Confessions - Thomas Creed

He cooks the pizza and doesn't much eat it - rather, he makes about half of it disappear like a bad illusion.


He isn't sure why, but he's just ravenous. Looking down at the empty plate, he blinks a little before he puts away the rest and loads the plate in the dishwasher.


Heading to the bathroom, he drags off his shirt and rummages around for his electric razor. Wrapping his hand around it, he looks up into the mirror and clicks it on.
 
Only your face, worn and shadowed and ground into something you wouldn't've recognized ten years ago. Your mind is not, tragically, playing any tricks on your this time.


Sleep creeps up on you like a cigarette craving.
 
Frowning, he studies the face in the mirror for a moment, self consciousness flickering into his mind. Haggard and worn and beaten down.


"Fuck," he murmurs, straightening and beginning to trim up his beard into something that might just be presentable enough to take away from the rest of his ugly mug.


When he's done, he yawns. It's a surprise, the creeping wariness, especially with the lack of alcohol in his system.


Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, he cleans up quickly and heads in for bed, not even bothering to turn on the small, flat TV on his dresser as he undresses and turns out the light, crawling into the creaking bed.
 
You dream of the house again. The corridors are longer. Every room has an extra door. You wander for hours between identical bathrooms and stained kitchens. Empty bottles haunt you like a silent, judging congregation from every surface. Papers are strewn on the floors - case files and grainy photographs.


You hear footsteps, quick and quiet, but can never find their source.


You wake in a cold sweat when a hand brushes your neck.
 
The house again. There's something of a foreign feeling to it, almost as much as the one of familiarity.


Doors. So many fucking doors. And the empties scattered around like bones.


An alcoholic graveyard.


He laughs silently at this as he walks on, the ever drumming echo of footfalls surrounding him.


Then there's a hand on his neck and he wakes in a cold sweat, brushing it away and gasping in a breath. He looks around, wildly, part of his thoughts still with the dream.
 
Only shadow, and nothing more.


The light through the curtains is a soft golden shade, lazy and heavy. Not long since dawn.
 
He looks at his mobile, trying to clear his head. Still early. Too early for getting ready for work.


The light cuts a dim line through the gloom as he opens the curtain slightly to look out.


He sits up and rubs sleep out of his eyes, stretching with a few pops and creaks.
 
Even as you glance out the window, the sky darkens.


Rain follows not long after.


Today is just another working day, but you've got hours before your shift starts.
 
Sitting up in the bed, he reaches to scoot the glass ashtray on the night stand closer, then reaches for his cigarettes.


He lights one, exhaling the smog to one side and picking up his phone to check the notifications - if any - with bleary eyes.
 
Nothing. Nothing at all.


One of those mornings you could be a dead man. It's a cold thought, and it refuses to shake.
 
The thought sits in his stomach like a stone and he crushes out the cigarette with a shudder as gooseflesh raises on his skin.


"Guess I won't be going back to bed..." he mumbles to the empty room and scoots to the edge of the bed with a grunt and pushes himself to the floor to go take a damned shower.


Waking up this early was for the birds.
 
It's a slow morning, as if the day is too heavy to move. The sun sometimes peers down through the clouds, between showers of rain, but the light is more oppressive than illuminating.


Cereal. Morning TV. Stillness.
 
He can feel the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders roughly, oppressively, even as he pours a bowl of bland cereal and soaks it in day-old milk.


The TV buzzes and blathers on but he ignores it, eating plainly and staring through the screen. He finishes and sets the bowl and spoon on the arm of the couch for a second, then swipes the off onto the floor with an angry slap. "God damn it!" he snaps, spittle like venom spraying from his lips.


He realizes he misses his usual hangover. It's a depressing thought, but there's clarity in it. He leans down with a weary sigh to pick up the bowl, frustrated at himself and the day in general.


His mind goes back to the night before. The pictures. The talk with El. Just yesterday feels like days ago.
 
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Thom yelps, a startled sound, grasping for the phone and fumbling with it for a second before pressing the green 'answer' button without seeing the name of the caller.


"Hello?"
 
"Good morning, Thom," Eliza says, sounding tired but amused. "How's your head?"
 
"Mornin', El..." he replies, on autopilot. He stares at the bowl and spoon for a moment before answering. "Annoyingly clear."


Chuckling drily, Thom clicks off the television. "What's up?"
 
"Never gave you those details," she says, suppressing a yawn. "You got a pen and paper?"
 
At the yawn, he can't help but mimic the action, yawning away from the phone before answering. "Naw, lemme go and get one quick. If I can peel myself off of this couch, that is."


Scrounging around, he eventually finds one and scribbles a line or two, making sure it works. Secretly, he was wishing she'd have forgotten all about it. But... with his job on the line, he'd bite the bullet and go through with it.


Damn it.


"Alright, I've got one now. Lemme have it."
 
She gives the details - a Dr. Wycombe - and leaves little doubt she expects you to make an appointment soon.


"Take care of yourself, Thom," she says, before hanging up.
 
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