I couldn’t recollect how or when I had fallen asleep. The events of the preceding evening and night were now beginning to wash over me like the relentless roll of post storm waves on a pebbled beach. As displaced memories rolled about seemingly randomly by the swelling emotions evoked by the act I had committed fell into place, I became more and more unsettled. I had done it. Four words, just four words that obscured and confused a multiplexity of horrors conscious and repressed, and would allow no changing of what had occurred, what I had made occur. I had done it. I used it. Me, me. My post sleep fug was clearing, replaced with a rising tide of unspeakable nausea. Why? I didn’t care much for people that much as we had ascertained, but to do that? It was no good, I raced to the bathroom and let go of my unbelief at myself in retching repulsion, huge gobs of spittle released as if an unseen crowd were displaying their judgement of me in the ancient, powerful form of expectorational abject contempt, a symbological regurgitation of my crime for all to see. Returning to the bedroom I tripped on the loose wooden divider between the rooms and fell awkwardly to the floor. Energy instantly left me, and I was lost to a reverie of self hating, complete sobbing degradation. After some period, I could no longer face the taste in my mouth; I get up, and immediately topple over again, temporarily crippled by a dead leg. Cursing basely I move to the kitchen and pour a glass of cold water. Sipping it induces a sharp pain caused by a cavity I could not be bothered to, or was too scared to, get remedied, but I welcome the pain, the microscopically tiniest act of self flagellation I could consider payment for my crime. I had used it.
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