First recently written fic... and i am no less fucked up
In which Vince Noir suffers various forms of mental illness, starting with bulimia :P it's angsty, i warn you. and kinda graphic. but no smut... yet. oh btw i didn't make up the mighty boosh ta bye
Vince had glanced up four times at the luminous clock face before the time sank in. He had less than ten minutes came the desperate conclusion, and his panic fled up a notch. He stuck a knife into the jar of peanut butter and slapped it across his barely toasted bread, cramming it into his mouth as the next slice was sliding into the toaster. He looked around. Cupboards? Fridge? What was left? His skin went cold as it occurred to him… had he left anything at all? The fresco bag he’d brought back with him was empty as was to be expected, but he’d never intended to start of the rest. He flung open the biscuit cupboard. Empty. Scrabbling through the freezer his heart began to sink. Empty. His eyes flicked to the clock. Seven minutes and counting. He tore the lid off Howard’s choice of bin, a sanitary cube of white plastic with a hygienic easy open lid, and plunged his hand in without a shudder. He brought the hand full of pizza crusts to his lips, dismissing the stale baked bean taste and, ignoring the knife and toast, plunged his hand into the peanut butter jar. He moaned in shame and collapsed against the wall, trying to get as much of the sticky, pale sludge into his mouth as he could. Five minutes and he still had to sort himself out and clean the kitchen. This was getting ridiculous, he thought.
He sank into the familiar sensation of cold against his knees and propped one elbow against the toilet seat, holding his hair with the same hand. Cautiously fingering the base of his tongue he felt his heart wrench. How the hell did he end up here again? He took the plunge and thrust his fingers against the back of his throat. The strange warm gush felt like all his responsibilities, his guilts and his fears floating out of the top of his head. Over and over he paused for breath, and then pushed his head back forwards into the bowl, tears struggling out of his eyes and spurting down his face. A few minutes later he slumped against the bathroom wall, sobbing and staring at his vomit covered hand. The painful smell of shame and the heaviness of the emotions pressing in on his spine brought back the bitter memories from years and years ago. Memories he wished he could wipe out of his mind as easily as wiping down the toilet seat. A younger Vince with pointy boots, pointy hair and a pointy face, fresh out of school with the pressure to succeed in his budding musical career, and the insecurities that whispered his failings over and over and over in a pointy, pointy voice. ‘You’re not good enough Vince. They never call back. They fuck you and forget you. They’re using you because you’re a pretty boy. They’re wrong though, you’re fat anyway. You think all the pretty glitter will hide what an ugly fuck up you are? You’ll never succeed in music. You’re going to work at this zoo for the rest of your life. Howard thinks you’re shallow. He’s never going to love you.’ Over and fucking over, tearing cruel chunks out of his soul until all he could do to shut them out was smother them in as much food as he possibly could and rip it out of himself with the calm, systematic clarity he had never managed to find anywhere else in his life. Purging himself of the disgrace and the feelings of worthlessness, retching and coughing until all the dirtiness was gone and his body and his soul were clean again.
He’d finished clearing up in the bathroom and retouching his eyeliner, and was just gargling on mouthwash when he heard the sound of the door closing.
‘Feel that beebop burn to the right. Oh yeah. Twist the trumpet, slap the base, feel the sweat run down your face. Jazzy fresh, oh yeah!’ Shit. ‘What the hell has happened in here?’ Vince spat out the stinging, blue contents of his mouth and walked own the hall into the kitchen, where Howard was standing in shock with a towel slung over his shoulder.
‘Fuck knows. Naboo and Bollo came home a while ago with a shitload of spliff, so they probably got the munchies or something.’ Vince fought to keep his voice steady.
‘You’re joking! I’m going to have to ask them about upping their percentage of the housekeeping money. This is getting ridiculous.’
It is, thought Vince.
