i forgot i wrote this.
Eyes closed, a sort of mahogany, burgundy, the colour of blood and blindness, white and black and red and brown, but it’s not all about sight, life isn’t. Sometimes you fail to see the most important things. He knows what is around him, he can smell the hard wooden floor, and himself on the bed sheets. Opens his mouth, breathes in: that’s the taste of life, the taste of freedom and restriction, the taste of disappointment and success. He knows he’s on his bed, soft and comfortable, he knows the curtains are closed and the door is shut. He knows there are a thousand particles of shattered glass, skating their way over the oak.
Eyes closed.
~*~
“He’s one of our newest presenters, he’s really funny…” The woman is talking enthusiastically, but he doesn’t pay attention. He knows what he’s here to do: photocopying, tea-making, running up and down flights of stairs, he’s got it all written down on the great white sheet of paper that is his brain. He doesn’t do talking, as a rule, certainly doesn’t do listening. Or anything more complex, either: hugging, kissing… no, he doesn’t do it. Tea-making, though. He’ll do that. “It was absolutely hilarious!” It’s his turn to talk.
“Oh, yeah? Sounds really funny.” Prick, is what he’s really thinking. Stupid prick. The man has hair like a farmyard bird, he’s too tall and too tanned and too pretty, his clothes are too nice and his smile is too fake. The worst offence, though, is the biro scrawled on his arm - ‘This is my tattoo’. He’s the kind of man who’d get beaten up at a Nirvana concert. “What did you say his name was?”
“Brand!” she gushes, though she’s looking at Matt through her stupid pink glasses now as if to say ‘you’re unusual’. He gets it a lot. He’s had worse. “Russell Brand!”
Eyes closed.
~*~
26A, by the window, he’s always preferred being by the window because you can pretend to be engrossed in the clouds and the view; no need for awkward social interaction with whoever gets shoved next to you when you’re by the window, is there? Still, there’s no one sitting beside him today, the seat next to him remains decidedly empty until-
“26B you say? Ah, hello!” Fucking Hell. Actual Hell. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Matt.” Fucking cockerel hair. Always him with the bad luck, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t he in business class, being a presenter? “Are you sure you’re not meant to be in business class?”
“Booking mix-up.” He sits down, and Matt notes he smells of something vaguely unsavoury that could be drugs, or alcohol, or sick, or mixture of the three. All the same, these showbiz types. He’s clutching a cardboard box, and there’s a strange, scuffling sound coming from inside of it. Matt looks at it warily, and the man- Russell, Russell Brand - grins broadly.
“I got snails,” he announces, before removing the lid to reveal - two of the most enormous snails Matt has ever seen. “Giant African snails.” Matt’s not sure whether this makes the man - Russell - better or worse in his eyes. “What shall we call them?”
“Wiggins,” Matt says sullenly, and is astonished to hear Russell roar with laughter. He couldn’t know Peter Cook, not him. Not perma-tan cockerel man, surely not?
It seems he does.
When they get off the plane in Ireland, Matt thinks it might not be such a bad thing, talking to Russell. As for Russell, he’s besotted. Get to the hotel: Russell wants to talk, but Matt’s not sure whether or not it’s a good idea, so he goes to his room instead, muttering his apologies.
Eyes closed.
~*~
It becomes quite apparent, eventually. Russell takes drugs (doesn’t everyone in Estuary England?), but not just weed. Heroin, cocaine, dangerous stuff, the stuff that Matt doesn’t like because it makes him feel clogged and anxious. And Russell will not listen, he’s as stubborn as blackberries (that is to say, not at all, but don’t they crush between your fingers with the slightest pressure, juice spilling ripe across your skin?), and Matt is scared.
He’d always thought he was selfish, always thought he’d never give a shit about someone else, and now he knows why: because this is dangerous, this is unpredictable and he never, ever dreamed that when he fell in love it would have to be like this.
