Re: Dirt and Filth ( Jesse Fforde)
Posted: 27 Oct 2013, 23:42
The tile floor sent chills down his spine once its surface connected with his bare back. His mouth laid open much like that of a baby bird, taking its first meal provide by its mother. Not that he was calling the man his mother or father. He had one of those already, but he was giving him a new sense of life. Well, at the moment, he didn't know he was being given new life. He felt like a freak; a sick monster ingesting someone else's blood. Hadn't he read the case studies in high school about what could be transferred through blood? All the diseases and infections....things that could kill him. Yet this didn't feel like anything that could kill him. In other words, he didn't know what the hell he was participating in and why he couldn't stop himself.
The waterfall blood had cease and he laid on the floor in a complete daze, eyes creeping open to stare lazily at the ceiling. He could feel the stickiness of the dark substance begin to dry on his cheek. Ishaq probably looked a hot mess, but he felt this eerie sense of peace washing over him. This feeling...this sensation, it reminded him of the first time he tried cocaine. It was the same sensation he continually sought after, taking more and more to achieve the very first high he ever experienced on the wondrous drug. This was the first time in a while he could just be for a moment. The world stood still for him. He wished it could last forever.
Forever only lasted a minute or two really.
It started off in a dull ache, much like stomach ache. The man didn't move but continued to be still, hoping and believing that the dull ache would soon pass. Yet, gradually, it began to creep up his chest. It made his left arm tingle. Ishaq closed his eyes and brought his hand to his chest to check his heartbeat. But he didn't try to get up nor did he cry out in pain. He like to think he had a high pain tolerance. You couldn't be a pussy with pain and expect to endure the hours of needle work to get the tattoos on his skin. So, he thought he could endure this too with breathing in and out slowly to pace his heart.
Then it stabbed him. His eyes shot open as he lifted his head to peer down at his stomach. At first, he assumed the man had stabbed. But no blood was spilling from a gaping wound. There was no wound, but the stabbing continued and he curled onto his side, wrapping his arms around himself. "Ugh...****.." he groaned, trying to catch his breath. Why the hell was he becoming short of breath all of sudden? What started out as the best high of his life was turning into a nightmare filled with unbelievable pain and uncertainty. He rolled onto his hands and knees, pressing his forehead against the cool yet dirty floor. Was it the blood? It had to be the blood. How could his system digest it so quickly? His abdominal muscles constricted and he smacked his head into the tile floor several times in an attempt to refocus his pain to another area of his body. It worked for a moment; now, his head pounded and a stream of blood ran down the bridge of his nose.
There had to be another way.
He thought...if I just vomit, I'll be alright. Ishaq crawled over the dead girl and slightly pass the man. Lifting his hand up, he reached out to push the toilet's lid up, but couldn't. Instead, he found himself slumping by the toilet, gasping furiously and desperately for air. He clutched his chest with one hand, forgetting about the pain in his stomach instantly, or even the pain pulsing from his head. His eyes rolled back before they fluttered closed and his body grew still on the bathroom floor, his hand relaxing then dropping to the ground. And Ishaq for sure met the end of his days.
It was cold. No, he was cold. But he supposed that's what death was-cold and lonely. He kept his eyes closed for a few moments longer, unsure if he wanted to even open them at all. What the hell would his eyes meet? Allah as his grandfather called him? Saint Peter? Mother Mary? Where would he be standing? In front of the pearly gates? Hell even? Purgatory? He didn't know and a part of him wished he spent more time finding some sort of faith of his own. At least he would have had something to base this moment off of other than the perceptions of others. He would never know unless he opened his eyes. So he opened his eyes and was met with the most unusual sight:
the motherfucking bathroom.
No, that can't be right. He was dead, yes? At least, he felt he was dead. The bathroom of all places? Ishaq groaned as he propped himself up against the toilet. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust; everything seemed a bit brighter. His gaze shifted to the floor and started hard and long at the girl who was still very much dead and who most definitely hadn't moved from her final resting spot. Which could only mean....
