Unquiet Desperation
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Author Topic: Bludgeoning the Metaphors: She’s Painfully Parched  (Read 3135 times)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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« on: June 11, 2010, 02:00:34 PM »


Kate woke to realise she was lousy from the night just past. Sneaking a tiny crack in her eyes the lashes still cross weaved; she had too quickly screw them closed again. Not quickly enough. Some light got caught under the lids of her eyes and broke into sharp luminous fragments, flashing a strange green at the edges. Scowling her tongue round the half pipe of her cheek was like licking the coarse dead skin of a pig. Her front teeth, top and bottom, were moored like boats in the harbour of a murky estuary. Plastered with tiny kebab meat barnacles. The dry sponge now licking at her lips told her she should go chance the fridge for fancy juices. Her housemate’s had always been well-to-do that way; but then there’s always that risk. A creeping headache started up as an old man crewing a hard beach pebble in her ear, whilst looking at framed memories on the wall of an airport smoking room. It was all too cloudy.

Her right foot missed the roll call and she nearly buckled standing up from her bed. She didn’t realise it; but it was a welcome distraction from the headache. Coming down the corridor, on into the living room, the pins and needles had pretty much evaporated.

Now the waft of stale beer and fermenting cigarette’s in beer bottles caused her to gip sharply. Her tongued trying to jump out of her skull like she was some sort of Pez dispenser. Kate slipped almost dead weight onto the sofa as she clenched her stomach and breathed slow pensive breathes. When they moved into the house 6 months ago, the sofa came with it, a huge six seater that covered two sides of the room. It was nearly deep enough to lie down on. Dark chocolate brown made from a soft suede fabric. It must have cost someone two years finance when it was first born. Suzie, the Canadian dyke, called it the hash cake sofa because it was impossible to get up from.   

At this time in the morning the hash cake sofa was lovely and cooling on Kate’s skin. She thought about tumbling back to sleep in a slump where she lay, when the same cooling sensation reminded her of the fancy juices lurking in the fridge. Just a little further she reassured herself. The living room was in an absolute state and the grime from a sweaty nights sleep was helping to bring on the beer blues. It was now or never. Kate used the hash cake sofa arm like a zimaframe, ambling on towards kitchen door.

The chequered laminate floor had scarcely seen the arse end of a mop in months.  Perfect; something squelched up between her toes. Kate didn’t care to look at what it could be, instead wiping her foot on an old t-shirt that had lain idle on the floor for weeks. Focusing solely on the shiny fridge door handle. The bastard had been totally cleaned out only the smell of rotting vegetables remained. There’s was nothing; no fancy juices, no sugar water not even milk enough for a coffee. The headache was now a rooster lodged tight behind her right eye, crowing cock-a-doodle-dooooo upon the slightest of movements. Some of the luminous fragments caught in the corners of her eyes splintered into tiny pieces and a great bell would chime causing her vision to fuzz. Kate paused momentarily, her hand flat against the closed fridge door. There was no plan formulating, only the still growing headache and a craving for fresh orange juice. 

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