Michael
So cold. Ice.
The pain.
Emma’s here. I can smell her.
Even Kaitlin, that little-girl scent that scared me senseless. God, Kaitlin, sorry, sorry, sorry. You, so lost after she went, so demanding. And me, so unable to be what you needed.
I’m sorry I couldn’t…
How much time has passed now? It feels like forever. I don’t know how long but I know I’m fucking dying. My rage is monumental, like I’ve got an alien trying to burst out of my stomach. I have howled myself hoarse but no one came. No one has ever fucking come to help me. I have nobody – that’s a bloody depressing truth.
I swig the last of the bottle of Spanish red. I’ve given up trying to piss into the empties. I threw one at her last time she came, but got doused with the splash-back. I’ve had enough humiliation without that. At least it kept her away, fucking rabid bitch.
I can hear her coming.
‘Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall.’
‘Singing now are you, Michael?’ She hovers at the top of the stairs.
‘Ten green bottles, come and take them all.
Cause if you do, then you’ll accidentally fall
And there’ll be one bitch less to torment us all.’
I laugh manically.
‘And to think the great Dr Harrison is reduced to spending his last hours making up playground taunts.’
‘I’m a fucking dying swan, I am, singing out my heart. Recognise yourself, babe?’
The door closes, shutting out the light. I open the freezer and scrabble around until I find another carton of ice-cream. I stretch – and the pain is blinding.
I must’ve lost consciousness again because when I wake the ice-cream is in a puddle on the floor. I scoop up what I can and cram it in my mouth.
‘You’re not going to fucking beat me, bitch.’