After/Side-Effects

Some imagination required.

Stuck, always uncomfortable, frustrated if not entirely ‘f***ed off’ by the overwhelming silence; the sounds of the slumbering world. At this point jealousy makes it’s entrance - only to increase your f***edoffness. Rolling over in the dense darkness, you know your paramour is deep within some dream, her/his soul strengthened by the serenity of sleep.

A dull sound finds a beat. Surely it must be the pounding of your heart. The space you find solace is dark enough to strangle any sense of safety - making it difficult to breathe. Stuck in the unseen, wondering what the dull, desperate, down tempo thud might be. The knocking is soft, yet ear crackling loud for perhaps you alone - it knocks a path through to your paranoia - Your body burns and sweat bubbles out beneath the sheets.

A cringeworthy creak makes a crescendo, creating new tension in your spine, almost splitting it, making your fingers and toes numb. The heavy groan of wooden beams gets loud, then louder until it sounds ready to fall and crush the entire bedroom.

“What the f***?” was your usual response to an unknown moment upon moment upon mind mauling minutes of madness. You’re not afraid, or at least thats what you tell yourself. Then a mild terror tickles your insides as you turn your head towards your love. S/He’s probably sleeping sweet enough to rot teeth. You consider how awakening him/her in the middle of their dreams might be more terrifying than whatever is making the house have a conversation.

A deep breath, “I just need to know I’m not crazy.” You prepare yourself for the battering and babbling reprimand which will most probably burn you into a conversational crisp seasoned with remorse. Regardless of regret, you slowly slide your hand over to their side, the darkness making it difficult to see. You stretch, further and farther - all the way to the other side of the bed… Yes…No… not there.

The sound ceases to be just a sound - the dancing door permeates through the darkness at a different tempo - faster, harder, unhinged. Finally, courage finds your feet and with a measured breath, you throw off the covers and turn on the light. At the introduction of illumination, the scary sounds subside until silent. You close your eyes for escape from the fucked upness of the situation. You ache in the chest, choosing to be free of the fear and walk towards the supposed source of the sound.The start of your investigation is at the bathroom door, which is usually closed and a little loose. Turning the handle delicately before impulse inspires you to push the door open and charge forward, the door stops on what sounds like a skull and punctuated by a shocked cry, “F*** my life…”

There s/he stood, the love of your life, caught in a spiral, the whirlwind of your kindness keeping them afloat in two separate worlds. Although, you never imagined - never thought it possible to be this way. A question asked almost every day. The answer to your chaotic existence sways before you, slowly - slipping back from sleep into waking - face flattened, bruised as a crooked nose pulsates and spurts blood in time with each breath.

“My love,” you try to be caring, soft voice and no sense of aggression. You remind yourself of their slow and sadistic manner when waking up. “I’m sorry my love… I was trying to sleep and the door kept on knocking, drove me nuts.” You choose not to divulge your experience with paranoia. The guilt must be gouging out something serious because all you can do is fall to your knees and laugh. A minute of madness before reality rips you from your mania - then comes the cherry.

“How can you chuckle like a f***ing child?” Your lover raises their voice, trying to overwhelm your laughing with a stern and savagely serious tone - terrifying but sweet.

“You better get off your knees and help me or else I don’t know…” You tremble, remembering the feeling of trillions of tiny needles, slicing and shooting right through your entire body and soul again and again and again, etc. You don’t know how s/he does it. But you handle it as best you can… All because you want to… maybe now it feels like ‘have to’ help your love, the most beautiful wo/man in all the world, woven into the tapestry of your tepid life. You can’t help but love them and their faults.

“Here, let me help you,” and you do, giving her/him a towel to soak up the blood flowing freely from their nose. Fortunately there are hardly any serious bruises. Fortunately, hah, the only serious damage being the buckets of blood bursting out your lover’s nose.

“You’re a f***ing dick, you know that…?” Their words are muffled and slightly nasal. S/He walks into the bathroom - each stomp enunciated with the constant repetition of various and creative profanities

You clean the blood from their face with a warm washcloth, removing the rivers of red splashed nonchalantly across their visage. That vandalized visage. The viciously vandalized visage - the nose… ew… “Babe, I think you just got hotter…”

“Go f*** yourself you c***.., I can’t breathe through my f***ing nose.” The coarse words are enough to make you step back and let them finish. In the mirror, you look at him/her while smiling. S/He has cleaned up most of the blood but the nose is so bent it almost touches his/her ear. Worth a smile at least, if not a a quiet giggle. But s/he is still beautiful - no matter how mean, how flawed and fucked up s/he is - there was something about her/him that crippled you with cravings known and unspoken.

“I assume you’re having trouble sleeping, yes?” more of a grumble than a rhetorical routine. Those were the words spoken twenty five days, eight hours and fifteen minutes in the past by some so-called medical professional. However, You are in the here and now. And now you wonder if it hadn’t been better… it might be okay… perhaps…if you let him/her keep drinking...just, less. S/He can control it… You’ll be there… Damnit, that’s only what you make yourself believe. The lies will lacerate you into ribbons of regret. Never forget that you and your lover are a unit. A regular couple, supporting each other, loving each other, the best of friends, the worst of enemies. But always that love… THE love…

“It’s not uncommon for recovering alcoholics to experience insomnia. I’ll write you a prescription. Take them forty five minutes before you go to bed, after you’ve eaten. That should do you right.” That damn doctor… he could have mentioned the side-effects to us…Again, you can’t help digging into the details. That which led to the first time. The broken nose in a haunted home.

