217 Babel Street | Apartment 19
Shiny black flies were crawling around inside the bathtub. Heston climbed in and stomped them under his Doc Martins. He crushed their iridescent bodies, releasing the juices inside. Job well done. He turned to the mirror above the sink, rubbing his hand over a week’s worth of bristle. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed, as he stuffed big wedges of cotton wool into his ears. Anything to keep the corpse from speaking to him.
Walking back into the main room he popped a couple of happy pills and made himself a joint. He drank cocoa sweetened with treacle. He felt like one of those Japanese Hikikomori kids, who retreat to their rooms and lock themselves in. At least he was still getting the subscription fees for his website, www.202freakystreet.com. That kept him going, although sometime soon he would have to go out and brave the world.
The corpse grinned at him. Had it moved slightly, changed position on the carpet? Lack of sleep and his daily drug intake were playing havoc with Heston's sense of reality. Amid the usual rabid hallucinations he sometimes had visions of himself as a clean man, a sensible man, a man in love even. These episodes lasted about ten seconds. His twenty-seventh birthday loomed and already he felt old, past his best. His skin smelled of toilet cleaner and fish. It was time. Heston pulled out a bed-sheet and started to roll the corpse inside it.