(007)
Empty, not even the dregs. Tilting back in the vain hope of a couple more drops, but none come, so fuck it. From his spring-loaded sitting position the can carves quite an arc in the hazy air, just enough light from the far away street keeps it visible until an unceremonious ploip in the water sends it off down the river. Phone’s smashed, so fuck that too. No-one calls anyway. The second throw’s not quite as good, but it still hits its mark. He tongues his already swelling cheek and lip. Is my tooth gone? Hard to tell. Numb. Definitely blood. Some on his hands – and on the cherub. He’d snatched it from a garden somewhere after he’d run – no clue why, but now its porcelain white knees had his red fingerprints all over it. He holds it under the wings, facing him. Could smash it. He thinks, instead choosing to spit onto his hand to wipe the stains away and only managing to spit more blood, so it joins the rest on his shirt.
He puts the cherub down at his side and tips forwards onto his knees, then up doggedly onto his feet. With his left hand; self aware of the blood soaked right one, he picks it back up and stumbles over to the water with it under his arm, first washing his hands, then carefully cupping water to clean the statue. Its face is serene and calm, eyes closed, arms hugging its knees, head resting against them. The water is cold on his skin. He sniffs, his thumb following the contours of its face with a quiet affection. That’ll do.
Floor again, led down, arms splayed wide open. The ground at his back isn’t comfortable, but it is in some way comforting. The surface is cold, but the weight behind that feels warm. The pressure reminds him that it’s there. Pain pinpricks the inside of his mouth. He fiddles with the tooth again. It’s definitely wobbly. It hurts but he persists, pulling it to and fro trying to understand the extent. He rolls onto his front, fingers digging into the dirt, pulling chunks of earth out in his fists, squeezing it into his palms and under his nails. This living thing. His breaths come out in long, aching moans, as if something was squeezing the air from him. All the fibres of it. Carving scratch marks into his little pit. Rocking forwards and backwards, digging his hands deeper. Leaning his head in. A few tears drip from his cheeks into the dirt. The smell. He laughs through sobs. What am I doing? He pulls back and looks down at his creation. In his periphery sits the mottled white statue, unperturbed. He cradles his hands underneath it and gently places it in the ground, like carrying it to bed. Tilting his head back and closing his eyes, his tooth lolling onto the tip of his tongue. His right hand strokes the swollen cheek, wincing as the numbness subsides and the pain grows. He opens his mouth enough to let his finger past his cracked and bleeding lips, placing it atop his broken tooth. Forward, back, left, right. His thumb grips one side and his finger the other, and as he pulls a searing burst of pain slices across his head, but it comes free into his hand, and he drops it into the hole with the cherub, laughing – or crying, hard to tell. His tongue adjusts to the new alien feeling of a gap between his teeth, pushing dirt from the sides into his makeshift grave as it does so. He pats the surface and curls up on top of it, hugging his knees from the cold and feeling the dirt against his face, just grateful for the reminder that it’s there.
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