hangover from hell
Jordan
Hands all over me. They grab hold of my arms, my legs, eager to pull me down. They’re wrapping themselves around my waist
and yanking me under; an undertow of flesh.
I can’t see who any of these hands belong to. There’s too many, all of them reaching out from the shadows below. The absolute
darkness of it all creates this bottomless feeling.
I’m at sea. I must be. But it’s not water.
It’s . . . skin.
I’m thrashing over a roiling knot of sweaty limbs, countless clasping hands, millions of fingers desperate to dig in, grab
hold of something, anything fresh—me—and pull under.
I shouldn’t be here.
That simple chill of a thought flits through my head and I immediately begin to kick, bucking against every last one of these clasping hands.
There’s too many. All of them burrow their fingernails into my skin. I wriggle out from their grip, simply rolling over this
endless sea of limbs.
I’m going to drown.
It’s such a crystalline notion, so clear in my mind: Once I’ve plunged under, once I’m pulled below and lost amongst the rest of them, I’m never going to escape. I’ll be just like them, whoever these lost souls are, just another clawing, clasping hand, lost in this abyss.
One more drop of water in a sea of lost souls.
I can’t escape. There’s no vessel, no ship, nothing beyond this rippling ocean of skin, flesh as far as the eye can see. Shadows
beyond that. An endless stretch of pitch-black.
I can’t stay afloat. Not for much longer. I can already feel the loss of buoyancy, slipping under this surface of skin for
a second—I’m getting tugged under again—then bursting back through and gasping for air, trying desperately to swim, keep my
head above.
I call out for help, shout at the top of my lungs, but who can hear me?
Just let go, I think. Give in. But right when I’m about to succumb to it all and sink, someone—something—answers back. Their voice cuts
through the darkness . . .
“What adorable morsel is this?”
I heard it. I know I heard it.
The voice carries across the gulf of my dream as I’m dragged back into waking.
Where have I heard that voice before?
Who is it?
The moment I wake, jolting upright in bed, covered in sweat, I swear, for a second, just a breath, the voice comes from right
beside me. Whoever said it is resting just next to me, their voice at my ear, breath spreading down the back of my neck.
Is it Lilith?
I can still feel the residual limbs grabbing at my waist, one last remnant of this recurring dream reaching out for me. Even
now, the nightmare is still doing its damnedest to pull me back, but it’s just the covers tangled around my torso.
I’ve been wrestling against my bedsheets, not some leviathan of limbs.
Just a dream. Fuck, it felt so real . . .
Always does. How many times have I had the same goddamn nightmare by now?
Nearly every night.
But it was different this time, wasn’t it? Somehow the dream had changed, altering itself.
That voice . . .
The bed is empty beyond me. Nobody else is here.
I’m alone.
Lilith is long gone, if she was even here at all. I can’t find her clothes anywhere. She’s not in the bathroom. There’s not
a single hint of her spending the night.
She totally ditched me.
There’s a soreness running through my muscles that feels fresh. Talk about a marathon. Sex may be the best form of physical
therapy yet. I’m paying for it this morning, though. My muscles are all rubber bands, stretched beyond their own elasticity.
PT is going to kill me . . . if I ever go back. I got enough exercise last night, didn’t I? Maybe I’ll just skip another week.
Or two. Twenty. What does it even matter anymore?
I was technically dead for a total of two minutes and thirty-three seconds in the middle of the street. Not a record, but
still. Not bad. The paramedics were ready to call it—bag and tag me—when one of them felt the faintest pulse. They collared
my neck. Boarded me up, tossed me into the back of the ambulance and awaaaay we go . . . Off to the hospital.
Surgery supposedly lasted several hours, reconstructing my body. Putting it all back together again. A puzzle with a few too
many pieces.
I woke up in the hospital room in a cold sweat, completely oblivious to where I was or what happened. I wasn’t in the streets
where I should be. This wasn’t Shockoe Bottom. And I didn’t get to deliver my goddamn package. I must’ve lost that bet. Now
I was down twenty bucks.
Where am I? What hospital is this? I was nowhere near my bike. Where is it?
The ache followed. The dull throb in every stitch. My body was a tuning fork, each bone resonating in a pang that vibrated out from the rest of me, seething through my skin.
Death would’ve been a blessing. I should’ve stayed there.
Now I’ve had to heal. Return to the land of the living.
Good luck with that.
My friends visited, taking turns staring at the sherbet-green walls. The constant drone of my pulse on the heart-rate monitor
set the sludgy pace, like a clock ticking from the corner of the room. Deak kept me company as my body convalesced in that
stiff bed. It was like I could feel my muscles losing their grip, the sinew slackening. Almost dissolving. Whatever tension
I had in my skin, whatever strength I may have possessed, I lost all of it. My speed, my agility, my very sense of being,
it completely atrophied.
What’s left of me, whatever got wheeled out from the hospital weeks later, is this untethered rendition of myself. I’m a floppy
doll now. Not a human being. Not me anymore.
So what was last night all about? A one-night physical therapy stand?
The sun seeps through the window, casting this graying pall across my room. It’s still early. I can hear the first scraps
of traffic outside. The city’s about to clot up with rush hour.
A quick glance at my clock for the time. It’s not even seven.
When did Lilith leave?
I’m half convinced it was all a dream. That last night didn’t happen at all. Lilith was simply some fever dream between me
and my fifth whiskey. All I have to show for myself this morning is a pounding headache. Feels like someone took a hammer
to the back of my head. My skull’s throbbing. The nail must still be back there, poking out somewhere, lost amongst all the
other screws and pins holding my body together. What’s one more hunk of metal to add to the mix? I’m nothing but a pincushion
at this point, anyway. A busted toy.
So. A dream, then. Chalk it all up to too much booze.
So much for Lilith. Thanks for the memories . . .
I see I’ve got a few missed calls. Couple texts from Lys. A few from Freel.
where’d you go
u ditch?
call me back let me know you’re still alive
Then I spot the scratches on my forearm. Up and down my chest. On my legs. Jesus, they’re everywhere. Fresh runnels of angry red flesh. Blood, even. Scabs tattoo my bicep. Each ruddy streak is the width of a fingernail raking
across my body, forging some scabbed path that sure as hell looks like a fun night. Lilith really did a number on me.
So, okay . . . maybe not a dream.
Only she’s gone.
Splendid. No note, no phone number. No . . . nothing. The only hint that last night actually happened—that Lilith is even real—are
the claw marks she left all over me.
How long before they heal, I wonder? Get in line, along with the rest of my flesh. I doubt I’ll ever mend. Not completely.
Not anymore.
This is all that’s left.
A part of me doesn’t want her wounds to fade. Let them scar. Join the rest. Add them to the mix of mottled tissue. A keepsake
of skin, reminding me of our night.
Reminding me of her.
Lilith made me feel alive again. Haven’t felt that way in . . . well, since dying.
What I wouldn’t give to pick up my own pulse again.
I already want her back. Round two.
A new lease on life.
This one, at least.