Snippet #1989

As realization dawns, so does sobriety and the torrent of reality that accompanies it. Memories return, floating atop waves of conscious, soaked in the spray of this destitute sea. I am nauseated, now feeling the immense gravity of my situation.

Though I am concerned, and my demeanor must surely show my unease, I attempt a smile and beckon her to step across the threshold. I turn, stumbling out of the entrance hall and down the corridor to my room. Faint red splotches adorn my knuckles, a single scabbing cut running along my left-middle-finger-knuckle. I rub them, as if to absolve myself of sin, and wipe away the evidence. My heart is beating, throbbing as I wallow in this deluge of guilt. But I know, deep down, that I am neither sorry nor remorseful; I feel guilt because society says I should. A spark of anger threatens to ignite this alcoholic haze: a paroxysm that looms ahead, a dark path of no return.

“Would you like something to drink?” I manage to shout whilst shoving my legs haphazardly into a pair of musty jeans; suddenly I realize I must not have been wearing anything but off-white briefs and a wrinkled dress shirt. A nervous laugh bubbles from my throat, as if unsure of whether to laugh or cry. Clad in casual attire, and a waning confidence in myself, I step back into the Hallway.

“No, thank you. I can wait until we get to the station.” She replies curtly, hiding behind her profession and a wall of feminist ideology, built to protect that fragile little ego. I know people like her, and their dishonesty with themselves makes me cringe with distaste.
“Well, please sit down.” I motion towards a couch, “Let me just grab some coffee and we can go.” My tone is surprisingly pleasant, deceptively calm. As my hand wraps around a mug, an impulse surges through my arm, my grip becoming deathly tight. I pour the cold, straight black coffee into the mug and quickly dodge around the counter. She has not sat down, I observe, instead fidgeting near the doorway, obviously anxious to leave.

I throw a worn leather jacket on, and step towards the door. She is already walking, and I hastily lock my door and turn to follow. I sip the coffee, grimacing from the bitter taste, boring holes into the back of her head with a glare. Already this day seemed onerous, and I could hardly imagine it becoming better. I wasn’t sure if I was scared, angry, or impassive. I seemed to cycle between them, unable to decide who I should be.
My fist ached with phantom pain, a recollection of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My brain screams against it, reminding me of the consequences, of the rules of society. I remember once caring so much about my future and its promise, but this empty existence is tasteless and dry to my palate. The feelings and passion of the last night are growing, in memory, and at present; a phantasmagoria of spinning insanity and blood and screams.

My hand is poised to smash the ceramic mug against her pristine hair, but I hesitate, still bound by some vestige of morality. I redirect the motion into a sip, grimacing once more at the bitterness, and complacently walk at her side. With nothing to lose, I wonder, how long can it last.