Yellow Endurance

Isa I lifted the bottle to my lips, trying to ignore the call, and pressed my mouth to it. A few drops managed to trickle past. That was odd — I was holding the bottle practically upside down, I didn’t see why I could only get a few sips . . . . My stomach started to contract, as if it suddenly found its contents vile and wanted to squeeze it all out as fast as possible. Well, I couldn’t let that happen. Another drink would keep it down. I stood up, wobbling unsteadily on my feet, and stumbled to the bathroom. Suddenly, there was a great dull thudding inside my head. Or was it outside? Someone was pounding on — something — but every thump made my head throb horribly. Whoever it was, they needed to stop. Why didn’t they know it hurt? Didn’t they know what it felt like? My stomach was still clenching and unclenching in painful bursts. I clutched the edge of the toilet and sank to my knees, raising the bottle. I held it upside down above my mouth. The remaining golden liquid sloshed down my throat, but not all. I looked down to see my top and part of my shorts soaked, slightly yellowed in their hue. Ah. My stomach convulsed. I leaned over the toilet bowl just in time to heave out the gushy, greenish-yellow vomit before it got on the floor. My head throbbed, but it felt detached, like I was leaning my forehead against someone whose head was being attacked by a hammer. But it still hurt, and the pain just kept building, getting worse with every second. Every successive pound rang inside my head, rattling my insides. I started seeing flashes of black, each of which brought an infinite, numbing relief for an instant. Then it was back to reality. My brain screamed for the black, the vast, never-ending release from this — this pain . . . . but no, it wasn’t pain, I thought vaguely, just after a flash of the pitch dark. There had to be another word to describe this, for pain was just one part of it. There was more, the throbbing, the convulsing, the dizziness, the aching, murderous need for reprieve . . . . The black swept over my mind, knocking out my consciousness for some measure of time. I wasn’t sure how long, but when I looked up all I could see was the ceiling half-illuminated from the TV and lamps on in the bedroom. I took in all of this information in just a split-second, though, because the next instant, the black had seized hold of me. There was no more, nothing else. No pain, no pleasure. I couldn’t even see or feel the blackness. There was nothing. Just a boundless, immeasurable, endless nothing. Connor Emmer jumped up, knocking his chair back with a piercing clatter. He suddenly looked so ferocious, his green eyes wild and vicious. He’d always been bigger than me, and I wasn’t sure I could win a real fight against him. I grabbed the nearest object on the table to defend myself. A small but sharp lettuce knife. Those months spent in anger management classes — they no longer meant anything. If the past nineteen years meant nothing to Emmer now, then I would compel them to mean nothing to me. And for the first time in six months, I let the wrath take over . . . . It should never have come to this. There was no possible way I had been that incensed. I had never been a saint, exactly; but then, who was? I couldn’t bring myself to realize that I’d just — I couldn’t even make myself think it. I still felt the sickening warmth of his black blood seeping through my clothes. It had felt good at the time, a hot bath after months of desolate cold. I could still hear his screams echoing in my brain, the resonance of a mountain-climber’s victory cry. At the time, it had sounded like the agonized shouts of a fallen mortal enemy. Pure music. I’ve gotta get home. I need sleep, and then I’ll think about it. The thought gave me some relief, gave my brain an incentive to not shut down on the spot. I’ll wake up and think about it in the morning. Just as his screams could not, would not, ever leave me, for the rest of eternity. I opened my eyes just as my body instinctively turned towards the driveway. I ran up the path and wrenched the front door open, slamming it behind me as if a wild animal was hunting me. A wild animal, pursuing me. Me, who had just committed the oldest and most atrocious crime man was capable of. The dark humor of the thought made me chuckle, a gravelly, inhuman sound that sounded appalling even to my own ears. It was blacker than pitch inside; Mama wasn’t home yet. That was good. I blindly stumbled through the tiny, cramped den, not bothering to turn on the lights. It was better that way. Connor! I reached my bedroom. The door was open, the lamplight on my bedside table glowing with a musty yellow glimmer. I fell across the threshold. I picked myself up and somehow commanded my feet to walk the last three steps to my bed. Fuck, man! What the hell — a rattling gasp for breath, for life — are you doing . . . .? I collapsed upon the covers. I was suddenly exhausted, when just twenty minutes before I had been exhilarated, a thrill coursing through me as I caught sight of the silver, star-like gleam of the knife-point. Connor . . . I’m sorry . . . I inhaled, a cacophony of vultures crashing in my chest, the sound of death. The darkness enveloped me, pressing down until I could feel nothing but the heavy, crushing blackness. My eyelids fluttered shut, and I knew no more.