Hearing Anna

ii.viii

I STILL FEEL INEBRIATED from last night, though i don't believe the intoxication is from my single pint of alcohol. there is nothing like breathing in and knowing that a substance meant to fog the mind is not why my mind is in a haze, but instead something practically intangible and completely invisible.

for once, i stay wrapped up in my duvet, hiding away from the sunday morning light which pours through our window. to shield myself from this light is to perpetuate that feeling of a rising heart that flutters on fairies' wings. here, it is warm and safe and comforting; it feels like he does, but less french.

i don't care enough to look at the clock or even at my phone. the light of either one would ruin the image carved into the backs of my eyelids, the one of the city of westminster glittering unlike anything i have ever fathomed. i can only leave it to my memory to know whether or not it was the alcohol, but god do i hope it was. if it wasn't, so help me god i'll move back to northern ireland.

i don't want to find myself stuck in a bad position again.

the fantastic image in my head crumbles, turns grey, and disappears.

i can't let it happen again.

it feels like the blankets are suffocating me, like there isn't enough oxygen beneath them.

i pull back the sheets in hopes that i won't drop into sleep again, this time involuntarily.

there's dust in the air, flying around and around. the silence is palpable as if my ears are covered with muffs.

the quiet bites at my skin, tears at me. i try not to breathe for a moment, just listen to the silence.

it's killing me, eating away at everything anna.

trying not to move too fast, i lumber out of bed and to the window, try to hold a cig between my fingers. it trembles.

with my right hand, i lift the lighter to the butt.

"shit!" the lighter and the deathstick fall to the carpet.

the tips of my fingers burn bright red, but it feels on fire.

i try to breathe slowly and lean against the wall.

my mind, in an attempt to calm itself, flits through images. they're blurred for the most part, but some are more clear, with familiar faces. brown eyes, dark hair, bent nose, smiling lips.

i shake my head, push it away, push him away.

the cigarette does not smoke, but my fingers feel on fire. the thought of him burns me.

"elliot, get out of my head."

i slump to the floor and pray for rest to come.

it does, and without dreams of his clear, starry eyes.