/lit/ - Literature

>>1014815

I’m trying so hard to go back there without help, because it isn’t like before. Something’s wrong. And I need need need to figure it out right away because if something goes wrong in there then there’s no point, no fucking point at all. So shut my eyes so tight that I can feel a dull pounding in the front of my skull, and I try to remember the beach, what it’s like, why it’s like –

But of course I can’t.
It’s not the same; it’s all grainy, diluted, technicolor, overdubbed. Cheap. A pathetic replica scrounged from the banks of memory that crumbles to ash and I’m cursing myself for hoping, hoping like I always do, to just stay for a little while longer when she walks in and I open my eyes.

She’s telling me I have to pay, I don’t know who the fuck you are I want to say but don’t, because I do. It comes back and for some reason this stupid hooker has my pissed-on jeans balled up in one hand. Pay for what, I say. She laughs and it’s that laugh that you hear so much nowadays that carries nothing human with it. So hey, what the fuck, I laugh too. I get out, drain the tub, offer her a tab of acid, we fuck. Lather, rinse, repeat. We fuck for what seems an appropriate length of time and as I’m faking my orgasm she moans and writhes and fakes hers too, professionally, and in the end, what’s the point.

I pay her in opiates and when I realize I don’t have any more I get pissed, really pissed, so I’m stumbling through the apartment not quite sure what I’m looking for when I step on a vial of cocaine, which doesn’t break as much as snap and press powder and glass deep within the sole of my foot; the pain is sweet and abrupt and as I fall to the floor the room hazes over and chunks of it are falling away, slowly being replaced by a shimmering familiarity that actualizes itself in one fluid motion and just like that I’m back.

>>540327

>implying that /tv/ isn't ruled by LOST