Her/His sense of self always used to melt away into pools of self-pity. You couldn’t take it anymore. S/He was this amazingly beautiful and compassionate person with enough courage and confidence to change the world. Amazing is not enough. S/He is and will always be fantastic yet flawed… her/his perfection, peeling away as you became more intimate. You enjoyed how vulnerable s/he was with you... Remember how much you both drank…?Divulging heart, soul and mind through fragile moments of candor. Then came the clumsy caress, the sloppy, intoxicated kiss… That kiss… Every one made you love them more. Now you don’t kiss at all.

It was a victory for you, pride overflowing when your lover decided to handle their drinking problem and to get completely sober. It was after the bloody nose incident that the side-effects of the sleeping tablets were revealed: Some kind of lucid disassociated sleep walking being the number one - especially with recovering alcoholics.

Truly, it was not before long that s/he became ghostlike in the humming darkness of the evening. Haunting you with howls of laughter, cooking food and burning billows of smoke about the house. Incredibly if not unbelievably S/He could still eat, drink and interact while in their slumbering near stumbling state.

And so, you being you, had no choice but to stay with them during their fluid motions in existence... Incase they ended up doing something… well.. awful.

Eventually you started having conversations; although it felt like a dialogue with a ditsy person or even a young child- So basic and easy and enjoyable and fun. You started feeling more at ease and pleased with this sleep walking beauty. S/Hwas kind, never said anything mean and simply wanted to DO as much as possible as though they were aware of the waning hours. That beauty who sleeps and makes your beautiful lover even more beautiful. It makes him/her more incredible. And here you thought nothing could rise above the peak of perfection that is your lover.

Through all the half-lives lived and lies you hid, there was that one conversation you two had... it unsettled you to think about it and yet you still do. You remember how the two of you were were enjoying some chocolates and playing battleship. After a hit on B9 sunk a destroyer, s/he touched their nose and looked down at his/her hands.

“How come my nose is so skew?” That voice vibrates still, echoes of aching and unrelenting regret grinds you to dust.

“It’s because you had an accident. You were very clumsy and hurt yourself while sleeping.” you grimace inside - not even you can be convinced by that lie. Then the painful moment of sadness, minutes experienced as hours passed, before the first blow is struck: “I think you’re lying… I think you did something to me but you won’t tell me… I remember things too you know.”

“Of course you remember... when we dream that stuff isn’t real. It’s only when you wake up and we hang out together - that’s real, that’s what you should remember.”

“Okay,” s/he simpers, swathed in an incredible glow, so pure and peerless, “But I also know what is a dream and what isn’t…”

You try and act disinterested, getting up for a ‘glass of water’, “Well, our dreams make up reasons for things and sometimes those reasons are taken from real life - our life. Trust me, when you sleep it’s a nightmare.” You laugh with as much sincerity as you can muster, the conversation finally clawing its way into your subconscious. You can’t help but feel terrified of destroying your perfect relationship with the human being of your dreams. It’s never going to happen. They won’t figure it out... you hope.

“I know it was you.” your side-affected lover whispers in your ear. The tone in his/her dream-like daze has the hint of hell behind it. The way they said ‘know’ was in itself frightening -accentuating it in your ear, the slightest taste of hate coating their words. You should probably feel terrified but you still hold to hope…

“Oh fuck… “You think as the whisper wades into laughter. Your lover is suddenly in tears, sitting on their knees and giggling, at you. It feels… f***ing frustrating. All you do is stand and watch and wallow and wait...

Finally, their sedated self clasps some composure and points at their nose.

“This wasn’t from being clumsy.” your lover walks towards the kitchen, picking up an open bottle of wine - S/He invites you over. You can’t resist.

“I remember the first time I woke up and then I felt pain and then everything was salty, red and hurting. And then I saw you - you laughed at me...” The slices of silence are stifling...”But it’s okay... I’m okay...” the tone of their voice is comforting. In an instant your insides are untwisted.

With wine glasses in hand you both smile. You both laugh. You see them shaking as they try pouring more non-alcoholic Shiraz into the glasses.

“Here, let me do it, “you offer to be polite. Yet s/he insists on doing it themselves. Despite his/her delirious nature, your lover finally handed you a glass and picked up their own. That bottle still gripped so hard in hand, ready to break - . “Let’s do the cheers thing”his/her voice is calm, bordering on carefree.

“Let’s say cheers to being here”.

Your raise your glass to take a sip, as do they, those eyes piercing you, almost like needles… those needles…

Their figure seemed to move in slow-motion through the warped view of the wine glass. Before it even hit you, you felt the bottle bashing into your face. It’s the fifth one that makes you fall to the ground. That’s when you start tasting blood instead of shitty wine. What’s left of the glass sticks in your eye, making it difficult to see… As you fall, you hear your teeth rattling like dice as they disappear under the furniture.

Your head hits the floor, you hope your skull breaks, you hope for death. At the moment, it’s your nose that hurts the most, you don’t care about your heart anymore after being assaulted by your lover. All from the memory of a broken nose brewing the belief in quid pro quo, overshadowed by quid pro dolorem.(sorrow).

“You’re a c*** you piece of sh!t.”

You can only gurgle a few words before they start spreading your brains out on the floor like bloody butter on cold, hard bread.

“Yeah, I know.”