Too Many Things (A Prologue to ‘Abby’s Tale’)
This is a peice of fiction inspired by reading Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting.Warning – very adult themes such as sex and heavy swearing. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.********
Red spatters. I awoke in hell. No…maybe other people call it hell, but for me it is home. It’s cold, despite the red and black, which I’d always thought were warm colours. I lift my head from the faintly sticky, bristly carpet and my nostrils quiver at the sharp smells around me. The blood starts to rise in my throat again. Fuck. That’s what all that red stuff on the floor is – tomato juice from the bloody mary I finished up with last night. Oh fuck….Black – black clothes, black wall, black books. Black like the lungs of a forty a day smoker. Paint everything black. I will not have colour in my life any more. Bright orange light cuts through my head, sets the Goblins off. They scream. The colour of the red vomit is bad enough on its own, but there is more…the smell of the rotting tomato juice, the stench of my own guts, my insides – raw vodka and spices – a sickly indian curry of a drink. My stomach heaves.I make it into the bathroom this time. But the sink…my mum’s going to go mad. I look like I’ve had a baby in there. Just looking at the mess brings some more up. A door slams downstairs – lounge – don’t let my mother come up here please. If there is a God, spare me that. Not now, please, not now. I need a fag. I kick the door shut, stifle a squeak of pain as my toe hits the wood of the door the wrong way. I clutch at the sink, fingers rubbing in my own fresh puke – it looks like tomato sauce, now. You could put it on chips…
- Abigail?
Why does she have to sound so fucking chirpy? I guess she wasn’t out on the piss all night. I hold the door shut with one foot, balance unsteadily on the other, still holding on the sink for dear life. I need a fag. I turn the cold tap and watch last night’s nourishment start to swirl away. There are orange lumps floating in the red sea – I see them flying loop de loop like miniature spaceships – I’m going to be sick again. No I’m not. It’s ok. I’m in control now. Everything might be alright. Maybe shagging that Marc Stebton was part of that crazy drunk-dream, and maybe Nancy isn’t going to rip my head off and ram it up my fanny when she finds out.
I stand at the empty sink, praying that my period will come soon. Maybe then no one will have to find out. Oh god, please dont let me have an STI. Don’t let HIM get an STI. They’ll both want to kill me then.
Ahh!! Bloody hell. My mother!
- Abby? Are you…what are you doing in there?
- I’ve got a hangover, mum.
Shit! I sound like I’ve had my mouth cleaned out with sandpaper. Water, quick.
- Well, the state you were in last night! You ought to go and live with your father, the way you’re turning out! School, Abby? Have you thought about school in the last year?
Here we go…
- How on earth you even manage to get in pubs I don’t know…
And she carries on. I’ve learnt to blank it all out. Let all of that mess drift away. I sink onto the toilet seat, head in my hands. I would scream, but I think it would hurt too much. I’m an alcoholic, I might be pregnant, I think I’m addicted to coccaine, my education is shot to buggery, and I’m fourteen years old. I’m too young, too old, and everything in between. Some days I think I’m dying, and I haven’t yet begun to live.
