There was a mess the size of a mountain, and he didn’t feel like David slaying Goliath. It was sticks and stones anyway
The numbness faded, and there was light on the other side of the tunnel. Streetlight and car flashes. The feeling of being a foreigner in his own skin made him want to burst out of his own body; mainly it felt wrong, immensely wrong. Slowly the feeling in his body parts came back to him. There was an incredible ache running from his scalp down to his neck; it was the first sting he felt since his rebirth.
That’s the name he eventually gave it. Coming back, surfacing, breathing and gasping, it always felt like the very first time. Never did it hurt, not the basic reflexes. The dry mouth and sweat running down his back were simple inconveniences. The piercing headache was livable too, but some days he couldn’t recall his own name or remember his birthday even hours after he awoke from the wrapping darkness. And there were other things, too, that terrified him. He could be gone for days, nearly starved to death, or wake up across the state. He never knew where or when he rose back to consciousness. He only lived fragments, and he could only guess the other did too.
They did live separate lives because, he swears to God, he didn’t want anything to do with the other. Oblivion was his best partner in the lies, the gnawing teeth that fed inside his stomach every time he let his thoughts run wild. It worked like acid on his insides, making him sick, yet his gut feeling wouldn’t leave him alone.
He was a tiny little rat, the innocent bystander and a weakling, shielding off all clues and red flags of the destructive path his other left behind.
He broke through, registering raindrops pouring down on his skin. They tickled and teased him further into perception. The fabric of his clothes felt like bricks of soaked stones around his body; a shiver ran up and down his spine.
They’re different though; the jacket was gone, leaving him in a long sleeved shirt and a clammy pair of jeans. His worn down sneakers were gone, and slowly more pieces fell together; he was high. That was probably the main reason the cold didn’t feel harmful, and his head felt stuffed with cotton.
He was high, soaked and probably catching pneumonia.
The strong taste of blood closed up his mouth and throat, and he had to pause staggering from wall to wall. Gagging he hurled, and whatever was left in his stomach ended up along the sidewalk.
Sitting there, hunched down on his knees he laid his forehead against the stone wall and slowly felt the cold take over. He welcomed it, staring at the small puddle of chunks and ink-like specks of blood.
Everything spun. It was like staring into a laundry dryer, blood specks moving around and around. The cold seemed to morph into his body, like liquid ice all of a sudden rising high and washing down on him. Being high ain’t any fun when you were swirled by rain and frostbites.
For a while he remained on his knees, eventually hunching forward on all fours with his forehead still pressed against the wall. It felt like every fiber in his body ached. The time before seemed endless, clueless and undermined by his own thoughts. He tried to figure out how long he’s been struggling through the rain. His other always fled the scene when he got cold feet.
A blur of illuminating lights and red seal made him squeal and huddle into a tiny little ball of misery. He hated the lights. They burned his eyes, making the everyday migraine unbearable. It must have been the same gnawing teeth that festered inside his stomach; it must have been their babies, larva wobbling inside his head, making tiny tunnels through his brain cells. Bugs, his internals were infested with them, crawling underneath his skin. Some nights he tried to cut them out, sadly unsuccessful.
“Craig? Jesus, is that you?” Strange delicate hands started shaking him. He could feel soft fingertips turn nasty as manicured nails dug into his shoulder blades. “-Jesus…” From that moment on he felt fragile, unable to stand up or breathe. That all opened up another gate. No longer poured the lonesome rain down. He cried out and tried to get a hold on the hands. Child heaps hiccupped out of his throat, and the iron taste of blood made way for the salty taste of tears.
“Get in the car, it’s pouring. It’s fucking pouring, Craig, what the hell are you doing out here?!” The voice held back a grudge but failed to restrain the disappointment.
He didn’t care. All he wanted now was some bit of comfort, something that would make the bugs go away, make it all go away.
Inside the car it smelled brand new, down to the leather, and it was so comfortably warm. It only made him huddle up and weep more. He didn’t care about the ridiculously embarrassing sounds he made; he just hugged himself, nesting deep into the seat, and blinked his eyes through teary blurs and flashing lights. There was a mess the size of a mountain, and he didn’t feel like David slaying Goliath. It was sticks and stones anyway.
“- I missed you in the soup-kitchen and you didn’t show up for any meeting,” he blinked and framed the vision of cherry red lipstick, formed into a tight line of mixed emotions. He remembered those lips smiling though. He’d paid close attention, because he made them smile, and he framed them, hoping the larva wouldn’t gnaw it out of his memory next time they fed.
“All shelters are closed for the night. Is there any place you can stay?” Now he blinked and focused on the eyes, squeezing his own shut he tried to recall the memory. Amber with golden shattered specks. Unlike his blood, they didn’t go around and around; they flashed from the traffic light to his miserable form. He’d rather not seek further what kind variety of underlying emotions lay hidden behind the golden edges.
“N-no,” he finally admitted. He wasn’t actually sad about that fact, as much as he was worried where to go now. There was a place he lives, but he couldn’t reveal it to her. It was a secret to keep.
She huffed deeply, guiding the vehicle amongst lights and buildings. The car’s sounds and steady movement had an easy effect on his internal struggle. Dozing off little by little, the panic stopped shaking him and left him alone.
“You can stay in my place, just for tonight.”
“I can sleep in the c-c-car.” He whispered only half aware of her offer. In all honesty sleeping inside this dry, comfortably warm car felt like a God sent. It surely would keep all dirty little crawlers out.
“Don’t be stupid,” she answered, cherry red lips twitching and golden speaks glistening while pupils keep track of the road. “Don’t be stupid.”