---
He wasn’t quite sure what clicked in his mind that afternoon; what changed the course of his feet and diverted him into the shop on his way home. All he knew is he suddenly found himself face to face with a shelf and stuck back into his bittersweet cycle of agony as he struggled to choose between the brightly coloured packets. Why couldn’t they just lock up the shop and leave me here? He thought. I could sit here and eat the entire fucking world. The answer crept up on him as he sat up that night, listening to the hrmpph-pshh of Howard’s absent minded breathing as he read. Could it have been the night before? The drunken lunge against the place where Howard had stood moments before he’d stepped out of the way. Even in his intoxicated state he felt the old rejection sweep through entire body like a painful shot of junk. Howard probably didn’t even remember it as out of the ordinary; passed as the usual stumbling drunken Vince, but to him it was further proof that he was unlovable, unwanted. So he’d leapt back into the arms of his oldest, most faithful friend. ‘Can I use up my quota Howard?’ Howard looked up from his books and frowned.
‘But it’s windy and I’ve changed the sheets. All the smoke will come in and the linen will smell.’ It was a long standing system between them. There is twilight time when the two friends sit up together, Howard reading and Vince drawing or flicking through cheekbone, every night. It is an unspoken and inexplicable but mutual comfort between them that they should have this muted time in each other’s company. Not speaking, not paying attention to one another’s presence, yet lying back in the familiarity of their relationship. The end of this time is signified by Vince standing, ruffling his hair and snatching his packet of cigarettes from the bedside table. His final smoke on the rooftop seemed a perfect end to their day. But once a month on the day of his choice, Vince was allowed not to leave the comfort of his bed and blow smoke out of his little window. Neither were sure where this ‘Quota’ system had come from, but it was always honoured, no matter how grouchy Howard was feeling. A system is a system after all.
‘Yeah that’s kind of the point.’ Howard flicked his head upwards and returned to his book. If you must. Vince inhaled the smooth vapour into his battered lungs and pressed his chin against the windowsill, letting his weary mind fall into the stars.
---
For the fifth night that week, Vince found his face pressed against the bathroom floor. Groaning as his protesting stomach ached. Why me? He smashed his forehead against the tiles. Why me? He felt hot red against the white. Again and again he brought his head violently against the floor, trying to drown out the roaring in his ears. “FUCK.” His scream got lost in the mess of acid, blood and tears.
---
Howard chewed on a nail as he considered his friend’s behaviour with a heavy heart. He’d suspected something all those years back in the zoo. On his late shifts he would come back to a spotlessly clean kitchen and an out of breath Vince. They’d take their lunch break at a restaurant and Vince would come back from the toilet chewing gum with a fresh layer of eyeliner. Clean smooth facades to hide the mounting fear. Slowly becoming a pale ghost of a man, with pinched skin and dark eyes, as though someone had squeezed the bridge of his nose and carried on squeezing. The hollows under his clavicles grew, the clavicles that he would hold, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair and staring into nothing. The coldness dissipated gradually when they’d moved to the flat over the shop, and the phantom in Vince’s eyes began to fade away. Howard was glad, but he never said a thing. It was too awkward, too private, but this time he felt he owed too much to him as a friend to turn a blind eye. That morning as he sat across the table from Vince, he caught sight of twin red marks across his knuckles and decided it was time to act
He paused out side the door. He could still go back. Go back to Lester’s and pretend he’d been there all along. But he couldn’t, not really. His slid his key into the lock and let the door swing open. ‘FUCK.’ Howard heard a strangled cry that sounded like pure anguish, like the concentrated essence of hopelessness
‘Shit’ He muttered, and sprinted to the source of the cry. Vince could hardly deny it. He was sitting with his own vomit splashed across the floor and dark blood blossoming from the wound on his head. Blood stained bluey black with self hatred. He looked up at Howard with wide and helpless eyes, eyes framed by a tangle of sweat slicked, blood matted hair. There might as well have been no face between them at all. He stood up shakily like a new-born lamb with his eyes cast downward and lifted his trembling hand to his hair, gripping it so tight that tiny droplets of pain began to collect in his tear ducts. Howard opened his arms and stepped forward. Vince looked up to watch his mirror image tears splash down Howard’s face.
