Sick

Sick

He’s sick of her memory.

He’s sick of her memory, he sat there, in the middle of the night. Sick of the sounds of flats on the floor. Sick of smiling too much during sex last night. Sick of the smell of cheap fabric, and the smell of coffee beans at 5 a.m in the morning. Sick of a refridgerator packed with organic foods. He was sick of her filling his mind. Her blonde hair, and cheeky smile. The perfect fit for a kindergarten teacher. What kind of person would punish such an innocent soul? He was sick of the vodka. Whisky got old fifteen minutes ago, and the vodka was starting to taste like water.

Too much to drink makes you hallucinate.

Too much to drink made him hallucinate. Taking pills with booze makes everything spin out of control. Daniel Meade does not learn from his mistakes. He just likes to make them. He heard the bathtub filling with water. He stumbled into the bathroom, his eyes set on the blue-ish water flooding into the porcalin tub. The water was filling up higher and higher…until it became the sea, and the sea was flooding the room. His head spun, and he closed his eyes. The water was not going away. The salty water filled his mouth…and he wanted to take this opportune moment to drown his sorrow, but instead his pride sinks to the very bottom.

“Start writing your will.”

“Start writing your will,” she said last night sarcastically. “What? Why?” He had asked. “Because…if you keep living like this over that little bitch you’re gonna die soon.” She rolled her eyes. “If I write my will; are you going to stop keeping me alive.” He said. “Maybe.” She responded, and the pen flew fifteen stories out the window.

Sleeping makes you senseless.

Sleeping makes him senseless. Especially when warm bodies are tangled together. He doesn’t need to remember who he did last night. She’ll still be there when he wakes up in the morning. He’s sick of waking up to an empty room with an empty bed. Or rumpled covers, but only the warmth of a big empty spot. The person who slept there shortly had disappeared, knowing that they were only stupid. Stupidity is a good word to relate with Daniel Meade. He is still in his sleep, as a result of alcohal. She only sleeps next to him to make sure he remains conscious.

“Don’t you dare open those curtains.”

“Don’t you dare open those curtains.” He says first thing in the morning. He forgets for a split second who he’s talking to. She tears open the curtains anyway. Her stilettos tap all the way out of the room. Heels are a good change. For a moment, he thinks she’s left, and he pouts. Moments later, she returns. He hears a clinking spoon, and extra weight on the bed. He opens one eye, squinting, he looks at the cherrios in the white plastic bowl. “Can I have Frosted Flakes instead?” She rolls her eyes and says loudly, “beggers can’t be choosers.” He doesn’t argue and shoves the metal spoon into her mouth. He doesn’t remember smiling during the sex.

Maybe what he needs is stilettos.

Maybe what he needs is stilettos. The smell of Prada. The smell of coffee beans at 3 a.m in the morning to cure his headache. A fridge with nothing it but mineral water. He almost missed the evil, manipulative smile she posessed. The perfect fit for a magazine editor. Her dark hair, and signiture glare. Why hadn’t she been punished yet? What kind of person has never wanted her dead? Vodka didn’t get old if the person you were drinking with and you were drunkenly playing a fucked up game of truth or dare. There were no needless smiles during sex. He didn’t mind her filling his mind. He smirked. He wouldn’t get sick of her, Willhelmina Slater. His daily dose of bitch. His new way of getting rid of sick kindergarten teachers.

He can’t possibly get sick of this.

He can’t possibly get sick of this.