Warm colors radiated
from the walls of my den, comfort lapping over my gently as my most
familiar surroundings enveloped me. My tuxedo cat, normally sedentary
and explaining the pouch of fat that hung down from his belly, was
rubbing against my legs, vocalizing his mournful voice. I strode to
the constricted room that housed my powerful water heater, opening a
can of food with a snaaap!
I
started off the shower cold, to douse the heat from me, before
increasing the temperature to near-sauna levels of potency. It did
the trick, and I kneaded knots from my shoulders and neck. After
drying, I dressed in pajamas and robe. While I could ease the tension
from my body, I couldn't drown out the nagging thoughts that rattled
around in my head. They needed to be drowned out. The speakers were
turned on with a press of a button, my phone, charging and hooked up
to the wall, was plugged into the auxiliary port. The Damned played
through the speakers, “Curtain Call” blaring through the surround
sound that ringed the room. I reached for the breakfast bar that
separated kitchen from den, Three small bottles of different heights
were set there, and I took two of them into my hand. One, the more
slender of the two, contained a migraine medicine. They were
expensive, and I valued them greatly. The other, taller and thicker,
was replete with lovely Valium. I took one of the first and two of
the second, and laid back in my brown leather Barca, kicking my feet
up and lighting a cigarette.
I
analyzed the days events, under the facade of cultured relaxation, I
was still a mess. In the Club, with Johnson,
my...hallucination...could only been a side effect of the experiment.
Another flashback, perhaps. But the specific imagery of it was what
daunted me. Death, all around, and Johnson as a...revenant. A ghoul,
or something. My thoughts were drawn back to the otherworldly
embroidery I saw, absorbing light, like some sort of negative color,
like the stuff of black holes woven into the fabric. As the
Scheherazade sequence in the song began to play, three knocks, like
inopportune punctuation sounded on my front door. I will be honest
with you: I jumped, and may have squeaked.
I
answered the door, and my neighbor from the second floor stood before
me. I turned the music down with my remote.
“Evening,
Tom. What's up?” I smiled, or at least tried to, but it probably
came out as more of a strange leer than anything.
“Oh,
not a lot, Wolf, not a lot.” I stepped to the side and waved him
in, but he held up his hand. “Can't stay, man. Me and the missus
are trying to have a quiet, romantic evening, if you take my
meaning.” I nodded.
“Yeah
man, I know what you mean...sorry, just got a lot on my mind, you
know.” Tom, a weatherbeaten fellow in his mid-thirties,
sun-bleached hair like corn silk dusting his head, slacked his mouth
in concern.
“Wanna
talk for a minute?” I shook my head, closing my eyes and rubbing my
temples. “Well, if you need anything, we're right behind you.”
My
head snapped up, my eyes intent and flashing, mouth drawn into a
hard, fierce line. “What did you just say?” My voice left me like
a feral growl, intense and aggressive. My neighbor took a step back.
“Jesus
man, I said we're right above you. If you need to talk or anything.”
I relaxed.
“Yeah,
I'm just having a rough one. You and Jean have a good night, and I'll
keep the tunes down, ok?” We shook hands, quick and tense, and he
was gone like he had appeared, with me shutting the door.
Was
I losing it?
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