Jude’s Story. Pt 2.

CONTENT WARNING. Mentions alcohol.

The toilet flushes. The plumbing is sound. That’s good. I get diarrhoea. My poop is yellow.

I worry about it, but it’s faint now. I drink alcohol because of all my worries and that’s another one to toss into the big old bag of shit I carry around with me everywhere. You experience so much and then you find a way to cope and it numbs the pain. You might be a zombie but at least you can function.

I exist. I don’t live.

People were concerned, now I’m sure they think what an asshat, what a pain in the backside. Where is Jude going to reappear in my life next and will they even be sober, will I have to bail them out of a situation.

Depression makes you selfish. I think that is after so long neglecting yourself, depression moves in and it makes you into a vile person. A pity party of one. An angry, furious flaming ball of hate. It’s asking for help, for those needs to be met. But depression stinks and no-one wants to help someone who seems like they don’t even want to help themselves.

Addiction makes you selfish. All you want is that thing that will distract you, make you feel better.

The thing that is slowly destroying you. Destroying every opportunity. It will kill me. I don’t know if I care about that. I think about my funeral, and how many people will show. I think Steve would. I don’t think anyone else would. I wouldn’t even bet on them crying for me. If they did, that would be stupid. How dare they cry when they wouldn’t stick around. Sometimes I think I stay alive to spite them. Imagine if I rose out of the ashes, victorious. Imagine if I achieved happiness.

Depression AND addiction. It’s a good thing that I have my lighter moments.

Photo by Mat Reding on Pexels.com

Story time. Read a bit more of Jude’s story. In case you forgot I also write fiction.


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I slot the key into the lock and turn it. With my foot on the bottom of the rotten door frame, I push open the door, and step into the shop. The post under my feet crunches. I shut the door and crouch down to scoop them up. Tentatively I weave my way through Betty Boop statues, and Bamboo side tables to the back of the room, where I place the post on the till, which leaves my fingers coated in grime.

 
My phone bings. I swipe up the screen. Name: Dani. I put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello.’ I say.
‘Hi’ Dani says. ‘Can you see me?’
‘When.’
‘Now, later, tonight. Whenever.’
‘I can’t, really. I have a doctor’s appointment, then I go to the council, and the Jobcentre. Then I have to do some shopping.’
‘OK. See ya when I see ya then.’
Beep.

I scratch my shoulder, pulling the vodka out of the plastic bag I bought in with me. I take out the plastic cups, and rip off the wrapping, slipping a cup from the bottom of the tube. My hand shakes as I pour the vodka into the cup, and put the bottle down on the till, sliding a small bottle of lemonade from the bag, and topping it up.
A carriage clock ticks. Ominous. I can’t stand the ticking of a clock. I will have to find a way to silence them. All of them. My eyes run along the shelves of clocks: glinting silver, and gold soldiers.


Thanks for reading. I hope you took something from it. Drop me a comment below if you did.