It was a Sunday. The type of Sunday where broken limbs snapped themselves. Where the only light was Netflix’s, flickering like a vacant picture show against the blank canvas of a soul. Where I was head fucked, lips shredded, egging on death to be impending. The type of Sunday where my muscles ached between sweaty shivering sheets and my only thought – scrolling through the girls – which, if any, would have little enough self-respect to come by now. But that thought kept vanishing, losing itself and all I needed was a cuddle. Emma Stone herself couldn’t get anything more from me right now.
Laurence understood Sundays. That was, partly, why I’d agreed to live with him. The models and the cocaine factored in there somewhere. Obviously.But Laurence understood that Sunday’s meant Valium and a quiet, personal suicide. The End.
They were getting harder but there was a definite push-back. This was another reason I liked Laurence. Living with Laurence was like a never ending playground. A couple of Sunday’s ago we had met in the living room, shifty eyes and palpitations and, noting it was past 7pm, Laurence had suggested we take a beer. This was fine, as we’d both been out and consulted the idea for a while before concluding it was the only viable option. After a couple of beers we decided to do a line. Some Sundays became like this and then they weren’t like Sundays at all.
But it was unspoken. If I or Laurence remained inside the walled concrete, behind the flaky door, if we shuffled quickly to the bathroom and back again it was always understood; Sunday, day of rest, leave me the fuck alone. Or I might just tip.
This is why it is so hard for me to fathom what was happening, suddenly on that Sunday. I checked my phone to see if I had indeed, skipped a day. But it was definitely Sunday and something was wrong, very, very wrong. There was something that I would later find out was Alfred Brendel burning through my ears holes and there was the smell of French toast on the air. There were only two possible reasons that I could think of as to why Laurence was acting this way. That he was still incredibly high. Or that, god help us all, Laurence was back with Sally.
Sally is the only girl Laurence had ever gone straight for. The only girl he ever loved… and that had been a terrible two weeks for me. The ash trays emptied, soaps in the shower, loud, unavoidable fucking every night. Laurence had taken to wearing a towel dressing gown around and nothing else like he was a sex God. He pretended not to be that interested in Cocaine anymore. He even deleted our dealers number, a stupid over the top gesture that could be reverted at any time by asking over twenty people that Laurence saw daily. But still. Didn’t Sally move to Florida? Or Slough or something?
Laurence was leaning over the kitchen surface, cracking eggs into a plastic bowl to the sound of classical strings.
“Laurence, what the fuck?” I said. Laurence looked bemused. “Laurence, it’s Sunday. What did you do? What is this? Did you find a fucking religion? Is Sally back from Florida or Slough? Did you fuck Emma Stone?” I’m delirious with anger, seeing red, smashing the bowls and plates to the floor around me.
“What’s up with you man?”
“Were you not at the club last night? Have you not been on a bender since Friday afternoon? Is it not now nearly Sunday evening?” I look at him incredulous. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I nearly died,” he said simply, and that’s when I register he has a sticker on his vein and some bruising around the edges where they might have forced in some fluid.
“Really?” I stop. “Shit man, why didn’t you call me?”
“Didn’t know where you were man,” Laurence grins. “Best thing that has ever happened to me really. Today is a day. It’s a day. Don’t you see? It’s a day that we will never get back. Sunday is a day.”
“It’s never coming back. I’m going to South America,” he declared. “I’m going to eat this fucking French toast and then I’m going to go to Gatwick and then catch a flight to South America.”
“I think you should sleep.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“I don’t want to stop you.”
He calms down for a bit.
“Let’s have our last conversation for a while,” he says, “because I am going to need you to do a few things for me. Like clear out my shit and do the rest of my drugs.” He indicates a pile he must have cleaned out of his room the size of an ant hill. I feel sick just looking at them.
“I’m going back to bed.”
“Sure dude. But I’ll be gone when you wake up.”
I go to bed and shortly after I finally pass out.
Sunday has gone and it’s Monday and at least I have a purpose now, a menial pointless little purpose in existence. But at least I know I exist, like for sure. I get up and put clothes on and brush my furry as fuck teeth. The smell of French toast still lingers.
“Laurence?” I shout out but I can’t hear anyone downstairs or in his room.