The Interview - 10. My brain is mush…

Chapter ten: My brain is mush…

My brain is mush, like how a losing boxer must feel after twelve rounds. My mouth is a desert, tasting of day-after alcohol and vomit. I glance at the alarm clock and the digital display shows 10:36 in bold red numbers. In the apartment above me someone is exercising, the loud whir of an old exercise bike not doing any favours for my pounding head. I consider throwing the pillow over my head and trying to get back to sleep but my bladder is insistent that I need to get out of bed.

            As I stagger to my feet, the intense pounding inside my skull is joined by a powerful feeling of déjà vu. I puzzle over it for a moment, but my mouth starts salivating and the muscles in my abdomen start to tighten and I know I am about to throw up. I run to the toilet cubicle and, leaning against the wall for stability, throw up the contents of my stomach into the bowl. I stand and begin to move to the bathroom when hot on the heels of the first, a second wave of nausea overcomes me and I’m forced to ride the porcelain bus once again.

            When the heaving subsides, I flush, then sit on the toilet to pee, my legs feeling too shaky and weak to stand. I flush again and then head into the bathroom to wash up, splash my face and drink a little more water.

            Feeling haggard and wondering, not for the first time, why I do this to myself, I walk out to the kitchen and see my phone plugged into the wall, fully charged. I pick it up and find a text message waiting for me, from Mel. As I read it, the feeling of déjà vu intensifies ten-fold.

Dan, you know that book is very special to me. I know you have it. I'm begging you, please give it back to me.

Memories from the day before come back to me, the four people arriving claiming to be God and his angels. The interview, the questions. I lean against the kitchen bench, in a state of confusion. The memory of the day is patchy, coming in vivid, fleeting snaps before disappearing again. I recall the voice mail message that started it all and immediately scroll through my phone, but there is no sign of it, or of a received call in the call register. Scrunching my brow, I flip to the date and time on the phone and it reads March 10th. I shake my head, then wish I hadn’t as the pounding returns.

‘Just a dream,’ I mutter, but the details feel too real, vivid. I grab a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water, then wander over to the couch in a daze and sit heavily. Taking small sips, I pick up the remote and switch on the TV. A news update appears on screen, a serious expression on the face of the blond newsreader as she reports the headlines.       

…the girl, aged thirteen, was sexually assaulted and beaten, left in the park where some local residents found her and called the police. She was taken into hospital and is in a serious but stable condition. Police are questioning witnesses, for any information they might have on the offender. The man is described as being of Caucasian appearance, roughly forty years of age, with brown hair, brown eyes and approximately 170 centimetres tall. He was last seen wearing a light grey hoodie and blue jeans, and is believed to be the same man involved in an incident at Kingsford public school a week ago. If you have any information as to the man’s identity or where-abouts, please contact the police.

I shake my head, troubled by the story. Picking up the remote, I flick over to the next channel, where the 11am news bulletin is just starting. The male newsreader straightens his notes then looks to the camera.

Welcome to the 11 o’clock news, I’m Adam Ralston. Tragedy overnight as a fire in a block of units leaves ten dead and another nine people injured and in hospital. Our reporter, Monique Abrams, is at the scene.

The screen flicks to a female reporter standing in front of a blackened, smoking building, with a host of fire fighters walking around in the background.

Thanks Adam. Behind me is all that remains of the three-story apartment complex, the embers still smouldering. The fire broke out on the ground floor of the apartment just before midnight last night and spread with frightening speed and intensity. The residents of the apartment were asleep, and when they woke the fire was already fully ablaze. All but one of the people in the ground floor apartments managed to escape the blaze, but the residents of the upper floors were not so lucky. Onlookers tried to enter the building to help pull out those left inside, but the blaze was too intense and they could not get in. By the time fire-fighters arrived, the building was engulfed in flames and all they could do was try to contain it and stop it spreading to neighbouring buildings. Police are treating the fire as suspicious.

'Sick Bastards,' I mutter, shaking my head in disgust that anyone could even contemplate lighting a fire in an apartment block. I start to feel nauseous at the thought of being caught in the blaze and switch channels again. But I find the third channel is part-way through their news bulletin, an older male newsreader mid-story.

…fronts court again today, the high profile athlete accused of murdering his girl-friend. Yesterday the courthouse was surrounded by onlookers, some calling out support to the star, others calling for his blood. It is alleged that the Olympic athlete smashed his girlfriend's head on the tiled floor of their kitchen, before bludgeoning her to death with a…

The TV screen goes blank, as I switched it off in disgust. 'He was right,' I mutter to myself, as another vivid flash of the interview with God comes to mind. Fear, anger, jealousy and violence. It does feel like it's everywhere, inescapable.

