The morning came like a shotgun full of morbid glory right in my face. Eyes flickered open and closed, muscles spazzing out like a ketamine butterfly. The light from the digital display on the clock was dark; dark like a really dark thing that is devoid of light. The day was crawling up my leg like a frog hungry for my liver.
It is my experience that such days are best left unlived. Such days, like a pitbull humping your leg, leave you in a state of annoyance and arousal.

I try to turn on the bedside light but nothing happens. I sit there in the dark, lost to both time and space. I fumble for a cigargette but in the process put my hand in a puddle of stale vomit that has been congealing since yesterday afternoon.

I’m sick; sick from hunger. Sick from cheap vermouth. I force it down my throat with cheap chemical lemonade-substitute. I can’t remember the last time my head didn’t hurt. I can’t remember why i came here in the first place.

I cannot remember the last time I left the bedsit. Had i ever left the bed-sit? I must of. In order to be somewhere you have to of arrived from someplace else. I hadn’t been here forever. Plus, if I’d never left the bed-sit where did the lemonade and vermouth come from?

I stumble out of bed, hand dripping, and throw myself in the general direction of the sink.

Water. Crystal beautiful clear. The thought ran claustraphobic circles in the bruised centres of my brain. Better that than letting myself think about the smell. With my clean hand i twist the tap. It stings. A noise in pipes deep below rumbles up, as if from deep inside the bowels of some concrete hell. Water begins to spurt out from the tap. It has the colour and consistancy of semolina.

I let the water run and prop myself up against the sink. After a while it runs clear. I splash it lamely into my face, catching it in cupped palms and putting them to my lips. It does little to improve my shambolic state but at least now my face is damp and i can feel my tongue.

Everything is a mess. My hair. The room. My head. Trying to remember anything at the moment is like sticking your dick in a puddle and expecting to catch a fish. All that is clear at the moment is that death would be a blessing. For all i know i am dead, and this is hell. One can but hope.

Despite the creeping horror that wears this room like a second skin the idea that this is all there is to my existence is somewhat comforting. That everything outside the window is merely an illusion and that, if i were to walk out the door, I would find myself back where I started through some horrific mutilation of euclidean geometry; as if i was living in an M. C. Escher lilograph. Something tells me this is not the case. The memory that I had abandoned all religion when i was a child comes at me through the fog that passes for my mind. Hell does not exist except for what Man creates for himself here on this mortal coil. I pour several spoonfuls of brandless instant coffee into a dirty mug and top it off with twice as many spoons of sugar, mixing it together with a splash of skimmed milk. I click the kettle on and search the bedsit floor for passably clean underwear.

I dress shakily, pulling whatever first comes to hand over my clammy naked body. With coffee in hand I sit on the single rickity chair that passes for furniture in here. My hand is shaking so much I have to put the mug down on my equally rickity desk. Both desk and chair were recovered from skips on one of my many expeditions through the city, items discarded as being unfit for their primary use. Nearly everything in the bedsit had been thrown away by somebody else and claimed by me.

When I find something, in an alleyway, skip or simply dumped on the side of the road, i get all tingly with excitement; like xmas in reverse. I am the vengeful ghost of christmas past and my revenge is the gift of life for things which have been left for dead.

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