(no subject)
Consciousness, you see, takes time.
"I'm sorry, I must have blacked out there."
But the words are raw. Ninety flipping years away. Not the usual doll squeeky flower petal bit only a predator could love, but the kind of voice she's always dreamt of. Cracked and bleeding, heavy breathing. Hot. Sex.
"What's this, then?"
Comes out even worse than before. For now, she's realised there's an anvil on her chest, two hundred and fifty pounds of snoring muscle and skin.
"Fuck."
Was it? How'd we get here, then?
He had warned her this might happen. Somnambulistic terrorism. Too many ex-girlfriends beaten black and blue by his unconscious... Some people lash out in their sleep. Some other people don't mind.
Love. It's always love. Or fifteen years of slagging it about. G-strings, blonde high-lights, cheap manicures, an incomplete sense of security, a fake tan... Nothing ever came of intelligence, so she learns, adapts, self-effaces, self-destructs... It was a challenge she'd been looking for. A prophesy she was banking on. Cliche... "I will die suffocating under the weight of a man," already scrawled in the margins as early as grammer school notebooks. Having to explain to later secondary school friends that "no, this is not a feminist statement, but quite literal," proved futile. "You'll make something of yourself someday, if not this," they'd say. "No, I will not." So she didn't. It's no more complex...
"I knew this would happen."
She pulls her arms up from her sides, the only points unpinned. She wipes the hair from her eyes.
"I can she what you're doing, you know."
His face all bunched up in folds, dark hair lost in regression. He shifts his weight, still snoring malevalence. Hip bone into pancreas, all else flattening out into dough...
Her hands claw at his back, flaking off this week's airbrushed unicorns, faux-French tips, but breaking no skin into the greater scheme of things...
"I cannot breathe, and if I cannot breathe, I will not live..."
But that's the thing, isn't it? All this has been making a bed she would have no choice but to lie in. To be rather than to become... Death. This one bed is death... Intellectialism is impossible when you're losing oxygen.
"Fuck you," but she doesn't mean it anymore.
"This is what it is to die, then?"
Though now it's barely a whisper. She attempts a knee to the groin but her limbs have gone all lime jelly on her. Not a fight, not a struggle, simply the inevitable. If she had the breath, she'd sigh, but she doesn't, so she hasn't, and her thoughts turn quietly to the pencil skirt she's left crumpled out on the floor. "I wonder if that'll iron out tomorrow... If there is a tomorrow... which of course there isn't... Still I wonder if that'll iron out tomorrow..."
Unconsciousness, you see, is quick.
---
First entry of the (un)great motivational task, to get back into the swing of things. From walkupstairs 's:
"starting point:
I woke up this morning feeling like someone had placed an anvil on my chest while I slept, my internal organs felt like they'd been flattened, i couldn't breath without sounding like a 90yr old man and my limbs were like lime jello"