After Images [6]
The room seemed to close in when I lay down on the bed.
Harsh yellow walls jeering at me.
I couldn’t sleep.
Staring up at the ceiling.
A little part of the roof expanding out. Shaped like a slater caught under the paint.
I shit my eyes and opened them again to look at the spot.
It was definitely moving. Slowly away towards the end of the room with the door.
I put the TV on and it sounded like screams from the apocalypse.
I thought of Defender.
I thought.
I wanted to think.
Thoughts were evaporating.
The slater kept moving.
I stared at a spot right in front of me. Bets to judge if the slater was really moving. Iron sights.
After images of the spot, a cross, burnt into my retina. The slater was definitely moving.
A sound from outside. The world waking up.
Scrambled audio in my head.
I crept to the window and looked through the venetians.
A man. Maybe in his 30s. Old. Weathered. That was the word.
Pulling stuff out of a truck. A tarp. Some rope.
He looked around like he was checking if anyone was watching.
I fondled the photograph.
The photograph that I didn’t need to look at to know what it looked like. An image seared into me.
The world sounded violent.
I watched as the man walked out of the frame.
The TV kept howling at me.
Orange juice might do the trick. Calm my nerves. Bring on sleep.
The only thing to drink in my bag was whiskey. The kind you used to clean things and kill disease.
One shot calmed my nerves.
Two shots made me light headed.
My stomach ached.