Untitled by Edmund Buckley
Through the haze of a Saturday morning hangover, he hears the buzzing of his alarm clock. He slams the palm of his hand down on the snooze and turns over in his bed. His sleep is interrupted by his clogged brain that feels like a bag of soggy clay. Memories of last night come flooding back. What a fool he had made of himself. ‘U-u-urgh!’ his alarm starts ringing again. Eventually he turns over to hit the snooze to see his sister standing over it. She looks like she’s suffering too as she unplugs it. He notices his jeans lying on the ground. They are still perfectly formed, as if he simply stepped out of them and they kept the shape of his lower body. ‘She always uses too much starch in the washing powder,’ he thinks as he peels the sweaty sheets back and allows the strange odour that seeps from his pores after taking E creeps around the room. He swivels his bandy legs around in the bed and places them on the carpet floor of his bedroom. Reaches for his Right Guard and sprays it round the room as he opens his window. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and is surprised to realise how thin he has become, so thin that his rib cage is visible under his skin. He checks his stash box to see how much hash he has left for the day. ‘Enough’. He makes his way to the shower and switches on the emersion, grabbing a towel from the hot press. Twenty minutes later he is in the wooden kitchen, climbing up, grabbing a box of cereal. He pours a bowl of Alpen grabs a carton of milk and goes to the drawer to take a spoon. The smell of sour milk from the carton lingers through the air into his nose. ‘Shit’, he strikes the cutlery drawer with his knee as he remembers lining his stomach last night and leaving the milk on the counter. Taking a dry slice of bread he makes his way to the door, and slams it behind him. As he reaches the local newsagent, he reaches into his pocket and sees how much change he has left from last night. ‘Enough’. After waiting in the cue for thirty seconds, his head feels light, begins to spin and he thinks he is going to throw up. The beeping of the scanner, the bright colours at the sweet counter and the slamming of the electric till become unbearable. Before a full panic attack starts he decides to leave the shop. ‘Time for a joint,’ he thinks as he scampers out of the newsagent. Five minutes later he is ringing his mate’s doorbell. It takes a further five minutes for Pat to answer. When he does he looks like he was visited by a life-draining vampire during the night, eyes bloodshot and baggy black, skin ghostly white and clogged, he can barely stand up straight. ‘Come in while I get dressed’ he says as he scratches his arse through his boxers, ‘I’ll be five minutes’. Twenty minutes later they’re leaving the house and walking through the G.A.A. field. ‘Any skins Pat,’ asks Ger. ‘Yeah, still got some of those blue Smoking skins left.’ ‘Good stuff,’ ’how long did you stay last night?’ ‘Long enough to get laid, she fucking wore me out, real fit girl, into the gym and that, any cigarettes?’ He hands him a cigarette and they stroll through the assorted neighbours who are walking their dogs, dedicating their weekend to the local soccer team, some of the older now pushing prams around the path daydreaming about the days when were not tied down to a family and a nine to five, closely dodging the joggers with the pram. ‘Gonna meet her again?’ ‘Yeah got her number, she told me to take her out next week, what about you and Caroline, have you patched things up?’ ‘Na I went around last night to Mark’s party and she completely blanked me, then went off with that Murray fool, just to get at me you know.’ ‘Well that Kate girl apparently likes you, I could get her number.’ ‘Ah I dunno, I’m not really in the right frame of mind.’ ‘Well man don’ leave it too long.’ At the other side of the park they cross the road into the school grounds, sit down on the sheltered yard bench and proceed to skin up. ‘Hurry up Ger you always take so fucking long.’ ‘Patience young man, here roll one yourself, have a cigarette as well it will shut you up for a few minutes.’ Before the cigarette has burned out, Pat throws it away and sparks up his spliff. Ger is still toying with the skins, trying as usual to out do the joint that has just been rolled. He licks the paper, rolls it over and is eventually ready to spark up. ‘About time,’ Pat says as he passes him the joint. ‘Nah, you finish it,’ he says as he puts the new joint to his lips. Within five minutes the joints are smoked. Pat’s misdemeanours from last night have been cured of with a little help from his friend. Ger is not so lucky, the fact that he had skipped breakfast begins to catch up with him. There is no food in his stomach to absorb the hash. He begins to get a panic attack, his heart begins to thump in his chest, his head starts banging, beads of sweat form on his forehead and begin to roll down his face. He hears a voice mumbling in his head, turns to Pat to notice that he is sitting silently, he hasn’t said a word. He jumps to his feet, ‘I need a piss.’ He goes around the corner, jumps over the fence and runs across the road. When he reaches the wooded end of the park he is taunted by the screeching of children’s voices playing among the trees. It is as if someone has taken a cheese grater to his nervous system. He approaches, realises what is happening. There is a gang of young boys teasing a young girl. She has just lost in a conker fight. There is a broken conker on the ground and the lads are pointing at it and laughing. Ger strolls over to break up the circle that is jeering the poor girl. ‘She deserved it, you should have heard her boasting,’ says one of them. He touches her shoulder and points to the tree, ‘Which one do you want?’ ‘That one,’ she says as she points to a high branch. Ger takes a stone and stands back. He puts his arm up and takes aim, hurling the stone at the chestnut tree. The largest visible chestnut breaks away from the tree and splits open on impact. The girl rushes over and quickly squires the conker and ties a knot through it. The jeering stopped and the gang refused to play any more. A smile broke out over Ger’s face and he decided to go home. Rubbing his hungry stomach, ‘Breakfast should be ready by now.’ Insert text here This is a template for STORIES. Insert text here This is a template for STORIES. Insert text here