Russell becomes dependant on anything he’s exposed to, though, and this dependency inevitably turns to Matt.
“Where’s Matt?” It’s embarrassing and flattering in equal measure to be summoned to television sets where Russell is sitting with his back to the cameras, refusing to film unless Matt is there. It makes his job easy at least: watch Russell show off for a while, go home and be a normal man, like he’s always been. Next morning: wake up, see Russell, plunge head-first into the fucking madness, the actual insanity that is being with Russell.
Matt doesn’t know why he stays, sometimes.
Scoring heroin is one of the worst moments, but the kiss is far and away the best: soft, long, meaningful, on the beach in Ibiza, seemingly endless but inevitably it comes to pass, and Matt is left with the roar of the sea in his ears and eyes closed.
~*~
Cornered in MTV. He’s walking down the corridor minding his own business, but of course when you’re involved with Russell trouble hunts you down; finds you when you are least expecting him and hits you on the head with a tennis racket.
“Matt Morgan?” the man says, and Matt nods, then stops himself. He remembers seeing himself reflected in a mirror once, nodding, and thinking he looked stupid. Self-conscious like that sometimes. “Ah, I was just wondering about Russell.” He takes Matt’s shoulder and moves him to the side of the corridor, and Matt feels a sudden, sick feeling surge from somewhere in his stomach, stifling rational thought. “We know Russell takes heroin.” Matt stares into the man’s eyes. “Is that why he’s not at work?” Sighs.
“Yeah,” Matt responds, and the man smiles grimly.
“Thank you young man- Matt,” he says, and he’s off in a whirl of fags and cheap scent. All the same, these showbiz types. Matt leans against the wall, heavy stomached, eyes closed.
~*~
Unemployed, now, but that’s okay, Russell has a new show lined up, and Matt has a vague sense of the world being completely upside-down when his mind tells him that as long as he sticks with Russell he’ll be fine, because ever since he’s been with Russell there’s been nothing but trouble. Russell is an erratic lover, to say the least, sometimes he doesn’t even know Matt’s name, but that’s the drugs, Matt is sure. He tries to be sure.
It’s hard, being sure, when the path is only lit by lights that blind him, or not lit at all, and sometimes he strays so far off the path that he thinks he’ll never find his way back onto it. And Matt knows, in dreams, that he could just keep walking, into the charcoal nights and away from the fluorescent days. Matt knows, in his heart of hearts, that they’ve been heading towards charcoal all along
Eyes open, eyes closed.
It’s all the same, still charcoal.
~*~
Pressure, pressure, pressure, Matt is drinking more and more and Russell seems to be chasing the dragon every ten minutes. They never really learned how to cope with life when they were young and foolish, and now they are growing older they’re falling back on their old vices. Time rushes on and then slows down, hearts skip beats and they are left in the lurch that lies between the contractions of that muscle.
It seems like a board game where the rules are becoming less and less clear. Roll the dice, shoot up, have a drink, go to the brothel, move back to unemployment, have sex in the hotel just because you want to get out of the void that is your mind. Verbs seem meaningless, conversation comes in fits and starts. Check the time, check the date, but does it matter if it’s the 8th of May or the 29th of August? They are no closer to the end, no further away.
Roll the dice, Matt. Roll the dice.
Eyes closed.
~*~
Flush of vermillion skin against a blank pillow. Sheets creased, the thumpthumpthump of hearts, and thrusts that move in time with the turning of the Earth. Wild ecstasy opens its jaw, swallows.
Mind blank.
Eyes closed.
~*~
Is it today, or was it yesterday? Eyes open, dimly aware that there is a body on the floor but not a person, eyes closed. Vomit, pungent vomit fills his mouth and his nose, and it’s all up the walls. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sirens come and sirens go, and suddenly he’s all alone. He can hear somebody crying. It’s coming from somewhere far, far away (he thinks it might be his heart).
