the crying of lot 49

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it just crept in

He ran. Feet barely touching the ground, he ran. Head held high, arms pushing him forward, he ran. Breath coming in hard puffs, he ran. He ran fast. Way too fast for his general condition. He knew that. That’s why he ran that fast. The bushes in the little park were hardly more than a green blur in the edge of his vision. He did not run to look at the landscape. He ran to outran the ghosts that were haunting him. He ran to outrun himself.

For the first time in days, he felt elated.     

The rattle of his lung, the rhythm of his breath, the thumping of blood in his temples shut out the world. There was hardly any sound penetrating the walls made of body sounds that he protected him with. Pebbles under his feet, maybe. A dry twig. The short, rash sound of his shoes hitting the blacktop and cobblestone of the small streets he crossed. Not much more. He felt light. He felt fast. He felt free. With these feelings, he darted around the lake in the forest.

It did not start suddenly. It just crept in.

Maybe he had slowed down a little. Loosened his concentration. Gave too much room for his brain to think instead of organizing the oxygen in his body. But there it was. The thought. THE thought. He never saw it coming. He just felt that it was there. Lurking behind the double inhale, double exhale. Peeping. Waving its hand. But there it was.

He accelerated. Sprinted up the short, steep hill at the narrow part of the lake. Sand flying from the profile of his Asics. His breath became audible even to the rare wanderers with dogs. He didn’t care. He ran faster. He ran not fast enough.

When he had first come down the slope to the lake, his head had been empty. No thoughts, no feelings, no pain, just cool, welcome emptiness. Now, clouds had started to form inside his head, out of nothing. Dark, heavy clouds, growing and pushing and shoving. What had been beautifully free from everything, now became a place filled with pressure, dampness, with thunderstorms.

He ran faster. Uphill, downhill, across the sandy path at the end of the lake. Took the shortcut back to the way out of the forest. The path rose, he accelerated again. Feed flying across the forest ground, hands thrusting back and forth, lungs burning. He had stopped breathing through his nose long ago. Mouth wide open, eyes focusing the path ahead, he ran. Up, up, up, faster, faster, faster. The pressure in his head did not yield. He did not yield. He ran up the hill as if the hounds of hell were hunting him down.

He had almost reached the top of the hill when he threw up. His hands found a tree. Clinging to it, he emptied his stomach of the meat balls and Mexican vegetables, of water and coffee that was left inside him. It took him some minutes to catch his breath. He wiped his mouth with his arm, spat out what was left in his mouth, then started running again.

He did not run as fast anymore, but his pace still was hot.

In his apartment, he rinsed his mouth with half a waterglass of Islay, swallowing the amber fluid. It went down his throat like acid, leaving a burning sensation behind. A heatwave rolled up his throat. He cursed, shook his head, wiped his eyes, filled the glass again and drank some more.

He did not feel time passing when he sat on the hard wooden chair in the kitchen. At some time, he got up, went to the bathroom and had a shower. He dried himself with the blue towel he kept forgetting to change for almost a week, then got dressed in boxershors and sweater. By the time he was back in the kitchen and poured himself another drink, he was already drenched in sweat again.

He fed the cats, then went to the living room, glass in his hand. No more Laphroaig, therefore he opened the cupboard, found the Bowmore and poured himself a dring. He went to the main street window and sat in the chair where he had been sitting in the beginning of last weeks phone call with E. Felt like ages abo. Felt like yesterday. Darkness had settled in. The cats were moving around his feet, playing under the green armchair he tried to become one with but lost. Through the open door of the balcony he heard the sound of birds, of cars passing, the voice of some passers-by.

When the glass was empty, he pushed himself up the chair again to the table where he had left the bottle of Bowmore. He poured himself some more, then went with glass and bottle to the kitchen where he had left the phone. There was a message. He read it. Groaned, called himself stupid. He switched the phone to reply mode, then used the T9 touchscreen to type an answer.

He mailed the sms, watched it disappear from the screen of his Neonode. Watched the screen light up, then go dark, then shut itself down.

He put down the phone, took the glass and went back to the living room. He sat on the couch. He looked out of the window to the houses opposite. There was light in some windows, but the blinds had been pulled. He could only deduct by the blueish shine that the TV was on. He did not want to turn his TV on. He just wanted to sit and to drink and to fade away.

When his glass was empty, he went back to the kitchen. He found the Bowmore and poured himself another drink. His tongue had become a dead rat in the meantime. It did not matter to him. He went to the mobile phone, but there was no message. His stomach contracted.

He went to the office and turned on the iMac. He clicked on the dashboard to bring up the Firefox. He entered his name in the Yahoo login box. There was no new message. His stomach cramped. He gulped some of the amber stuff, hit the reload button. Nothing. He went back to the kitchen, checked the phone. No message. He went back to the office, took his glass and went to the livingroom.

Cool air seeped in through the open balcony door. He went to the door, opened it and went outside. The night had become chilly, but he did not notice. His body was burning, from the run, from the whisky, from the pain that what eating him from inside out, from the thoughts that kept rushing through his foggy brain.

He stood there, with his glass and his pants and his sweater that now no longer felt too warm. 20 Meters below, cars were passing from time to time, even a double-decker bus. Rare pedestriants were hasting by on their way home or to dates of lovers. He winced by this thought. He stood on the balcony, staring with blind eyes down on the street, glass in hand. He was breathing deeply. Before he let himself be overwhelmed, he took another sip from the glass and let it burn its way down to his stomach. It did not kill the pain, but it numbed it for a short while.

He emptied the glass. A heatwave raced first down his throat, then back up. The alcohol hit his brain like a pointed hammer. His eyes became wet of the impact. He put down the glass, then spread his arms as wide as he could, and awaited the crying of lot 49.

09-07, 01:23

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attached: fanta 4, MFG.mp3

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Filed under mails, mails & messages

Tags: Bowmore, Laphroiag, Neonode, running, whisky