The tears won’t come. My eyes’ drought is paradoxically the result of life’s storm clouds sucked dry poured over my heart leaving me wondering just where the moisture has gone as if it packed its bags and departed with the setting sun. So I start cutting myself. The blade bites for blood and gets just that. There’s the moisture. There’s the evidence of those damned storm clouds. Tears finally fall on my wrist diluted with sweat an angry red life-force. I have so much to do but the pain’s what I’m doing now. I spend the evening lying in my own blood and tears crying and crying then screaming and screaming then I pass out. Not death not what I really want not what I’ve tried to do. It’s not really what I need.
‘I could lie like this forever.’
‘So could I.’
‘But we can’t.’
‘No, we can’t,’ Jess says, and separates herself from my arms. It pains us both, we both cringe a little; we’re selfish in our selflessness. She removes her naked back and yellow panties from the room, then returns with lemonade just for me. I sip and share a stare with her that has no need for obvious emotion. We know what we’re both thinking, feeling, but she startles me with her laughing words: ‘Give me a sip!’
I play video games almost all day, when I usually play them all day, while she’s at work. At about 4.30pm I decapitate another dots-per-inch representation of the power bill she always pays, then I throw the fucking Xbox out the nearest window; the cost of the glass will be worth the savings to my mind and our electricity costs, but I still watch trashy afternoon TV as a way of coming-down off the fantasy-world high. I stopped wondering what she sees in me years ago, but the fact I remember such thoughts is ironic, and comforted only by the fact I’ve prepared dinner as she walks through the door.
‘What happened to the window?’
‘I gave up video games.’
‘Oh,’ she says, with more relief than surprise. ‘Good. What’s for dinner?’
‘My undying devotion for you.’
‘Mmmmm, well it’s a little corny but I must admit it’s my favourite,’ she advances on the couch under my arse.
‘How was work?’
‘Who cares?’ she says and envelops me like a delicious, natural high.
The room reeks of stagnant tinny blood as my eyes peel open. Back against the side of the mattress arse in a pool of pain eyes and body all out of tears and blood but craving more. I throw-up in my lap disgusted with the fact I’m still alive but dead inside like the ineffectual black sheep of an otherwise well-nourished zombie family. I watch and watch and watch and watch the doorway hoping she’ll emerge topless with pancakes in the morning but she doesn’t and I dry retch while raising myself to my feet to escape the floor of agony. Falling back onto the bed I tell myself I didn’t fail and it was my plan all along to stare at the ceiling breathing blood and sinking into previously unknown depths of depression.