Sweet Lamenting

I was once lying down on a sofa. Someone who knew me came and rested their hand gently on my arm. I could not see their face by eyes were shut. I felt their touch for more than an hour. With the poisoning effect of the drugs I had just taken impairing my ability to move or even open my eyes, I was locked in a prison. But one good thing came out of it, I heard things in a completely different way, it was spectacular, all the usual shit that goes round in my head wasn't there anymore it was just filled with the sound of a girl running around shouting my name, and it filled my thoughts like a song.

The hand on my arm felt cold yet comforting, and the song continued. I listened for what felt like days, cliche intended, and it just kept mounting up on my mind. What was this girl doing? Worrying so much about such a small thing. Sure I was passed out on the sofa, with the remnants of my meatball sub in a bowl near me with other crap around it, but it wasn't like I was going to die. I had too much weed for crying out loud get over it. Hysterical bitch.

I was glad the hand was there though, there was such a relief that someone could care without showing it to the entire fucking world. She ran around and ran around and her laments turned sour like milk in the sun. She wasn't doing this for me, she wasn't doing this because she was worried, she wasn't doing this because she felt she ought to. The fucking bitch was exploiting my temporary paralysis to fuel her attention-seeking addiction. She was doing it for her! Running around like a crazy fucking chicken shouting to the heavens about how upset she was made people look at her and care for her. What an attention-seeking whore. She'd be the worst prostitute really, would you want to pick someone up off the side of the road who is screaming "Fuck me, fuck me! My daddy never loved me!" I mean come on, I'd want to see a girl smoking a cigarette sitting down, and as she sees me she stands up and looks at me with those narrow eyes filling me with intoxication. It's subtly that counts, just like the hand resting gracefully on my forearm, not forcing love but still giving it gently so it is accepted well.

The bitch still hasn't stopped by the way. She still hasn't fucking stopped. It's me for crying out loud I'm no Denzel Washington, I'm just that guy. No need to run around screaming "Danny's Dead! Danny's Dead!" because he's not, and you don't care anyway. All you care about is knowing people's eyes are on you, that people are thinking about you, that everyone's saying "How caring are you.". Skank whore.

The hand hasn't moved an inch, it was remarkable. I feel myself coming too, my leg has a bit of a twitch. My eyes flutter a bit. Slowly opening, but they sting as the light comes flooding in. I look up to see who this caring person who sat by me all this time is.


There's no one there.


No one had their hand on me.