Vince had glanced up four times at the luminous clock face before the time sank in. He had less than ten minutes came the desperate conclusion, and his panic fled up a notch. He stuck a knife into the jar of peanut butter and slapped it across his barely toasted bread, cramming it into his mouth as the next slice was sliding into the toaster. He looked around. Cupboards? Fridge? What was left? His skin went cold as it occurred to him… had he left anything at all? The fresco bag he’d brought back with him was empty as was to be expected, but he’d never intended to start of the rest. He flung open the biscuit cupboard. Empty. Scrabbling through the freezer his heart began to sink. Empty. His eyes flicked to the clock. Seven minutes and counting. He tore the lid off Howard’s choice of bin, a sanitary cube of white plastic with a hygienic easy open lid, and plunged his hand in without a shudder. He brought the hand full of pizza crusts to his lips, dismissing the stale baked bean taste and, ignoring the knife and toast, plunged his hand into the peanut butter jar. He moaned in shame and collapsed against the wall, trying to get as much of the sticky, pale sludge into his mouth as he could. Five minutes and he still had to sort himself out and clean the kitchen. This was getting ridiculous, he thought.
He sank into the familiar sensation of cold against his knees and propped one elbow against the toilet seat, holding his hair with the same hand. Cautiously fingering the base of his tongue he felt his heart wrench. How the hell did he end up here again? He took the plunge and thrust his fingers against the back of his throat. The strange warm gush felt like all his responsibilities, his guilts and his fears floating out of the top of his head. Over and over he paused for breath, and then pushed his head back forwards into the bowl, tears struggling out of his eyes and spurting down his face. A few minutes later he slumped against the bathroom wall, sobbing and staring at his vomit covered hand. The painful smell of shame and the heaviness of the emotions pressing in on his spine brought back the bitter memories from years and years ago. Memories he wished he could wipe out of his mind as easily as wiping down the toilet seat. A younger Vince with pointy boots, pointy hair and a pointy face, fresh out of school with the pressure to succeed in his budding musical career, and the insecurities that whispered his failings over and over and over in a pointy, pointy voice. ‘You’re not good enough Vince. They never call back. They fuck you and forget you. They’re using you because you’re a pretty boy. They’re wrong though, you’re fat anyway. You think all the pretty glitter will hide what an ugly fuck up you are? You’ll never succeed in music. You’re going to work at this zoo for the rest of your life. Howard thinks you’re shallow. He’s never going to love you.’ Over and fucking over, tearing cruel chunks out of his soul until all he could do to shut them out was smother them in as much food as he possibly could and rip it out of himself with the calm, systematic clarity he had never managed to find anywhere else in his life. Purging himself of the disgrace and the feelings of worthlessness, retching and coughing until all the dirtiness was gone and his body and his soul were clean again.
He’d finished clearing up in the bathroom and retouching his eyeliner, and was just gargling on mouthwash when he heard the sound of the door closing.
‘Feel that beebop burn to the right. Oh yeah. Twist the trumpet, slap the base, feel the sweat run down your face. Jazzy fresh, oh yeah!’ Shit. ‘What the hell has happened in here?’ Vince spat out the stinging, blue contents of his mouth and walked own the hall into the kitchen, where Howard was standing in shock with a towel slung over his shoulder.
‘Fuck knows. Naboo and Bollo came home a while ago with a shitload of spliff, so they probably got the munchies or something.’ Vince fought to keep his voice steady.
‘You’re joking! I’m going to have to ask them about upping their percentage of the housekeeping money. This is getting ridiculous.’
It is, thought Vince.
