The night’s effervescent darkness, the rumbling silence which penetrates beneath the skin and seeps into bone matter, is punctuated somewhat by the dim orange light which creeps between the blinds and echoes the vomiting noises of a thousand Saturday nights conducted in the vicinity between the bakery, the pub with the claw machine, and general backstreet fornication.
This evening however I am woken by internal unrest, tectonic shifting in the layer of moisture between the bedsheets and my own flesh. The red of the fire alarm, though mute, blinks life into a scene of inarticulate destruction. My face is pushed deep into pillows stained with blood and toothpaste, natural bedtime leakages on account of maturation, yes and hatred. Sheets are replaceable. It was not as though our souls had been shed into their fabric (too much). Drawing my hand down my leg I am reminded with kindness that such inarticulate destruction competes with the coldness of cadaverous nerves. Moving my foot against the damp sheets there is sensation against the skin, and resonant emptiness within. The blinking red light gives credence to the art and the echoes in the streets become steadily more present.
We only have the one set of bedsheets. Without them our skin rubs against the mattress, and the duvets, and the inside form of the pillows. The previous sheet which stretched across the mattress had a hole ripped directly in its centre. We did not find the cause. We slipped back to sleep.