as written by Hyll
An apartment in Fontainebleu, early morning.
Everything smelled like battery acid, stingy, disgusting.
Mortimer was lying on a bed, facing the ceiling. Everything was pulsing, like static. Static everywhere. Buzzing. Mortimer pulled the balaclava off his face, letting his face taste the rancid air in the apartment. Wait, why was the balaclava there? He tucked it into the pocket of his red woolen shirt, back where it belonged. He did not remember a goddamn thing. Every single noise was a sharp sting of electricity. His shirt was crusted with dried saliva and vomit, looked like old apple juice.
He rose up from the bed, trying to get a footing, but the room was flooded. The water was swirling with shades of pink and dark brown, bottles, dissolving printing paper, a couple syringes and inhalers and a rubber duck floating around. The light hurt his eyes, everything hurt. He could not see or hear. He stumbled towards the door, busting it open and letting the water into the rest of the condo. This wasn't right at all. He was on all fours and vomited on the soiled carpet. He saw a gash of red in the mixture and immediately checked if he had vomited blood. No? No, it wasn't from him. He pulled his head up and saw a limp man in college pants and a white tank top, covered entirely in blood originating from a gaping bullet wound that had busted his skull open on the kitchen floor. This wasn't right at all.
He climbed up on the door frame and tried to stand still and examine his surroundings. Whimpering. Someone was in the bathroom whimpering, pleading, scratching. Not worth opening, he thought. More unwanted and forgotten memories there. He heard soothing ukulele music in his head, distorted by incoherent vocals and scratching sounds. That's all he could think of. He waddled to the living room. A long-haired man was lying on the couch, gibbering, twisting, opening and closing his mouth, spurting out blood once in a while. Poor man had chewed three of his fingers and his tongue off. Opposite of the couch was a television, showing nothing but static. Static. Everything is static.
Mortimer tried to make his way to a table with a black worn suitcase on it, opened as well. He opened an orange pill bottle, and grabbed a few tablets and chewed them. Everything was calm. He was in connection with the fabric of the universe, an endless stream of ukulele tunes and waves singing. He packed the pills, four vials of Vigor along with two empty ones, some lightbulbs, plastic bags and a loaded handgun into the suitcase, closed it, and put on his round sunglasses. None of this mattered anymore, he thought. Just the music of the universe. He got out of the apartment, everything was calm in the hallway. He made his way to the stairs and finally exited the building to the street in Fontainebleu, basking in the first rays of sunlight. The sun was dancing, like static. Static.
He wandered into the sunrise, towards his cellar pad to take a shower with his clothes on. He left the briefcase on his beanbag chair and went to the shower, where he slept for three hours without waking up. When he woke up, he was completely soaked, lying on the floor staring at the ceiling tiles pulsing like waves singing, sunrays dancing, music playing, static buzzing, blood swirling.
All was right in the world.
An apartment in Fontainebleu, early morning.
Everything smelled like battery acid, stingy, disgusting.
Mortimer was lying on a bed, facing the ceiling. Everything was pulsing, like static. Static everywhere. Buzzing. Mortimer pulled the balaclava off his face, letting his face taste the rancid air in the apartment. Wait, why was the balaclava there? He tucked it into the pocket of his red woolen shirt, back where it belonged. He did not remember a goddamn thing. Every single noise was a sharp sting of electricity. His shirt was crusted with dried saliva and vomit, looked like old apple juice.
He rose up from the bed, trying to get a footing, but the room was flooded. The water was swirling with shades of pink and dark brown, bottles, dissolving printing paper, a couple syringes and inhalers and a rubber duck floating around. The light hurt his eyes, everything hurt. He could not see or hear. He stumbled towards the door, busting it open and letting the water into the rest of the condo. This wasn't right at all. He was on all fours and vomited on the soiled carpet. He saw a gash of red in the mixture and immediately checked if he had vomited blood. No? No, it wasn't from him. He pulled his head up and saw a limp man in college pants and a white tank top, covered entirely in blood originating from a gaping bullet wound that had busted his skull open on the kitchen floor. This wasn't right at all.
He climbed up on the door frame and tried to stand still and examine his surroundings. Whimpering. Someone was in the bathroom whimpering, pleading, scratching. Not worth opening, he thought. More unwanted and forgotten memories there. He heard soothing ukulele music in his head, distorted by incoherent vocals and scratching sounds. That's all he could think of. He waddled to the living room. A long-haired man was lying on the couch, gibbering, twisting, opening and closing his mouth, spurting out blood once in a while. Poor man had chewed three of his fingers and his tongue off. Opposite of the couch was a television, showing nothing but static. Static. Everything is static.
Mortimer tried to make his way to a table with a black worn suitcase on it, opened as well. He opened an orange pill bottle, and grabbed a few tablets and chewed them. Everything was calm. He was in connection with the fabric of the universe, an endless stream of ukulele tunes and waves singing. He packed the pills, four vials of Vigor along with two empty ones, some lightbulbs, plastic bags and a loaded handgun into the suitcase, closed it, and put on his round sunglasses. None of this mattered anymore, he thought. Just the music of the universe. He got out of the apartment, everything was calm in the hallway. He made his way to the stairs and finally exited the building to the street in Fontainebleu, basking in the first rays of sunlight. The sun was dancing, like static. Static.
He wandered into the sunrise, towards his cellar pad to take a shower with his clothes on. He left the briefcase on his beanbag chair and went to the shower, where he slept for three hours without waking up. When he woke up, he was completely soaked, lying on the floor staring at the ceiling tiles pulsing like waves singing, sunrays dancing, music playing, static buzzing, blood swirling.
All was right in the world.
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