Sunday, 9 December 2012

Sandstone tile encased generic yet, high spec, pod. Amongst the under sink crap: several back dated copies of Men's Health, ionic fluid and a selection of prescribed, and some self-prescribed meds.

An alcove caved into the mirror above the sink allowed for the careful positioning of a small MP3 player, or iPhone. And for a while, a week...perhaps three, I would listen to Placebo's cover of Kate Bush's classic: Running Up that Hill. Whilst in the shower I would turn the temperature to core, thirty seven degrees, and then to thirty nine, and I would add two degrees for every chorus. This would sometimes continue for fifteen or twenty minutes, and repeat with each increment of the song.

I'd often imagine falling, breaking teeth on the harsh floor. Blood mixing with water, swirling, running in the channels carved between the tiles, before sinking into the gridded drain. I took the cover off now and then. I would often lay on the floor, staring into the source of water, from which a thick steam would disperse and fill the room, condensing on glass and wall. And in the fogged mirror I would write myself messages: "I'll be yours". "I'm not having any fun". And wipe them away to reveal bloodshot, tearful eyes staring into at mine.

1 comment:

Ben said...

Interesting snippet.

Is it appropriate to wish you a merry Christmas?