---
He wasn’t quite sure what clicked in his mind that afternoon; what changed the course of his feet and diverted him into the shop on his way home. All he knew is he suddenly found himself face to face with a shelf and stuck back into his bittersweet cycle of agony as he struggled to choose between the brightly coloured packets. Why couldn’t they just lock up the shop and leave me here? He thought. I could sit here and eat the entire fucking world. The answer crept up on him as he sat up that night, listening to the hrmpph-pshh of Howard’s absent minded breathing as he read. Could it have been the night before? The drunken lunge against the place where Howard had stood moments before he’d stepped out of the way. Even in his intoxicated state he felt the old rejection sweep through entire body like a painful shot of junk. Howard probably didn’t even remember it as out of the ordinary; passed as the usual stumbling drunken Vince, but to him it was further proof that he was unlovable, unwanted. So he’d leapt back into the arms of his oldest, most faithful friend. ‘Can I use up my quota Howard?’ Howard looked up from his books and frowned.
‘But it’s windy and I’ve changed the sheets. All the smoke will come in and the linen will smell.’ It was a long standing system between them. There is twilight time when the two friends sit up together, Howard reading and Vince drawing or flicking through cheekbone, every night. It is an unspoken and inexplicable but mutual comfort between them that they should have this muted time in each other’s company. Not speaking, not paying attention to one another’s presence, yet lying back in the familiarity of their relationship. The end of this time is signified by Vince standing, ruffling his hair and snatching his packet of cigarettes from the bedside table. His final smoke on the rooftop seemed a perfect end to their day. But once a month on the day of his choice, Vince was allowed not to leave the comfort of his bed and blow smoke out of his little window. Neither were sure where this ‘Quota’ system had come from, but it was always honoured, no matter how grouchy Howard was feeling. A system is a system after all.
‘Yeah that’s kind of the point.’ Howard flicked his head upwards and returned to his book. If you must. Vince inhaled the smooth vapour into his battered lungs and pressed his chin against the windowsill, letting his weary mind fall into the stars.
---
For the fifth night that week, Vince found his face pressed against the bathroom floor. Groaning as his protesting stomach ached. Why me? He smashed his forehead against the tiles. Why me? He felt hot red against the white. Again and again he brought his head violently against the floor, trying to drown out the roaring in his ears. “FUCK.” His scream got lost in the mess of acid, blood and tears.
---
Howard chewed on a nail as he considered his friend’s behaviour with a heavy heart. He’d suspected something all those years back in the zoo. On his late shifts he would come back to a spotlessly clean kitchen and an out of breath Vince. They’d take their lunch break at a restaurant and Vince would come back from the toilet chewing gum with a fresh layer of eyeliner. Clean smooth facades to hide the mounting fear. Slowly becoming a pale ghost of a man, with pinched skin and dark eyes, as though someone had squeezed the bridge of his nose and carried on squeezing. The hollows under his clavicles grew, the clavicles that he would hold, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair and staring into nothing. The coldness dissipated gradually when they’d moved to the flat over the shop, and the phantom in Vince’s eyes began to fade away. Howard was glad, but he never said a thing. It was too awkward, too private, but this time he felt he owed too much to him as a friend to turn a blind eye. That morning as he sat across the table from Vince, he caught sight of twin red marks across his knuckles and decided it was time to act
He paused out side the door. He could still go back. Go back to Lester’s and pretend he’d been there all along. But he couldn’t, not really. His slid his key into the lock and let the door swing open. ‘FUCK.’ Howard heard a strangled cry that sounded like pure anguish, like the concentrated essence of hopelessness
‘Shit’ He muttered, and sprinted to the source of the cry. Vince could hardly deny it. He was sitting with his own vomit splashed across the floor and dark blood blossoming from the wound on his head. Blood stained bluey black with self hatred. He looked up at Howard with wide and helpless eyes, eyes framed by a tangle of sweat slicked, blood matted hair. There might as well have been no face between them at all. He stood up shakily like a new-born lamb with his eyes cast downward and lifted his trembling hand to his hair, gripping it so tight that tiny droplets of pain began to collect in his tear ducts. Howard opened his arms and stepped forward. Vince looked up to watch his mirror image tears splash down Howard’s face.