Page 4 - Nails

For a long while he let it run over his head. He
kept his eyes open, blinking away the rivulets
when they came. He hung his head in some kind
of James Dean detachment. His brain was still
screaming, but the patter of water on his head had
a soothing distraction. Eventually the hatchet won
through and he began to wash.

He dug his fingertips into the soap, hoping to
scratch some of it under his bitten nails, to reach
the black grease and oil that was always there.

During his soaping he came across his bruise.
He ventured a depression, a little harder. Yes, he
could feel it. A little harder. Yes, it hurt. It was
sore.

Then suddenly, tensing his stomach muscles he
made a fist and punched himself hard.

Strength, he thought to himself.
The bruise at his side began to ache.
He sang loudly, deeply. And for a moment he
was Jim Morrison of The Doors.
Starkers, he left the bathroom and moved
through the living room towards the kitchen.
Kevin cursed under his breath when he noticed
that he'd left the stereo on all night. The ashtrays
were full, sitting on the floor. Crushed cans of
lager and plates covered with the specks of toast
crumbs lay strewn about.
"Tip, tip, tip," he said to himself.
In the kitchen, melted yellow cheese hung in

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