24 nov 2013, 9:50

Gloomy Sunday 

  Prosa » Relatos
1868 0 1
3 мин за четене

It’s Sunday morning. The laughter of little children playing outside woke me up. Little bastards. What time is it? It’s so dark in my room. Oh, wait, the curtains are covering the windows. I reach for my phone. It’s 9am. F***ing children. I wish they drowned so I don’t have to deal with their annoying, irritating laughter on their way back from the beach. I stand up. My vision is blurred, my body is weak, and I fall back in my bed. I see a red spot on my pillow. I touch my face just to find the dry blood under my nose. The room smells like cigarettes, sweat, and alcohol. Everything is spinning, my brain feels numb. I’m trying to remember what happened last night… no success. My memories faded away as the greenish, shiny liquid sipped down my throat and the pile of snow-white powder was sitting on the glass table, with a few brown rocks on top of it, quite resembling cinnamon. This explains the blood. By the time I manage to crawl out of bed it’s already noon. Gradually, I come back to the reality. All my responsibilities hit me and get me a splitting headache. It’s too much to bear. I want to fly back to my own alternative reality – the reality where the colors are brighter, the sounds more vivid, my body – warmer, where there are no worries, no responsibilities, and the people love and care about each other.  I shake my head and look at the pile of books on my desk. I sit and stare at them. My hands are shaking to the point where it is almost impossible to write. I can’t concentrate, I can’t think of anything. Suddenly, a quick thought flashes through my mind. I grab my wallet and look with admiration at the hundred pesos sitting there, perfectly rolled. I unroll them, lick them, nothing. It’s all gone. I am back to my dark, gloomy Sunday. I open my drawer and reach for a little bag, which was once full of green, crystalized happiness. Now there is not nearly enough. Not even for one bowl. Even though, I pack it and light it. Not enough. I need more. More. I lay back down in my bed, feeling crushed, feeling low, cursing my life, my addiction. I think back about the time when I was innocent, when I was the smartest kid in the class, before the endless fights with my mother, before the school contracts, suspensions, before the alcohol and endless partying, before the drugs… Enough destructive thoughts. It’s too much to handle. I know exactly what I need. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but for some reason I’ve been ignoring it. Maybe because of fear, maybe because of the remnants of morals that I had, but now, there is no trace of either. I go to my father’s room and take the needle that has tempted me for so long. At this moment, I am purely, entirely crave driven, not thinking about the possible consequences if my parents find out… I proceed to my room, open the hidden pocket of my school bag, and take out the little baggy of brownish powder – my ticket to heaven, my way out. The spoon is already set on my desk. With my hands shaking, I open the bag and empty its content in the spoon. Two drops of water, added to the powder leave me staring with amazement as the liquid happiness blends. It’s ready. I use my old shoelaces to block the blood flow to my arm. I shiver as the needle pinches through my skin, into my vein, but it is a sweet pain. The blood mixes with the opium solution, giving it a beautiful brownish color. I release the knot, and shoot. The room disintegrates as the warm sensation fills my whole body. I fall back in my bed, looking at my mother, my school work, all my pains, regrets, and responsibilities melting, drifting far apart from me, slowly fading away. Now they’re gone completely. I am no longer part of that grey reality. I am back. I am me. I am happy. Everything is normal again. This is my reality. I close my eyes and prepare for another Sunday… just another Sunday in heaven.

© Христо Гаврилов Todos los derechos reservados

Comentarios
Por favor, acceda con su perfil, para poder hacer comentarios y votar.
  • Винаги съм се чудел защо хората пишат толкова подробни описания на толкова скучни за външния наблюдател (читател) усещания.
Propuestas
: ??:??