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“A week passed. He and Wendy didn’t speak much. But he knew she was watching, not believing. He drank coffee black and endless cans of Coca-Cola. One night he drank a whole six-pack of Coke and then ran into the bathroom and vomited it up. The level of the bottles in the liquor cabinet did not go down.” — The Shining, 1977
. . .
Jack tries not to think about it.
Which in hindsight, is a stupid plan. He can't not think about it. Not when it's borderline tangible, sinking into his flesh like some perverse second skin, sticky with grit and grime. Not when it crawls with the steps of a thousand ants, their spindly legs marching over the expanse of his body. Up and down, up and down, inducing a silent tremor that spreads all the way to his fingertips. If he peers close and squints, he swears he can spot their segmented bodies, black as coal, embedded in his skin.
His entire body aches with an itch he can't scratch and can't shake off. Phantom-like and maddening. He has half a mind to cleave open his own arm, peel back the thin sheets of flesh and expose all the vermin that lie trapped beneath the surface—letting them shrivel up and die in the bare light. Maybe then, he'd feel something like relief.
Jack tries not to think about it.
His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. He’s parched. Dry. In the same sense as leaves during autumn, turned brown and brittle. Fragile, his mind supplies.
One hell of a dry spell.
He needs to keep his mouth occupied, so he goes over to the fridge. Inside, a six-pack of Coca-Cola rests comfortably in the center, each one sporting a garish red that glints brightly beneath the yellowed fluorescents, wearing clear plastic rings wound just below their silver tops. Just one of the many he’s bought over the past week.
He tugs off the ring from a can, loops a finger over the tab, and opens it with a snap. The drink hisses in retaliation and fizzes over. He presses the aluminum rim to his lips (something like relief), and sighs against its cool surface. The carbonated drink is downed in a handful of gulps, as a familiar burn crawls down his throat. Feels it foam right above his cupid's bow. The tremor subsides.
He returns to the couch, and with a press of the remote, the television set buzzes and flickers to life. It doesn't take him long to find something idle and mindless, the people onscreen spouting some useless drivel. With the volume set low, it might just be enough to soothe his racing mind and lull him to sleep. Or bore him into submission. Whichever came first.
But he looks back
(a self-defeating act)
down the hallway, where the floor parts like diverging currents in a river. Down to where the cabinet stands against the wall, reduced to a vague silhouette shrouded in darkness, goading him even now. Especially now. In a low hush, parting the curtains and piercing through the night. Even in the throes of sleep, he'd still be able to find his way back; he's sure of it.
Jack squeezes his eyes shut. Habits. Old habits die hard. Hit hard. Aim true. His head throbs, a cantaloupe fit to burst.
He finds himself back in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. The bottle of Excedrin rests on one of the upper shelves, clinically white and shining like a beacon. The top is popped open and a tablet gets shoved between his molars, squeezed hard until the outer shell ruptures beneath the pressure with a morbid finality. Better that than him. He tells himself he's doing it for them. For Danny. For Wendy. Of course for them, always for them.
He opens the fridge door and takes another soda. There's an inherent comfort to it—in its shape, in the condensation dripping down the sides, in the feel of it in his mouth. And as soon as he's finished with one can, he reaches for another. And another. It curbs the urges, sends him to a world where things just make sense. The motions of it all border on ritualistic, but he can't deny the clarity that it provides, no matter how fleeting the moment might be.
And the respite is thus given. The cans sit at the top of the garbage bin, disposed of, emptied, the aluminum crumpled into itself. Jack can finally think. Or at least that's what he...
(Something like a sickness)
There's a pinch at the pit of his stomach, as though pairs of fingers had expertly wedged inside and gripped tight. A pause, and there it is again. Maybe he overestimated how many drinks he could take (and it wouldn't have been the first time; he could only pray it would be the last). He reasoned with himself: everything had a learning curve. Six in a row was a definitive no. Next time would be better. It'd get better.
The pain returns, harsh and unyielding. His stomach twists and turns with a pervasive ache, the organ throbbing and distended. Jack's first thought is to lie down and wait it out, but that plan is promptly forgotten the moment his mouth begins to water. He presses his knuckles hard against his lips, as though he could will away the wave of nausea that was overtaking him.
Bile crawls up his throat, and he makes a beeline for the bathroom.
He’s bowed down before the toilet as though in a twisted show of reverence, shoulders heaving as he hacks up a putrid blend of coke and stomach acid. In between gags, he suddenly remembers how to breathe and sputters out a gargled cry bordering on pathetic. He's white-knuckling the seat, gripping it like a lifeline as that familiar burn overrides his senses. Familiarity. It's a scene so intimately woven into his own life that his body can't help but seize up with red-hot rage and helplessness all at the same time.
He stays like that for a little while, dry-heaving and trembling and gasping for air as though he were drowning into himself. Had he given up sickness for sickness? Traded one evil for its lesser brother? Or maybe he was just keen on destroying himself from the inside out, and this was all a simple eventuality.
Once the nausea subsides, Jack lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. Feeling boneless and paper-thin, he stays on the floor for a few more seconds, staring at the dark slurry he'd left behind—thick and tar-like—swirling lazily in the bowl.
Everything that comes out of him is filth.
It’s a sobering acknowledgement.
He gets to his feet, flushes, and walks over to the sink to wash his hands. He can rinse the acrid taste from his mouth, but he can’t scrub off the bloodshot eyes, the blotchy red cheeks, the festering flesh.
He knows it's not there (he knows it couldn’t have. the angles and placements didn’t add up) but he can still spot the cabinet in the mirror's reflection: a looming figure that only acts when acted on.
The bedroom door—and all that it entails—is an insurmountable task. So he settles for the couch. The fabric is scratchy and the cushions are lumpy and his stomach is a gaping hole, pitifully empty. The television has been reduced to a series of shifting lights and unintelligible murmurs in his short absence. He sinks further and further into the furniture, letting his eyes flutter shut. He lies still, and waits.
Sleep does not come for him.