Lie Smith

I wear a green shirt, a reject from the batch of shirts made by my new coworker, now in Las Vegas, where I will shortly join him.
I fear for my head, as I must cut the hair upon it shortly, and do not want to mess it up, what with my recently recovered ego.
The thing that bugged me the most this past weekend, the cancer eating at my soul, is the discussion with the good friend of hers, at work, regarding her feelings as to my action or lack of action in the face of the driving urge to call her, to take her back, to hope that everything will be ok, that we will be able to work things out, that this is just another break, another chance for her to have some time off, to find herself, to get her shit straight.
I want to believe that that we can function as a couple, that we can act as if the breakup never occurred, that she did not tell me she can’t be in a relationship right now.
It all started with a simple miscalculation of dosage, with too much red wine and a little too much smoke, with the resulting inability to stand, the desire to vomit, the fear of vomiting. She was so grossed out by the concept and act of vomiting, by the fact that her hair and hands would smell of it the next day, that she refused to go through with it. This was the end of the free days, the end of the fuckit attitude, the beginning of self-examination, of self-realization, exactly what she didn't want. It's hard to face your past, easier to keep running.
Her weightless body lifts easily into my arms, her head lolling off to one side. My desire to remove her from the bathroom floor, to wrest her from the scent of piss and shit, to cut short her indefinitely long process of convincing her body to let loose, is simply that which I chose to do at the time. She refused to vomit, so I decided to remove her from the area where it would best be suited to happen, where her vomit would be best deposited. Instead it lands up on my floor.
She cries! She cries out in fear and confusion, the sound forcing itself out of her throat, as if past a great clenched fist. Completely limp, breath extremely fast, limp motion of the limbs, skin suddenly sweating, suddenly moist and slipping in my arms, hitting the bed, crying again. I recognize the symptoms, having personally experienced them during my travels. The mind spins, fears, inability to create a clear thought, complete loss of motor skills. Normally, the person would lose consciousness, building up false realities, the walls no longer tiled, but a forest of neon blue, the door opening to reveal your friend, concerned for your wellbeing, and for the uncharacteristically loud crash emanating from the bathroom. Suddenly it all sinks together and becomes clear.
But for her, but for her the first time must be hell. She later tells of the floating sensation, of the vision of her soul sitting outside of the body, of the whip-crack of it returning, and I believe her dying. I believe her soul losing it’s grip on the mortal flesh, because of the scream. Had I not heard that primordial, ur-yell, welling up past the voicebox like bubbles rising from champagne, beautiful and terrible at once, my fingers sweat just thinking about it. Or it’s the lack of alcohol-dehydrogenate. Either way, it was serious shit, serious enough for me to seriously juggle explaining things to the paramedics and her parents, how the THC had gotten into her system, how the redwine she had gulped found its way onto the beige carpet of my room. Fuck that.
Fuck that. Seriously. So she lay there, on the bed, weakly begging me to call the police, as her head swam, as her vision followed imaginary things, as the fear of soul-release reared its ugly head, she lay, and begged me to Do something. But that something was vomiting, and that she refused to do.
I tell her stories, grasping her attention and holding on to it for some time, managing to keep her focus on the images, and not the nausea, not the burning desire to vomit, to simply void the system, just to get it out. And void she does.
She barely makes it to the carpet, with part of the bed covering in her lap, when the first wave hits. Red wine, spilling out onto the floor, the smell of it sending me aback, the knowledge that she needs water bringing me forward again. She drinks, small gulps to test the waters, afraid that the heaving may reoccur.
Instantly better, I know that staying in the bathroom, with its cool, washable tiles, and the lack of soul-release, would have been far preferable. Damn that weed.