Attic womb

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The skylight opened. I reached out with the glass and poured the piss out onto the sloping roof. Along the street, people were cutting the grass or washing their cars. The place was a Toytown full of people who didn’t know anything and had no desires other than to be the same as everyone else, only just that little bit better.

I’d been living in the attic room for three months. She had the two floors below. I’d get up, go to work, come home, take food up to my room and shut the door. I fantasised about running off into the world – becoming homeless, free, away from her and the bullshit. The relationship was fucked. I was in a job I hated, and she’d signed me up to some scheme where, right then, I owed something in the region of £45,000 to banks. I’d never seen a penny of it. These situations are easy to get into if you are vulnerable at the time but they don’t last. They always move on to their next phase: you lose.

I wigged out on codeine, fentanyl, booze, and thought for too long about how I wasn’t just trapped in the attic, but in life full stop. Man, I was so ill up there. I took at least one overdose; Tramadol for sure one time. Pupils as big a saucers for the whole of the next day, confused. But it was good to be alone in my room all the time, even waking up from an overdose. She was out fucking some other guy on a regular basis anyway. Said he had a huge cock. All I knew was he was about five feet tall, wore leather coats, and kept tarantulas. She told me when he fucked her in the ass she would cum and cum until she thought she would pass out. She was kind like that. She’d bellow up the stairs that she was going out. I knew what it meant. I was relieved. At least she wouldn’t try to get me in the sack.

I suppose I was meant to feel jealous. I felt nothing at all about much at all in the attic.

High up in the rooftops I could watch the sun rise, hear the birds scratching on the tiles. It was sadly beautiful up there. I only left it to work, shit, bathe, and get food. I just didn’t want an excuse to leave the room if I didn’t have to. Solitude and mental illness….oh, and the drugs and alcohol. Resetting to point zero. That’s what I called it. That’s how I justified it.

She left after a vicious argument – I can’t remember what about – and that was that. She would be the Spider Guy’s problem now. All I needed to do was to fend off the Banks who were trying to get the money back that she lost for me. Then get my mental health back to somewhere near functioning. Tough ask. Actually, I don’t think it ever really recovered. I had two serious overdoses in the following two months. Shit like that doesn’t leave you easily.

In the attic there was something foetal going on. A re-birth of sorts. Snug and warm and trapped and with a lockable door. My head sometimes looked out of that skylight and wondered what was over the hill. If I’d ever get to a better place than this.

When I finally moved from the house I got a tiny flat just up the road. No skylight, no attic, no central heating. Two windows with the blinds always drawn, blocking out the desperate sobbing of a guy newly sacked from his job. I dodged the bailiffs and the knocks on the door from anyone and everyone. It was always dark in there. Dust, diazepam, late night television, xbox games, lining up tablets on the dirty table and wondering if I had enough to do the job. Crazy nights of opiate withdrawing, crashing around the flat ripping drawers out of their holes, searching for forgotten codeine to take the ache away. Nightmares, screaming in the early hours covered in sweat while, twenty miles away, she was being fucked in the ass for the fiftieth time that week and telling him lies, like she used to tell me. That poor sucker. I felt for him.

At the end of the summer I was barely alive. The room turned from a womb to a cocoon. Indefinite period of gestation, or mutation, or metamorphosis, or simply  still birth. Which one it’d be was anyone’s guess.

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