Recover makes a person sound like a couch thinks Marcus as he lies curled with his guts and jaw clenching from the DT’s. Under the door slithers maniacal laughter from some other poor fuck that tears across his nerves causing him to clench tender hands over throbbing ears. It’s only when the giggle takes on an echo does Marcus realize it is his voice filling the air with razor blades.
Upholstered chairs slowly rise from the floor, some with beige and pink embroidered flowers, others with cracked chocolate-brown pleather. The chairs shuffle forward to tell their tales, each striving for the warmth of epiphany. In the center of the chairs vying for his attention, a bubble gum pink cake appears and out of the center jumps not a pin-up girl but an ice cream cone and Marcus wonders if the ice cream cone is actually ice cream or cake as well.
Eventually Marcus’ hysteria ebbs and in flows the slow tide of self-loathing and the desire to erase, to cease all existence.
You can never recover what is lost, what you were, thinks Marcus.
He will never be the man he could have been because that person is gone, as ethereal as a shade, no more real than who he might be in thirty, sixty, ninety days. He lies against the slick sealed concrete floor and wonders exactly how many others have varnished it with their drug tinged sweat and tears. He presses his sandpaper tongue hard against the floor and hopes to feel the familiar burn of cocaine.
He considers joining the band of chairs, of dreaming himself a new fabric, of repackaging himself as a classic, or as vintage, as one whose story is worth knowing. But this time he can’t dredge up the desire and decides that his story will not be one of recovery but of letting go.
Inspired by both Trifecta’s word of the week:
BAND (verb) 3: to gather together : unite –