His head turned to face the mysterious man, sitting at the cupboard. Bringing his hand up to his face, Ishaq scratched at his cheek and pulled his hand away to stare.
Under his fingernails rested the crusted dark remains of blood.
"I...don't...what the **** just happened?"
The waterfall blood had cease and he laid on the floor in a complete daze, eyes creeping open to stare lazily at the ceiling. He could feel the stickiness of the dark substance begin to dry on his cheek. Ishaq probably looked a hot mess, but he felt this eerie sense of peace washing over him. This feeling...this sensation, it reminded him of the first time he tried cocaine. It was the same sensation he continually sought after, taking more and more to achieve the very first high he ever experienced on the wondrous drug. This was the first time in a while he could just be for a moment. The world stood still for him. He wished it could last forever.
Forever only lasted a minute or two really.
It started off in a dull ache, much like stomach ache. The man didn't move but continued to be still, hoping and believing that the dull ache would soon pass. Yet, gradually, it began to creep up his chest. It made his left arm tingle. Ishaq closed his eyes and brought his hand to his chest to check his heartbeat. But he didn't try to get up nor did he cry out in pain. He like to think he had a high pain tolerance. You couldn't be a pussy with pain and expect to endure the hours of needle work to get the tattoos on his skin. So, he thought he could endure this too with breathing in and out slowly to pace his heart.
Then it stabbed him. His eyes shot open as he lifted his head to peer down at his stomach. At first, he assumed the man had stabbed. But no blood was spilling from a gaping wound. There was no wound, but the stabbing continued and he curled onto his side, wrapping his arms around himself. "Ugh...****.." he groaned, trying to catch his breath. Why the hell was he becoming short of breath all of sudden? What started out as the best high of his life was turning into a nightmare filled with unbelievable pain and uncertainty. He rolled onto his hands and knees, pressing his forehead against the cool yet dirty floor. Was it the blood? It had to be the blood. How could his system digest it so quickly? His abdominal muscles constricted and he smacked his head into the tile floor several times in an attempt to refocus his pain to another area of his body. It worked for a moment; now, his head pounded and a stream of blood ran down the bridge of his nose.
There had to be another way.
He thought...if I just vomit, I'll be alright. Ishaq crawled over the dead girl and slightly pass the man. Lifting his hand up, he reached out to push the toilet's lid up, but couldn't. Instead, he found himself slumping by the toilet, gasping furiously and desperately for air. He clutched his chest with one hand, forgetting about the pain in his stomach instantly, or even the pain pulsing from his head. His eyes rolled back before they fluttered closed and his body grew still on the bathroom floor, his hand relaxing then dropping to the ground. And Ishaq for sure met the end of his days.
It was cold. No, he was cold. But he supposed that's what death was-cold and lonely. He kept his eyes closed for a few moments longer, unsure if he wanted to even open them at all. What the hell would his eyes meet? Allah as his grandfather called him? Saint Peter? Mother Mary? Where would he be standing? In front of the pearly gates? Hell even? Purgatory? He didn't know and a part of him wished he spent more time finding some sort of faith of his own. At least he would have had something to base this moment off of other than the perceptions of others. He would never know unless he opened his eyes. So he opened his eyes and was met with the most unusual sight:
the motherfucking bathroom.
No, that can't be right. He was dead, yes? At least, he felt he was dead. The bathroom of all places? Ishaq groaned as he propped himself up against the toilet. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust; everything seemed a bit brighter. His gaze shifted to the floor and started hard and long at the girl who was still very much dead and who most definitely hadn't moved from her final resting spot. Which could only mean....
His head turned to face the mysterious man, sitting at the cupboard. Bringing his hand up to his face, Ishaq scratched at his cheek and pulled his hand away to stare.
Under his fingernails rested the crusted dark remains of blood.
"I...don't...what the **** just happened?"