Phone still in hand, I read over Mel's message again, then scroll back through the message history. It has been over a month since we broke up and she has been chasing her book for almost that long. A gnawing feeling starts to nibble at my insides, not great in combination with my hangover. Previously, her messages have given me some sort of satisfaction, that she was feeling pain of loss she had subjected me to. Perhaps there was some hope thrown in; that I could keep her in my life while I held onto her book. Now it felt more like guilt, and as the feeling intensified I realised it was not just about returning her book. It was about how I treated her, how I projected my own anger and frustration at my inability to get published onto her. How I drove her away and then blamed her for leaving.

My body begins to shudder and my insides feel like they have been put through a blender and for a minute I think I am going to throw up again. I hear a pitiful moaning which startles me momentarily before I realise it has come from my own lips. Then I feel a hot streak burning down my cheek and I realise I am crying. The first tear is followed by a second, and soon I can't stop the tears from flowing. It has been years since I have cried, and it’s as if my tear-ducts are trying to make up for lost time.  I slowly slip down and sideways on the couch until I am lying down, curled up in a ball. My body is wracked by great shuddering sobs, and the cushion below dampens from the rain of tears.

I don't know how long I am there, but slowly the tears subside. I still feel wretched inside, and I don't move from my position. I feel like I could lie there forever, forget about the world.

A knock at the door startles me from my almost comatose state. The voice of Mrs Linton follows on the heels of the knocking. 'Daniel, I need that rent and I need it by tomorrow. Don't make me call a locksmith and change the locks on the door, or you'll be footing that bill as well.'

As is my usual custom, I remain quiet pretending like I am not there until the sound of her receding footsteps confirms she has gone. But I find the feeling of guilt and wretchedness rising in me again, threatening to spill over into another round of crying. I remain there for at least five minutes, still and calm on the surface, but a war of emotions raging inside.

At last I realise that there is only one thing I can do that will make the feeling go away. I push myself up into a sitting position, something that takes far more effort than it ought to and sets my head to pounding again. Fighting against the urge to give up and just lie back down, I take a big gulp from my glass of water on the table in front of me and then push myself up to my feet, swaying for a moment until I gain my balance.

I walk over into the kitchen pantry, reaching up to the top shelf and pulling down the jar that holds my meagre savings. Counting out the money I owe, I put it down on the table. Then I count out another pile of bills for the two weeks ahead and add it to the pile. The notes remaining in my hand are pitifully few, but I stuff them back into the jar, take the money from the table and head out of the apartment and upstairs to Mrs Linton's unit.

I knock on her door, feeling strange standing there in the reversed role, waiting for her to answer. After a few moments I hear the familiar clomping of her footsteps and the door cracks open. She is surprised for a moment to see me, and then her face hardens.

'You better not be coming her to ask for another extension Daniel, because...'

'Here's the rent for the last three weeks,' I cut in, holding out the money. The look of shock returns to her face as she eyes the money in my hand. 'There's another two weeks in there to cover me until you can find a new tenant for the apartment. I can't afford to live here anymore and need to move out, so I'm giving you my notice.'

I continue to hold the money, though she still hesitates to take it. Her gaze shifts back up to my face and the look has softened somewhat. 'When do you plan to move out?' she asks.

'In the next day or so,' I answer, though I have not really thought about it yet. 'There's not much there to move, so it shouldn't take too long. I'm sorry for being such a poor tenant.'

Mrs Linton takes the money from my hand, counts it out. I feel indignant that she does not trust me but bite my tongue and reflect that I have not given her great reason to. When she holds some of the money back to me, I realise that checking the amount was not her intention. 'Here, take back the extra two weeks. I'll be able to get a tenant in pretty quick, and there's also the bond which I should be able to return, as long as there's no damage?'

I accept the money back gratefully and give her a smile. 'It needs a bit of a clean, but I'll do a good job of it before I leave. There isn't any damage.'

Mrs Linton smiles and nods. 'Thanks for coming up and seeing me. I prefer talking to you than your door.'

'Sorry again about that. I guess I was in a state of denial and figured avoiding my problems would make them go away. I'm going to have to work on that.' I turn and start to walk back down the stairs but stop when she calls my name.

'Daniel, wait. Are you alright?' She has a look of genuine concern on her face, and I am surprised, and a little bit touched that she cares. It elicits another smile from me.

'I haven't been, but I think I'm on the mend.'