I done never mind ha ha ha . I dashed through the debris, giggling like a schoolgirl before rounding a corner and deploying my weapon to devastating effect. Once he stopped choking on the hair, I crushed his skull for good measure.
Blink.
I was dragging something heavy through the doors of the Helix Institute. I spat. Something tinkled against the floor like glass or porcelain. I dropped my prey somewhere on level one, before the freezing seizures took over and I collapsed in a corner around a Bunsen burner.
Bliiii-
My face was glued to the cold floor. Some of the skin below my wrist was scorched black where my sleeping hand had lingered by the fire. The pain was waiting in the wings. I spent a long time staring at the flame before I could move.
I peeled myself away, leaving a red outline on the tiles. I stumbled around the institute and gathered my wits before I found a scalpel and dug the dead flesh from my wrist. A gleam of white smiled merrily back at me before I emptied a bottle of ethanol over the wound. The pain took centre stage, and the empty halls swallowed my screams.
#0813
“Strange. I came to this morning. It’s one of those days—the one where you wake up missing an entire week, with the taste of vodka and blood in your mouth and a hunger that could scourge the planet. I feel like I haven’t eaten since Friday, and I’ve somehow managed to snort so much screech that I release a plume of pink mist every time I sneeze. My throat is also in agony. I may have been eating glass again.
“Mornings like these make me ask the important questions. Am I off the rails? Do I need to check these self-destructive habits? Why are there three bodies nailed to my ceiling? What’s for breakfast?
“Wait. What?”
8: Recovery
It took a few days to piece myself together. A call came through on day one, rousing me from my chemical Xanadu. I recognised the unique caller tone before I hit the speaker key.
“Fuck off, Vincent.”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” He sounded pissed. He sounded extremely pissed.
“Not now, V. Kind of in the middle of something.”
“I’m hoping you mean literally, and the two walls of a garbage compactor.”
“If you called to trade barbs, I’d rather marry a screwdriver to my eardrums and have them consummate it.”
“We have six dead and four more in the hospital, K. The youngest was twelve.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out a painful cough.
“Four in hospital? That’s what I get for not pacing—”
“Two are in a coma—”
“—self. Ah, that sounds more like it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Are you rhetorical?”
“Goddammit K, I can’t believe you—”
“Haven’t hung up yet?”
“I swear to God.... This is worse than the time you commandeered a US drone to hunt pheasants.”
I muted him, absentmindedly examining a track of bite marks down my flank.
“Look, Vincent. I would say that I can understand why you’re angry. But that would be a lie. I’d also tell you I’m sorry but, again, lie. Your lead on Sturrock was worth a wax tampon. I just needed to vent. Not like you’re so saintly. Remember Prague?”
I laced my fingers behind my head and grinned. A few seconds of silence passed before I remembered that the mute was still on.
“—king insane. Do you have any idea what kind of heat this is going to bring down on your hea—”
“Muted again! Stop buzzwording. It’s not helping my headache.”
I sat up and rummaged through my bedside drawer and started pouring myself a screwdriver, but then realised I was out of orange juice, and glasses.
Lifting the bottle with one hand, I switched the mute off with the other.
“And you’re back on the air.”
“I’m done, K. When Sturrock comes to—”
“He survived?”
“—and gives a portrait—”
“That man must be made of iron.”
Blink.
I was dragging something heavy through the doors of the Helix Institute. I spat. Something tinkled against the floor like glass or porcelain. I dropped my prey somewhere on level one, before the freezing seizures took over and I collapsed in a corner around a Bunsen burner.
Bliiii-
My face was glued to the cold floor. Some of the skin below my wrist was scorched black where my sleeping hand had lingered by the fire. The pain was waiting in the wings. I spent a long time staring at the flame before I could move.
I peeled myself away, leaving a red outline on the tiles. I stumbled around the institute and gathered my wits before I found a scalpel and dug the dead flesh from my wrist. A gleam of white smiled merrily back at me before I emptied a bottle of ethanol over the wound. The pain took centre stage, and the empty halls swallowed my screams.
#0813
“Strange. I came to this morning. It’s one of those days—the one where you wake up missing an entire week, with the taste of vodka and blood in your mouth and a hunger that could scourge the planet. I feel like I haven’t eaten since Friday, and I’ve somehow managed to snort so much screech that I release a plume of pink mist every time I sneeze. My throat is also in agony. I may have been eating glass again.
“Mornings like these make me ask the important questions. Am I off the rails? Do I need to check these self-destructive habits? Why are there three bodies nailed to my ceiling? What’s for breakfast?
“Wait. What?”
8: Recovery
It took a few days to piece myself together. A call came through on day one, rousing me from my chemical Xanadu. I recognised the unique caller tone before I hit the speaker key.
“Fuck off, Vincent.”
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” He sounded pissed. He sounded extremely pissed.
“Not now, V. Kind of in the middle of something.”
“I’m hoping you mean literally, and the two walls of a garbage compactor.”
“If you called to trade barbs, I’d rather marry a screwdriver to my eardrums and have them consummate it.”
“We have six dead and four more in the hospital, K. The youngest was twelve.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out a painful cough.
“Four in hospital? That’s what I get for not pacing—”
“Two are in a coma—”
“—self. Ah, that sounds more like it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Are you rhetorical?”
“Goddammit K, I can’t believe you—”
“Haven’t hung up yet?”
“I swear to God.... This is worse than the time you commandeered a US drone to hunt pheasants.”
I muted him, absentmindedly examining a track of bite marks down my flank.
“Look, Vincent. I would say that I can understand why you’re angry. But that would be a lie. I’d also tell you I’m sorry but, again, lie. Your lead on Sturrock was worth a wax tampon. I just needed to vent. Not like you’re so saintly. Remember Prague?”
I laced my fingers behind my head and grinned. A few seconds of silence passed before I remembered that the mute was still on.
“—king insane. Do you have any idea what kind of heat this is going to bring down on your hea—”
“Muted again! Stop buzzwording. It’s not helping my headache.”
I sat up and rummaged through my bedside drawer and started pouring myself a screwdriver, but then realised I was out of orange juice, and glasses.
Lifting the bottle with one hand, I switched the mute off with the other.
“And you’re back on the air.”
“I’m done, K. When Sturrock comes to—”
“He survived?”
“—and gives a portrait—”
“That man must be made of iron.”
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