Breathe in, breathe out, carry on. Takes the bottle, hurls it at the wall, it smashes, as science would predict. The shards scatter on the wooden floor, and he roars, feeling his chest rip apart, his arms and his legs and his face are screwing up in agony, he kicks out and punches out but he won’t go away, Pain won’t go away.
Sits in the shards, cries (he never cries).
Eyes closed.
Eyes closed.
~*~
“He’s one of our newest presenters, he’s really funny…” The woman is talking enthusiastically, but he doesn’t pay attention. He knows what he’s here to do: photocopying, tea-making, running up and down flights of stairs, he’s got it all written down on the great white sheet of paper that is his brain. He doesn’t do talking, as a rule, certainly doesn’t do listening. Or anything more complex, either: hugging, kissing… no, he doesn’t do it. Tea-making, though. He’ll do that. “It was absolutely hilarious!” It’s his turn to talk.
“Oh, yeah? Sounds really funny.” Prick, is what he’s really thinking. Stupid prick. The man has hair like a farmyard bird, he’s too tall and too tanned and too pretty, his clothes are too nice and his smile is too fake. The worst offence, though, is the biro scrawled on his arm - ‘This is my tattoo’. He’s the kind of man who’d get beaten up at a Nirvana concert. “What did you say his name was?”
“Brand!” she gushes, though she’s looking at Matt through her stupid pink glasses now as if to say ‘you’re unusual’. He gets it a lot. He’s had worse. “Russell Brand!”
Eyes closed.
~*~
26A, by the window, he’s always preferred being by the window because you can pretend to be engrossed in the clouds and the view; no need for awkward social interaction with whoever gets shoved next to you when you’re by the window, is there? Still, there’s no one sitting beside him today, the seat next to him remains decidedly empty until-
“26B you say? Ah, hello!” Fucking Hell. Actual Hell. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Matt.” Fucking cockerel hair. Always him with the bad luck, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t he in business class, being a presenter? “Are you sure you’re not meant to be in business class?”
“Booking mix-up.” He sits down, and Matt notes he smells of something vaguely unsavoury that could be drugs, or alcohol, or sick, or mixture of the three. All the same, these showbiz types. He’s clutching a cardboard box, and there’s a strange, scuffling sound coming from inside of it. Matt looks at it warily, and the man- Russell, Russell Brand - grins broadly.
“I got snails,” he announces, before removing the lid to reveal - two of the most enormous snails Matt has ever seen. “Giant African snails.” Matt’s not sure whether this makes the man - Russell - better or worse in his eyes. “What shall we call them?”
“Wiggins,” Matt says sullenly, and is astonished to hear Russell roar with laughter. He couldn’t know Peter Cook, not him. Not perma-tan cockerel man, surely not?
It seems he does.
When they get off the plane in Ireland, Matt thinks it might not be such a bad thing, talking to Russell. As for Russell, he’s besotted. Get to the hotel: Russell wants to talk, but Matt’s not sure whether or not it’s a good idea, so he goes to his room instead, muttering his apologies.
Eyes closed.
~*~
It becomes quite apparent, eventually. Russell takes drugs (doesn’t everyone in Estuary England?), but not just weed. Heroin, cocaine, dangerous stuff, the stuff that Matt doesn’t like because it makes him feel clogged and anxious. And Russell will not listen, he’s as stubborn as blackberries (that is to say, not at all, but don’t they crush between your fingers with the slightest pressure, juice spilling ripe across your skin?), and Matt is scared.
He’d always thought he was selfish, always thought he’d never give a shit about someone else, and now he knows why: because this is dangerous, this is unpredictable and he never, ever dreamed that when he fell in love it would have to be like this.
Russell becomes dependant on anything he’s exposed to, though, and this dependency inevitably turns to Matt.
“Where’s Matt?” It’s embarrassing and flattering in equal measure to be summoned to television sets where Russell is sitting with his back to the cameras, refusing to film unless Matt is there. It makes his job easy at least: watch Russell show off for a while, go home and be a normal man, like he’s always been. Next morning: wake up, see Russell, plunge head-first into the fucking madness, the actual insanity that is being with Russell.
