Did I do OK?

An open street

In a vacuum

Near silent

A break in nothing

The eye of the hollow.

THE PAST

And here we were again, me and ****, staring in disbelief at the cold void that no amount of alcohol or self medication could begin to fill.  A place we hoped we’d never have to return to, let alone so soon.

“You know” he begins with a voice like a dry sob, turned down at each end.  Our second language.

“Hah.  I... You know I just keep wondering”

I don’t turn to him.

“I can’t help but wonder... who’s going to be next?”

We both let the question hang in the thick air of the mid-day pub.  An old man sits in the corner, muttering into a paper and occasionally hawking and chewing on the results.  We hardly notice him.

I slowly turn, and give him a smile that is nowhere near a smile, but I am thinking only one thing.

It’s not going to be me.

It.

Is.

Not.

Going.

To.

Be.

Me.

I am here to suffer through this all.

I will not be given any such release.

As much as I may think I want it.

As much as I pray that the same void consumes me whole.

It’s not going to be me.

THE NOT PAST

The days just blur together.

Every one of them, not a day closer to death, but a day I didn’t die.

Another day I didn’t die.

And we drink.  And I drink.

Together.  Alone.  Both.

To try and feel happy.  To try and feel sad.  To break through the numbness.  To feel numb again.

Drink and drink and drink and drink and drink ‘til you are so full that its uncontrollably pissing out of your eyes, and you can tell the world that it worked and something happened and kid yourself that you feel a bit better, or at feel least something before your face goes numb and you do it all again.

Did I do good by you?

I’ve had enough.

I’ve just had enough.

None of you are even listening.

I feel like I’m shouting nothing.

Silent screams into an uncaring vacuum.

A soft hand on my shoulder.

Reassurance.

Pick out a sentence.

Roll it around.

Pick out a sentence.

Did you like that one?

Roll it around.

Feel how your tongue moves.

As you say the words.

Did I?

Do it?

Right?

Purse your lips.

Narrowed eyes.

Ha ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Wasn’t that funny?

A soft hand on my shoulder and a tight hand round your throat.

The look.

The look.

Did I?

Do it?

Wrong?

Comical tears and sad, sad laughter.

Deconstructed scorn and abandoned judgements.

And a question I’ll never here the end of.

My right leg has gone cold, again.  Been happening a lot lately.  It feels wet.  Soaked.

I check it in a panic, but it’s dry, as ever.

It all feels wet, but it never is.

As the bottle sinks into the black and grey.

Did I?

Enough.

Do it?

Stop it.

Right?

Did I do right by you?

Did I do ok?