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Angel —

In this downtime between ecstasies you place your hands on the cold damp wall and wonder where you’ve been. There are fresh cuts on your arms, the blood caked and smeared, catching in small clots on the fine hairs. Your body aches with a deep exhaustion, but you’re too awake to contemplate sleep. So you pick at the dried blood, enjoying the slight tug as it comes away from the cuts. You’re naked and there’s no noise other than a dog out the back somewhere, barking incessantly. The light is strange. You feel pale and insubstantial. If it wasn’t for this pain, how would you even know you were alive?

Already Dead —

Your reflection stares back at you from the bathroom mirror. Behind your head the passageway is lit up and the door leading into the living room is closed. The water in the sink is cold and clear. Your hands go numb from being left in it too long. Eventually you raise them to your face, water dripping either side. The cold does nothing to wake you.

Four Days Sober —

The hunger waits in the tall white walls of your living room. The itch you don’t want to scratch growing harder to ignore. Moment by moment, second by second, the afternoon stretches out as if on a rack and each breath is a turn of the screw. The pressure of holding it together becoming harder to bear.

Friday morning —

You leave the house, blinking into the light. For you it’s the same day as yesterday because you’ve been up all night drinking and taking speed. The world is beautiful in the morning sunlight, but brittle. You’re going for one last bottle of vodka, a balm to take the edge off the comedown you can already feel. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, that it’d be better to just go to bed, or force your body onto the cramped sofa. But there’s a kind of stubborn pride to staying awake this long. You’re alone in the world at the moment, but today, at this moment, it’s not a problem.

Whether you’re asleep or awake right now will not change that.

the golden light

Ecstasy is such a rare thing in the sober world that you’ve only experienced it on a handful of occasions and always unexpectedly.

Angel —

Walking to the off-licence, eyes tired and damp. The storefront shutters rattle, a dissonant harmony of wind and metal. Your body is heavy; too much meat and bone weighing on the angel within. Already the anticipation of more drink has set the butterflies rioting in your belly, though that could just as easily be the lack of anything more substantial than a meat pie passing your lips since the day before.

Once home, you settle on the couch and look at the world through the bubbles in the glass. A bright world now, ready to welcome the angel you feel stirring inside.

Flagging —

Day 3 and you’re slowing down, you know that. But you can’t let your body win. Soon it will be dark. You’ll just finish this last can, then go to the off-licence for more … A mouthful … Put the can down by the others … Drink the last of the coffee. Strong coffee, cold now, to keep you going. There’s a heaviness to your body. Your happiness is wearing thin. Happiness isn’t the right word. The ecstasy of drunkenness, of staying drunk, has faded along with the light.

Monday Morning —

On your way to the supermarket, you’re struck by how unreal everything looks. The sun has not risen—it’s only a dirty smear at the end of the street and the shadows make you feel like you’re still asleep. There’s a dog tied up outside the shop. A skinny black mongrel that wags its tail when you get close. You stroke the dog’s head, kneeling so that the animal can lick your face.

Flagging —

The couch is too small to stretch out on, so you lay with your feet hanging over the end. You read and listen to music, which echoes in the tall spaces of the house. The bright overhead bulb casts an unflattering even light that picks out every last detail of your hollow life. The empty cans, the shoes in the corner by the tv. Books in piles, along with a few DVDs. You always keep your writing pad by you, ready in case inspiration strikes. Some days you just stare at your hands, wondering when they’ll next hold someone.

Two Days Sober —

The anxiety is beginning to fade, laughing as you spill your coffee, unable to control the shaking of your hand. The coffee is bitter and will set your nerves on edge, but you’re never going to leave the house without it. Never going to walk the short distance to the shops to buy the food you need. The morning sun reflects off the houses opposite, filling the room with light.

Two Weeks Sober —

The early spring sunshine has a brittle feel to it. Is blue-white, the cold still lingering in the shadows. Steam rises from the wall-pipe and roof. The air, sharp then warm, carries with it a sense of hope. As the days lengthen and your sleep becomes more regular, you begin to feel lonely. Not the deep, crippling loneliness you experienced during the days when you were drinking.

You stand a moment and let the sun fall on your upturned face, pink behind your closed lids.

Waiting —

The afternoon is noisy with parents and children. You’re tired of being sober, but don’t have any money. Staring at your phone, willing for it to ring. For someone, any one of your friends to call and ask if you fancy having a drink. There’s an ache, a terrible longing, that you need to be rid of.

But no one calls. They never do.

The Void —

You wake up one day, a bright morning with the wind gusting down the back alley, rattling the gates. You’re hungover, drunk, and your arms are open. The lines of red blossomed again and there’s blood on the quilt.

It’s a little after 10:00 am and you’ve finished the remaining cans. No matter how much you drink now, you can’t escape the knowledge that the bright feeling is fading faster than you can drink. Yesterday, the day before, your life was on hold. Today the reality of cars and jobs and other people wait outside the house, ready to crush you.

Your tired body. Your weary mind.

Flagging —

Buried alive in this place. Between addiction and longing. Even with the music on in the background, there’s a deep silence.

Each new mouthful brings with it the possibility of joy, a recurrence of the ecstasy you long for.

You’ll be asleep and soon, your eyes, your mind, closing down, but you’ll wake tomorrow, tired still, but temporarily relieved of the need to drink.

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BIO:

p.a. morbid is a poet, Outsider artist & Middlesbrough Historian. Ran The Black Light Engine Room Press from 2010 to present. Author of ‘River Songs’, ‘Gorged On Light’ & ‘Hunger House’. Makes noise with Killy Dog Box.