Tick Tock - late night fictional writing. Fictional being the key word.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tick tock.
The poison works quickly. I feel the soft liquid congealing my blood. What would it look like? Colours swirling, bubbling in a warm medley. Huh…
The sink, tap, and mirror twist into a milky haze, and then the room does a somersault. I loose my stomach and drop the syringe. It hits the bathroom tiles with a hollow clink. My throat begins to throb, its as if my esophagus has been rung out like a wet cloth.
Tick tock. Ticktock. Ticktockticktockticktock
My pulse surges… Shivering, I clamp my eyes shut, feeling my pupils swim into the back of their sockets. I focus on the colors as my body surrenders into shock. It feels like a butterfly is trapped in my chest, beating her broken wings with unbearable fury. My heart sucks up the toxins, sending them quivering through every vein. I loose feeling in my arms and legs and they curl up involuntarily like a dead spider. I can taste the sour tang of sweat and bile, the froth draining from my lips, and those wings beating ferociously. A curdled scream shrills in the distance, then everything fades to black.
I’m still here… here, whatever ‘here’ means. Fuck, it didn’t work. Fuck, where are my hands? I’m sticking them in front of me but they’re not there, only the veil of darkness and my stream of consciousness - is this supposed to happen?
Soft lights bleed through black… colours swirl in a foggy haze. Gradually they take on shape and form - I’m in a street, I see myself now… aryan features wrapped in dark clothes. Pale cheeks, tired eyes, carefully painted lips. I’m walking, striding quickly down the street in the rain. Am I late for work again? Snaking around people and their kids and dogs, I see myself ducking under umbrellas, over drains, between cars, but something is odd…
It’s almost like I’m not actually there on the footpath, or at least not aware of anything tangible around me. I know where to step and when to duck, but not by experience, by instinct - I’m part of the scene, yet completely removed from it. Amber leaves float in the wind, droplets of rain dance on window panes, a busker plays his violin with beautiful serenity, the lines on his face drawn into deep expression as he bows into the vibration of the strings. The scene is typical, yet innately beautiful.
Tick tock. Tick. Tock. In habitual forward motion, I keep walking, gazing forwards, fixed on an invisible point as if drawn toward some ethereal core…