By Stu Hennigan.
The first retch stirs him. A spasm in the stomach, a tensing of the abdominal muscles, a slight twitch in the shoulders. The flicker of a gummy eyelid, nothing more.
The next one he feels; an acid burn in the back of the throat, body jerking as if from a minor electric shock, then yellow-green bile hits the tastebuds at the back of his tongue, synapses pop like infinite fireworks and billions of neurons race to his brain to flash their warnings that all is far from well.
Another heave and
he’s conscious
rancid liquid squirting down chin soggy torso, peristaltic rush inhaling deeply slowly calmly trying
in
and
out
in
and
out
in
and
out
got to keep it down, guts crease pain stabbing needles pukes fetid stench bargain basement raw spirit, choking struggling
gasping
fighting
sucking in
air like
life itself
convulsions in waves, eyes nose pouring tears snot hacking coughing through the worst over soon, will it, powerless can’t stop sick spattering weakly wet cotton sticky chest hair, half-awake too drunk trapped gyroscopic blur unfixed centre world in motion breathless panicked, eventually finally sickness subsiding
going
going
one
more
heave
fuck
deep breath
in
and
gone
sinks back spent lumpy armchair must have slept when days weeks hours time no more, head pounding blood pumping tumescent mess brain tissue throbbing vein could pop
just like
that
end whole sorry scene, teeth chattering lips contorting parodic ecstatic gurning, body atrophied muscles wracked hypothermic shivers pumice stone tongue mouth desert sand, self-embrace pipe cleaner arms fleshless ribs, transitory warmth sick shirt cooling clinging cloying chill, looking round spinning slowing finding bearings, home, living room wreck spine-snapped sofa dead TV fireplace mirror shattered object hurled in fury lost unremembered blur indeterminate past, curtains torn down sunshine spewing through double glazed glass splashing wine-white light stains carpet thick dust fag ash mould, senses stirring,
what’s that fucking
smell,
miasmic fug stale tobacco sick scent poison seeping gaping pores petroleum reek white label, familiar backdrop rich ripe organic
oh fuck not
again
clammy claggy wet denim bare skin, bending double gagging dry elbows to knees hands cupping head sitting in tepid shit, glint of sun on glass weightless vessel empty head back bottle tipped inverted hope, tiniest drops dregs fumes even no nothing, despair, desolation shaking it, bone dry drained desperate sob animal rage standing in slo-mo wobbling, cushion sticking damp shirt peeling away thoughts of scalded skin, lurching, door no exit no way out unbearable stench retching blindly, upstairs stumbling threshold, hands on sink half-upright porcelain bearing scant weight, trembling hands sweating cold, grimy bathtub old can, Kronenberg, grasping tossing contents ravaged face hole, warm stale brief relief moistening tongue, something semi-solid soggy grainy, boking scratching tongue desperate hands nails splintered bitten quick skin cracked sore cuticles rusty red, spitting out fag end misted splutter flat foul ale, climbing in clothes on turning tap arctic cold gasping shocked shivering melting merging into burning gelid cling clothes growing warm, still the shakes, marionette in full grand mal, water blasting swilling tobacco from teeth and tongue, tearing clothes free run water on stickman frame, no soap washing with hands wiping at sick sticky diarrhoetic shit fingers thin grey crows claws presenting clothes jet scrubbing, wanting craving needing
drink
drink
drink
drink
drink
turning tap back, wet towel on slick black floor grimy mildewed filthy stinking rubbing drying dead flesh skin stretched tight on bone only, rickety clothes horse skeletal in bath, dressing without looking torn jeans black shirt some punk band what did they sing, no, gone, shirt more holes than cotton jeans top damp foisty smell of mouldsmokeshitsweatstalebeerdeath, needing needing needing cupboards bare, sickness all-consuming,
can’t
won’t
must leave
need
need
fucking need
loose landing carpet tripping broken rail, sharp stab puncturing skin blood no, cautiously down, shoes wallet keys in one place praise the saints in fucking heaven, key in lock tumblers click rattle chain cold brass handle cold white hand heart in mouth, horrors here horrors to come people sunlight traffic noise people people all those people, hinges creak door ajar can he will he
no
yes
no no no no no no no
but
he
has
no
choice
swallowing acidbilepuke deep clean hit of morning air door wide open head following body following legs following feet stepping from one world to the next and away to face
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stu Hennigan is a writer, poet and musician from the north of England, currently based in Leeds. His debut non-fiction work Ghost Signs: Poverty and the Pandemic, based on his experiences delivering food parcels in Leeds during the early stages of the pandemic, was published in June 2022 by Bluemoose books. His short fiction and poems have appeared in Lune Journal, the anthology The Middle Of A Sentence, Expat Lit, Visual Verse and others. He is currently working on a novel with the working title of “False Friend”, as well as several other shorter fiction and non-fiction projects.
