Purple Veins

I smashed the pint glass into the toilet and rammed my fist into the bowl. I beat and scraped my hand against the sides, sandwiching the glass in between my hand and the porcelain grasping at the shards. I watched the blue water turn a dark purple. My mind was racing. I pulled my hand out. It pissed blood. I watched it run down my arm. The bleach from the water burned my skin and got in the cuts and holes and made them itch. I looked in the mirror. My face was bleeding to. The show I had played had gone the way of my head. Fucked. I remembered the people in crowd’s faces as I shouted at them to punch me in the face. Of course someone complied. The blows came thick and fast. I stumbled back on the stage with just enough time to look at the singers face. I still can’t describe the look he gave me. We burst into the next song. For the next 3 minutes I was at peace. One of the hardest things I’ve ever felt is the come down and silence between songs.

When I woke up the next day I pulled on my shirt. Pulled back the curtains and felt the suns heat prickle on my face. I didn’t remember a thing after that scene in the bogs. I headed out the door. My hand started to itch again. I held it up to the sun. It was swollen red and shredded. I carried on walking until I hit my local pub. A hangout of fuck ups, failures and pretentious pricks I had now started to call my friends.

When I entered the bar the faces of the crowd told me I had made a scene. I must have ended up there after the show. People always revelled in the joy of telling me what I had done the night before. People get a sick sense of pleasure from shit like that.

Every time someone tries to tell me what I have done in a black out I make a noise in my head. A coping mechanism I have developed after years of abuse and morning afters. Sometimes the noise comes out vocally. A high hum. Sometimes when on my own even words came out.  “Mom” being the most popular one usually coupled with an involuntary spastic flinch of my body.  

I remember her once telling me when she was talking about my dads drinking how addicts attract other addicts who have worse addictions then their own in order to feel normal.

 I had many friends at that point. 

I headed home after trying to drink away my shame. I ran out of money before I could. I opened the door and fell inside. My teeth clenched. They squeaked in my jaw. The thought of these four walls were killing me. Outside drinks were being drunk, Stories swapped. Bullshit fed, Lines engulfed and I’m here half sober, half cocked.

 I made a promise to myself. To care. To care about myself. But it was too hard to think about let alone do it. I had spent the last 27 years hating every inch of my self. Every trait and every thought I had. I despised myself. I didn’t want to make it. I didn’t deserve to... and in the back of my head the voices. The voices that had plagued me for years were laughing and taunting me. Telling me I couldn’t and I wouldn’t do it. I had to agree with them. The fucking beast inside of me wanted out. I could feel its claws, its growl, rumbling within scratching at my gut. 

I grabbed the phone and called the only number I knew off by heart.

“hey mate you about?”

“what you after?”