Nostalgia For A Non-Existent Time

Sirens were blaring outside, trying in vain to combat the firing of guns and the screams of the unlucky and stupid. The wind seemed desperate to uproot the ground itself, carry this shit-hole away to someplace where it could never bother anybody again. Then the rain, the endless rain, confidently thundering onto the ground, knowing that someday it’d do the right thing and swallow this place. Yet all I could hear was the gentle dripping of my own blood hitting the bathtub. Looking down at my arms and legs, it only just started to settle in what I’d done to myself. The bathtub looked even more filthy than it normally did, like a neglected slaughterhouse. My underwear was fucking ruined as well. It was a brand new white lacy set, all of the pairs I already owned were either ripped or had some irremovable stain on it. It was meant to be a surprise for Fisher tonight, to make up for me ruining everything. But putting it on, and seeing what I looked like?

“Fuckin’ Ann Summers.” I growled under my breath as I reached over the rim of the bath to the floor and grabbed the weightiest bottle that was there, a shitty store value wine of some description. I fucking hate wine. As I started to drink I heard the front door open. The last thing I needed was Fisher to come back now, catching me in the act. Normally I could just say that he got a bit animalistic the night before, but whenever he caught me doing it? Fucking fury and hellfire.

“Fuck off Fisher!” I yelled as loudly as I could. No matter what excuse I’d give he’d always ignore it anyway, so I just ended up settling on brute force most of the time. “I don’t fucking want you here! Piss off!”

Dripping. Dripping and footsteps. He never fucking listened, never fucking cared. I greedily gulped down more of the wine as the door swung open.

But I was surprised to see that a soggy and tired Mason was standing there, not Fisher. We both just stared at each other for a bit, neither of us entirely sure what to do. As he scanned my body up and down, taking in the extent of what I’d done I could see that he was still clutching the right side of his abdomen. Blood was seeping through it ever so slightly. I couldn’t even imagine the pain he must’ve been going through, because of me. He seemed to be breathing heavier the more he looked at me, like the silence was choking him.

“You look like shit.” I said, thrusting the bottle towards him. “This’ll help you.” After a moment of hesitation, he relinquished his grasp on his wound, took a step towards me and grabbed the bottle off me, his bloodied fingers gently touching my own as he did. He immediately turned away from me and began guzzling down the wine as I looked back towards at my now soiled hand.

My fault.

Suddenly Mason tossed aside the now empty bottle into the sink with a noisy clatter. He stared straight into the cracked mirror ahead of me, still breathing heavy, almost daring his reflection to do something. Again, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what was wrong.

“You alright there big man?” He finally turned his eyes back on me, expressionless as always. A sad fact that the only time I ever felt like I understood him was when he was nursing a stab-wound.  He just shrugged non-committedly before finally speaking to me.

“That wine was just a bit bollocks is all.”  With one massive stride across the bathroom, he stooped low and took me out of the bath and into his arms. I grimaced slightly as my fresh wounds met his rough hands, but he carried me with ease as I grasped onto the front of his bloodied shirt, just to remind me that I was clinging onto something real, and warm. I caught him looking at me as I did, and as our eyes met, he simply stared straight ahead as he carried me out of the room filled with blood, wine and regrettable decisions. Whether he was ashamed of or disgusted by me I don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing that I wanted to recognise.

“I don’t fucking know okay?!” I yelled as he stepped out of the bathroom with me. “I just get pissed off and sad you know?”

“I know.”

“No you fucking don’t Mason!” I immediately shrunk back into myself as the ignorance of me words slapped me upside the head. He knew. He knew better than anybody else. It was like we felt nostalgic for a time that didn’t exist. My next words barely came out above a whisper. “I know it’s bullshit, but it’s like…” I couldn’t even finish, didn’t have the strength.

He didn’t say anything, just kept staring ahead with those unmoving slate grey eyes of his as he stepped into mine and Fishers’ room. Brushing aside the layer of used needles and hollow bottles onto the floor, he put me down.

It took me a long time to let go of him.

When I finally did, he brushed a stray hair out of my eye before heading back for the door.

The smothered moonlight just caught him as he left.

There was blood everywhere.

He shouldn’t be helping me.

I tried to call out to him, but just before I could, with his back still turned to me, he asked me something.

“How much have you drunk tonight?” All of a sudden my head became a haze of uncertainty and swelling pain.

“Fucked if I know.”

“You taken anythin’ else?”

“No… we’ve run out.” I felt my own blood begin to pool around me again.

It was warm.

“Can you promise me that you won’t hurt yourself again?”

I wanted to make him feel better, make him stop worrying about me, make it so that he can take care of himself for a change. Make himself stop hurting.

“I’ll try.” I said, weakly, and unconvincingly. He just coughed and shut the door, and those quivering grey eyes were gone.