Hand Shandy

Fork. Forks. Forks'. "There are no forks," Owl said, as he ripped his forearm's flesh apart with studied persistence. "There is only the idea of a fork." "I know a lot about forks," said a slightly bothered Ubermilf, who had considered them from every angle since that time when she'd been taken unawares. She had never been taken unawares since. "That's what you think," said Owl, though he seemed to believe it. "What about spaghetti?" Ubermilf couldn't be bothered. She knew she had to use an entire crew of self-infatuated, under-achieving dick-waving wannabes to get to her reward, which Nick had probably already nicked. "Ok, I'll make spaghetti for tea," she said with little conviction. "Now -" She had never spoken the last two words of this sentence before. Until now, nobody had ever asked her what they were. "What was that," said a voice she thought she'd never hear again.

Things were not the same any more. People had moved on, places had changed, time was different and he was not quite what he once was. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He pulled off the duvet and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sat and cradled his head in his hands, scruffing off the sleepy feeling and messing his hair even further than it was already. A squint at the clock revealed that it was around 4am. "Hm. A lay in tonight then..." He yawned. Sleep was so transient these days. So light. He went to bed tired and woke up tired. No sleep was ever enough - not that he could sleep properly. He stumbled to the toilet and pissed half in the bowl and half down his leg and the floor. It didn't matter. Nothing really mattered any more. He walked away without flushing or washing his hands and stumbled down the stairs through the inky blackness and murky shapes. The darkness was kind of nice. Cold, peaceful and calm. No ringing phones, no talki...