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Literature Text
The sun has not yet risen when the doctor comes around. He's lying in a grimy bathtub, with just the slightest bit of water in the bottom, dregs from tea, something like that.
The water is a muddy red color, a mixture of blood and beer. Probably other things, who knows, could potentially make someone sane vomit and stuff.
The doctor is drunk, wonderfully and terribly drunk, and under it all is a hangover threatening to burst his head.
Rubbing the side of his nose, he remembers the punch that had broken it, and the person who had done the deed.
The artfag. The bloodsucking pansy-ass artfag. The wimp, the pussy, the crybaby with a temper. The tall man with dark hair, glasses, and eyes that do strange things to the doctor's head, even when that head is wrapped in a haze of booze, drugs, and smoke.
But the doctor doesn't want to think about the artfag right now. This is his time; the wee small hours of the morning belong to him and him alone. Nobody can take these moments from him.
Except that god damn artfag.
Oh, how the doctor is fascinated by him. He watches how the artfag acts all tough, lashing out but feeling sorry when his temper fades with a kind of admiration, quiet longing, a desire to NOT severely injure…
Still…
He sits up, leaning to the side to press his head against the cool tile walls, the hangover is aching, he seeks to cease the pain.
For once in his life, the doctor does not welcome this throbbing pain. It is a slight disturbance in his morning, his morning that he was looking forward to, god damn it.
Yeah, well his morning's ruined now. No point in trying to enjoy it any longer.
Slowly, he begins to love the pulsing, mind-breaking pain that's attempting to make him scream out in ecstasy. OH GOD YES and all that jazz, but he was never one to make noises like that. He's better at making OTHER people make those noises. Talent, man!
What the hell… the doctor's former happy, peaceful brain has turned to it's usual disgusting mess of intoxicated mush, and he REALLY hates the artfag now. Damn bloodsucker ruined the ONLY FUCKING THING that really made him happy, because pills and runes and alcohol don't count.
FUCK! He hasn't hated anyone this much since… he can't fucking remember. The doctor has never hated anyone as much as he hates the artfag.
Still…
That hangover's sickly sweet now. Pleasurable, almost enjoyable, most definitely understandable.
After all, hangovers, like feelings, are much tastier when you're familiar with them. Fascination and adoration turned to a hatred deeper than the ocean is, perhaps, the greatest thing that could happen, because the doctor understands the latter.
The doctor does not do sugary, he does not do hearts and flowers and pink sparkles of attraction. Attempting such thoughts ruined his morning. He's better now though, better in his grubby disgusted state of mind, uncaring and perverted, right where he should be.
Yeah, he's not happy, but he's comfortable.
And light begins to filter through the grime-incrusted window.
Blue skies are calling.
The water is a muddy red color, a mixture of blood and beer. Probably other things, who knows, could potentially make someone sane vomit and stuff.
The doctor is drunk, wonderfully and terribly drunk, and under it all is a hangover threatening to burst his head.
Rubbing the side of his nose, he remembers the punch that had broken it, and the person who had done the deed.
The artfag. The bloodsucking pansy-ass artfag. The wimp, the pussy, the crybaby with a temper. The tall man with dark hair, glasses, and eyes that do strange things to the doctor's head, even when that head is wrapped in a haze of booze, drugs, and smoke.
But the doctor doesn't want to think about the artfag right now. This is his time; the wee small hours of the morning belong to him and him alone. Nobody can take these moments from him.
Except that god damn artfag.
Oh, how the doctor is fascinated by him. He watches how the artfag acts all tough, lashing out but feeling sorry when his temper fades with a kind of admiration, quiet longing, a desire to NOT severely injure…
Still…
He sits up, leaning to the side to press his head against the cool tile walls, the hangover is aching, he seeks to cease the pain.
For once in his life, the doctor does not welcome this throbbing pain. It is a slight disturbance in his morning, his morning that he was looking forward to, god damn it.
Yeah, well his morning's ruined now. No point in trying to enjoy it any longer.
Slowly, he begins to love the pulsing, mind-breaking pain that's attempting to make him scream out in ecstasy. OH GOD YES and all that jazz, but he was never one to make noises like that. He's better at making OTHER people make those noises. Talent, man!
What the hell… the doctor's former happy, peaceful brain has turned to it's usual disgusting mess of intoxicated mush, and he REALLY hates the artfag now. Damn bloodsucker ruined the ONLY FUCKING THING that really made him happy, because pills and runes and alcohol don't count.
FUCK! He hasn't hated anyone this much since… he can't fucking remember. The doctor has never hated anyone as much as he hates the artfag.
Still…
That hangover's sickly sweet now. Pleasurable, almost enjoyable, most definitely understandable.
After all, hangovers, like feelings, are much tastier when you're familiar with them. Fascination and adoration turned to a hatred deeper than the ocean is, perhaps, the greatest thing that could happen, because the doctor understands the latter.
The doctor does not do sugary, he does not do hearts and flowers and pink sparkles of attraction. Attempting such thoughts ruined his morning. He's better now though, better in his grubby disgusted state of mind, uncaring and perverted, right where he should be.
Yeah, he's not happy, but he's comfortable.
And light begins to filter through the grime-incrusted window.
Blue skies are calling.
This is a song for anyone
With a broken heart
This is a song for anyone
Who can't get out of bed
I'll do anything to
Be happy
Oh, cause blue skies are calling
But I know
That it's hard
There is truly nothing more amazing than staying up all night and watching the sunrise. The quiet sort of peaceful feeling that fills you from head to toe is like nothing else, it really has a way of reminding you what it feels like to live, to love, to forget all the things that can destroy a person from the inside.
While it's true that at 3am, I am, indeed, at my best, because that orangey urban glow of streetlights and the stars is amazing, but I'm also pretty good when the first rays of dawn are creeping into my bathroom window through the shades, all light blues and greys.
I wish I could explain how and why certain junkie doctors mean a lot to me, but I can't. It's just one of those things words can't describe.
With a broken heart
This is a song for anyone
Who can't get out of bed
I'll do anything to
Be happy
Oh, cause blue skies are calling
But I know
That it's hard
There is truly nothing more amazing than staying up all night and watching the sunrise. The quiet sort of peaceful feeling that fills you from head to toe is like nothing else, it really has a way of reminding you what it feels like to live, to love, to forget all the things that can destroy a person from the inside.
While it's true that at 3am, I am, indeed, at my best, because that orangey urban glow of streetlights and the stars is amazing, but I'm also pretty good when the first rays of dawn are creeping into my bathroom window through the shades, all light blues and greys.
I wish I could explain how and why certain junkie doctors mean a lot to me, but I can't. It's just one of those things words can't describe.
© 2012 - 2024 theradioprotector
Comments3
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I really like the last couple lines! Like wow, what a perfect ending.