, and hope against hope that this night might come to an end sometime soon. You breathe out and the window fogs over, obscuring your reflection. You sigh and inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. When it’s done you douse the last ember in the little bit of water splashed on the blue formica countertop and swallow the roach. Waste not, want not.

Your brain is still on fire, but at least you can sit still.

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