Purgatory

A narrative of true events.

He awoke suddenly trying to catch the breath in his chest, his eyes fluttering open to adjust to the dim light flickering through the worn, cheap, cloth venetian blinds over a large bay window.  The window was positioned over the head of a bedframe made of a dark mahogany-esque wood with golden sheets and matching duvet that he didn't recognize as his own, and in an instant he was gripped with a slight sense of panic.  "Where am I?"

Tossing the covers aside violently, he swung his legs around the edge of the bed to let his nearly numb feeling feet ground themselves on the floor.  Almost immediately he recoiled in pain and a muffled cry escaped his lips as he lifted up his foot to examine it.  Sharp and fragile, like pieces of blown sugar, shards of broken glass protruded from his foot and sticky, dark red oozing was beginning.  With a grimace he pulled out the razorlike slivers and tossed them back into the pile on the floor.  He examined the surroundings with greater scrutiny.

The room was average sized and the paint at one time had been a pale blue colour of some sort - perhaps the owner's attempt to create a sense of serenity.  Other than the paint, the walls were bare save for the slight peeling of the surface from age and the beginnings of the weeping from nicotine and tar long ingrained into the colour.  Apparent, even without noticing the chips coming off the wall, was the complete state of disrepair the room was in.  Empty bottles of premium vodkas and brandies littered every surface in sight, some of them broken open as if tossed aside in neglect uncaring what happened to them, and the light fixture dangled precariously overhead mocking the floor for not being able to rise above.  The smell in his nostrils was slightly acidic, slightly fermented, but not unpleasant enough to make him cringe.  On the nightstand beside the bed rested half a dozen pill bottles of various sizes, some with safety caps, some without, though the prescriptions themselves were illegible from age.  It was obvious the resident of this home was unconcerned with anything that happened outside of this personal prison.

The carpet was grainy under his feet and he had an odd recollection of walking on a beach by the ocean with hard uneven grains of sand under his feet from the broken shells smashed upon the rocks by the tide.  Though he could barely make it out amongst the garbage and debris on the floor, he recognized a mirror-like surface with piles of white powder on them and remnants of what appeared to be sticky buds of marijuana.  "Where the f**k am I?" he wondered to himself again and continued on in a trancelike state, caught somewhere between dreams and reality with no direction to go.

Bloody footprints carried him out of the room and into the bathroom nearby.

The bathroom was a run down, rust begotten affair with even more pill bottles littered carelessly around the sink.  He stood in front of the vanity and looked at his reflection in a smudged mirror that warped his features just enough to trick him into thinking he was suffering from Treacher Collins syndrome.  The bags circling his eyes were pronounced and his capillaries looked ready to burst; his eyes were completely bloodshot.  He could see the blue in them, but didn't care to look any further.  The sight of himself filled him with disgust and he turned away quickly.

How could he have looked so miserable?  He was the living ghost that looked like it had been dragged through hell behind the carriages of gremlins and devils.  He paused trying to think.  "How long have I been here?"

As he reflected into the toilet bowl caked with vomit at the edges, remnants of too much sin, he realized that he couldn't answer his own question.  Everything was so vaguely familiar yet so distant.  He was overwhelmed with feelings of deja vu and knew that in his heart, somewhere buried deep, he knew where he was.  Had he woken up like this before?

When focus returned to his eyes he could see condoms in the toilet, neatly tied off as if someone had carefully been finishing a child's balloon.  He flushed once, then realized that the toilet was broken and lifted the top of the tank off, tossing it aside into the rotting tub and kicking up a storm of dust and rust particles that he nearly broke into a sneezing fit when he tried to breathe.  Seeing no water in the tank he jiggled some parts curiously, and then gave up, trying to regain some bearing of where he was.

Instinctively, he walked to the kitchen and was overwhelmed by the smell of rotting coming from the fridge and sink.  His nose crunched up and his hand moved to defend his sense of taste and smell from the putrid aromas, but it did no good.

He had a flashback again, this time quite vivid.  He was baking cookies of some sort - a recipe handed down through his family.  Butterscotch jumbles.  There was someone with him too - a beautiful woman.  She laughed and they talked endlessly about every detail in anything that came to mind.  In both their voices there was nothing but care and compassion for each other, and when he remembered her eyes he saw nothing but playful mischief and unerring love in them.  He was happy.

He came out of his flashback and found himself standing over the sink, staring at a mixing bowl and cookie sheet that had been caked over in mold now long dry and dead.  He dared not move it, but he recognized a logo from the bottom of the bowl and lapsed once again into his mind.

It was Christmas.  A woman, someone who he knew pretended to love him, was handing him a golden wrapped gift.  The paper was shimmering in the light of the Christmas tree, and he dared not disturb the bow for it looked too delicate; a butterfly perching atop of a golden throne.  When finally the courage arose in him to tear the paper open he found he was holding two mixing bowls - both of them had the logo for a famous baking supply company that made only the highest quality tools.  He smiled.

Unconsciously, he had walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.  There was something very wrong with everything here, but he couldn't quite place it still.  It was as if another life existed here - one where bliss and pleasure had been found.  Now everything seemed dead, lifeless, and full of decay.  On the living room floor, by the light of a flat-screen TV endlessly displaying static, he saw cans, bottles, and take out food containers.  He knew the take-out place - it had been one of his favourites - and suddenly had the urge to eat something, followed closely by intense nausea.

With quick hurried steps as fast as he could, he ran back to the bathroom just in time for his stomach to let loose.  There was nothing inside him but bile and acid, and every breath he sucked into his lungs after vomiting stung and brought the faintest edge of tears to his eyes.  He laid a while, his back resting against the side of the bathtub, and closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes again painfully a short while later, or perhaps it was a long while that just felt short - he couldn't tell.  With bleary focus the world slid into shape around him and then he saw her silhouetted in the door.

She was beautiful.  Her hair flowed easily down her shoulders and back and she looked at him intensely - somewhere between despising hatred and animalistic desire.  The curve of her arms and back were accentuated by the small bottle of vodka in her hand, and she leaned into the doorway propping herself up by one arm as if to spread the doorjamb apart wider for him.  She didn't make a sound.

Mouth open, he stood up slowly.  She never said a word or moved her eyes from him.

He began to speak, "I don't know who yo..."

With the smallest of motions she cut him off by bringing a finger to her lips.  He dare not disobey her.  She began walking back in the direction of the bedroom, easily sliding past all of the rubbish on the floor as if she floated over top of it all.  He followed.

As she guided him back down to the sheets he forgot everything that he felt before.  The bottle turned up to his lips and the feelings of doubt, apprehension and fearfulness drifted away as the slight burning flowed into his stomach and filled him with warmth.

From the bed he noticed a mirror, a free standing one, in the corner of the room he hadn't seen before.  With urgency his eyes took hold of themselves in it, alone, and he saw pleading in them.  Save me.  He smiled.

He took the bottle from the hands of his seductress and threw it at the mirror, shattering it with the most rewarding sound of glass sliding against itself and falling to the floor.  Her lips touched his neck and he closed his eyes.  "This is home," he thought.  "I don't need saving."

Some time later he fell asleep content.

Reviews

[Chloe]

Such a captivating and heart-breaking story! Well done!

[_mal]

This is filthy, awfully sad and beautiful. I loved this line 'The smell in his nostrils was slightly acidic, slightly fermented, but not unpleasant enough to make him cringe'
I love the images you built up in my head. As sad and universal as some of them are

[tekphobik]

Oh the desolation of the scene, all too familiar.