The Weekend

The Weekend

A Story by huh
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page 56-58

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I think I had read about it somewhere. The amount of paranoia that is natural to have. The answer is none. Look at me, I’m shaking and its 40c outside. I have cold sweat on my right half and hot sweat on my left. I’m a damn mess.

 

I got out of there as soon as I was up, the house that is. The night wears off too quickly when you don’t click with anyone, and I had spent the entire party circling around and up to the bathroom. At least 6 or 7 visits. Even when it did die down, I wasn’t present enough to follow what was happening. That was until some sweet angel came, returning from a 3am excursion to the nearest fast food joint and placed a box of soggy lukewarm fries in my hand. I watched him pass over me, slouched on the floor, like some brand new benevolent god I had just now discovered.

 

I tucked into those babies like it was my last meal. (For all I knew it could be) cherishing every last chip. I fell asleep soon after that. But I awoke soon after to my own arm trapped beneath the weight of myself, I twisted my body on that small sofa to better fill the empty space. Between that and my neck being at a terrible angle, I decided it was about time to call it.

So I gathered up my clothes and left the threshold with only a vague knowledge of which direction I was heading. All the houses blended into a grey hellish suburban landscape. It took me 10 minutes to find the supermarket, and then a further 10 to reach the station. It was at this point I realised I meant to leave a note thanking the residents of the house for their hospitality, but I would send Hannah a text later. I was longing for home.

 

 

Later

 

I wouldn’t leave anything twisted. I damn near vowed not to, if I could trust myself I would take a vow. You have to leave right. You can’t just come into people’s places and leave in a storm. I left wrong, I know that. A letter would have sufficed. Damn, a post-it note would have done it, but I was in the wrong mind to do anything but trust myself to get myself home.

I was cursing having forgotten my sunnies. The only thing that made this morning ache feel any better was the rhythmic drumming of the music in my ears.

My earphones didn’t fit properly and it made the treble high and squeaky and the bass almost nonexistent

 

“…at the cha cha cha cha, cha cha cha cha…”

“…at the cha cha cha cha, cha cha cha cha..”

 

I listened to Zac Carper as he told me everything I needed to know about what I had been through and what I will go through this weekend. Things I didn’t know about yet, I was so lost in it I didn’t see the train until it was standing right in front of me, doors slid wide open, waiting for me.

The loud and obvious trickling of punk in my ears steered me around the seats to find a double that I could dump my bags in.

The man across from me had hair down to his chin, he looked like a musician.

“Are you a musician?” I said.

“What?” he said.

“Are you a musican?” I said.

“Yes.” He said.

I looked away from him, out of the window. I mentally flipped off the grey station as the train began to roll silently out on the tracks. It was all soon behind me.

 

“…and I really really really really don’t care…”

 

The grey sky loomed like a carnivorous throat. I was staring out of the window, eyes wide, clinging desperately to my bag. I could feel the sweat returning, tricking in a single drop down my forehead.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

S**t I almost killed the poor conductor there and then. No chance to say goodbye to his wife, killed on the job, his last day in action.

“He was very brave Ms. Jones, is respect for his bravery we would like to present you with this, the severed head of the boy who viciously attacked and killed your husband. We hope it will help you to settle memories and sleep better at night.”


I was clutching my ticket in my almost balled fist, I handed it to him, still shaking from his interruption. His face was a mixture of questions. That’s his job I guess, to ask questions, but he didn’t say anything, he punched it and moved along. Seemingly desperate to get out of the carriage I seemed to be terraforming with the heat that was coming off me. I thought my shoes were on fire but when I looked down I saw that the fire was really small, no bigger than one of the buttons on my coat.

The musician was eyeing me over the top of his magazine. I was still looking at the rapidly small spreading fire on my shoes, but I could see him with my third eye.

“What do you play.” I said. Looking up at him with breakneck speed.

He played it cool. He probably played his whole damn life cool. He pointed at a guitar case that had materialized in the seat next to him.

“’Oh s**t…” I mumbled, it was a hardcase. It was brown, pretty nice colour.

I watch the ticket inspector at last pass into the next carriage.

 

I looked again out over the dim sky and thought about the girl on the platform earlier.

© 2015 huh


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Added on October 18, 2015
Last Updated on October 18, 2015
Tags: hunter S thompson, weekend, paranoia, people, mixture, art, essay, article, collection, short, incomplete, snippet, light

Author

huh
huh

London, United Kingdom



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