Descent

My bladder is full.

I descend into the darkness of the park, just able to make out the black ribbon of the path against the dark blue grass. I stagger onwards.

Soon I am in the middle, where the path approaches a cluster of trees. I unzip.

Aaaaah! A stream of warmth splashes out of me, causing a puddle to grow beneath the patch of bark I'm aiming for. I step back to avoid the puddle as it advances towards me. I don't want piss on my shoes - not even my own piss. It smells of fermented hops.
"It's not important," booms a voice.

In an instant reaction I simultaneously stop and zip up and rush away, accelerating into a run that only ends now that I'm out of the park on the lit up pavement again. Who was that? I see nothing but trees down in the dip of the small park. That voice... strangely familiar.

Rattled, I carry on towards home.

***

Oh god! My alarm clock is screaming and that means it's seven and I absolutely have to get up although my limbs feel like dead weight and my eyelids are stuck closed. And my head hurts. It hurts bad. This feeling: I need to store it away exactly as it is now so I can retrieve it next time I'm about to drink myself stupid. But I know I will never learn.

I lurch out of bed and straight into the shower and turn it on. A steam of old cigarette smoke rises from me as the hot water hits. I have to support myself with a hand on the wall. Why am I up? For Harry, who is arriving soon. Maybe I should kill Harry when he comes and then go back to bed where I belong. Back to my soft bed, my body horizontal, my heavy limbs spread, my eyes closed. Bed calls.

Now that I'm dressed I may as well lie down until the bell rings. I lie down.

The bell rings.

He's here right on time. I'm standing just outside my open door listening to the noise he makes as he climbs the stairs with his luggage. The volume increases. It sounds like he's dragging an entire family of corpses up with him. He appears and drops his things and shouts my name in greeting.

"Harry!" I respond, feigning excitement. I haven't seen him for years. He looks like shit. We shake hands vigourously (his vigour, not mine), then I make way to let him into my flat. He drags his things into the lounge.

We chat there; he tells me that he had a fine journey on the train and that finding my place was easy, and then moves on to what he's been doing lately. I cannot look at him. I tried at first, but what I saw scared me: wild blue eyes too wide open to be sane; a long beard of twisted straw and rats' tails; a faded and worn wind-breaker with a broken zip; jeans more filthy-brown than blue. I stare at my floor. I notice that he's tracked dirt in.

I know I'm forgetting something. Something - some thing - is hovering just out of reach of my addled mind; Harry's words fade into the background as I try to grasp at... at what? And then his words bring me back.
"So how are you?"
That voice! No, surely not?