Matt doesn’t know why he stays, sometimes.
Scoring heroin is one of the worst moments, but the kiss is far and away the best: soft, long, meaningful, on the beach in Ibiza, seemingly endless but inevitably it comes to pass, and Matt is left with the roar of the sea in his ears and eyes closed.
~*~
Cornered in MTV. He’s walking down the corridor minding his own business, but of course when you’re involved with Russell trouble hunts you down; finds you when you are least expecting him and hits you on the head with a tennis racket.
“Matt Morgan?” the man says, and Matt nods, then stops himself. He remembers seeing himself reflected in a mirror once, nodding, and thinking he looked stupid. Self-conscious like that sometimes. “Ah, I was just wondering about Russell.” He takes Matt’s shoulder and moves him to the side of the corridor, and Matt feels a sudden, sick feeling surge from somewhere in his stomach, stifling rational thought. “We know Russell takes heroin.” Matt stares into the man’s eyes. “Is that why he’s not at work?” Sighs.
“Yeah,” Matt responds, and the man smiles grimly.
“Thank you young man- Matt,” he says, and he’s off in a whirl of fags and cheap scent. All the same, these showbiz types. Matt leans against the wall, heavy stomached, eyes closed.
~*~
Unemployed, now, but that’s okay, Russell has a new show lined up, and Matt has a vague sense of the world being completely upside-down when his mind tells him that as long as he sticks with Russell he’ll be fine, because ever since he’s been with Russell there’s been nothing but trouble. Russell is an erratic lover, to say the least, sometimes he doesn’t even know Matt’s name, but that’s the drugs, Matt is sure. He tries to be sure.
It’s hard, being sure, when the path is only lit by lights that blind him, or not lit at all, and sometimes he strays so far off the path that he thinks he’ll never find his way back onto it. And Matt knows, in dreams, that he could just keep walking, into the charcoal nights and away from the fluorescent days. Matt knows, in his heart of hearts, that they’ve been heading towards charcoal all along
Eyes open, eyes closed.
It’s all the same, still charcoal.
~*~
Pressure, pressure, pressure, Matt is drinking more and more and Russell seems to be chasing the dragon every ten minutes. They never really learned how to cope with life when they were young and foolish, and now they are growing older they’re falling back on their old vices. Time rushes on and then slows down, hearts skip beats and they are left in the lurch that lies between the contractions of that muscle.
It seems like a board game where the rules are becoming less and less clear. Roll the dice, shoot up, have a drink, go to the brothel, move back to unemployment, have sex in the hotel just because you want to get out of the void that is your mind. Verbs seem meaningless, conversation comes in fits and starts. Check the time, check the date, but does it matter if it’s the 8th of May or the 29th of August? They are no closer to the end, no further away.
Roll the dice, Matt. Roll the dice.
Eyes closed.
~*~
Flush of vermillion skin against a blank pillow. Sheets creased, the thumpthumpthump of hearts, and thrusts that move in time with the turning of the Earth. Wild ecstasy opens its jaw, swallows.
Mind blank.
Eyes closed.
~*~
Is it today, or was it yesterday? Eyes open, dimly aware that there is a body on the floor but not a person, eyes closed. Vomit, pungent vomit fills his mouth and his nose, and it’s all up the walls. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sirens come and sirens go, and suddenly he’s all alone. He can hear somebody crying. It’s coming from somewhere far, far away (he thinks it might be his heart).
Breathe in, breathe out, carry on. Takes the bottle, hurls it at the wall, it smashes, as science would predict. The shards scatter on the wooden floor, and he roars, feeling his chest rip apart, his arms and his legs and his face are screwing up in agony, he kicks out and punches out but he won’t go away, Pain won’t go away.
Sits in the shards, cries (he never cries).
Eyes closed.