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Shawn’s body felt heavy, the blankets soft and warm. From behind the curtains, a few rays stole their way into his chambers. He wanted to sleep further. However, a voice in his mind urged him to check the time. He hated to sleep in.
Half past nine… fuck. He sat up and sat there with a stork’s nest of a hairstyle, his eyes glued with crust. He tried to get up several times, but his body wouldn’t budge. After one last yawn, he swung to his feet.
Thoughts swelled in his mind as he assessed his position in space and time. Friday? Friday. A picture of Timur and Elmer manifested before him, followed by a cringe. Uh, uh,… not first thing in the morning. He chugged down three mugs of water while eyeing the mountain of fat-soaked dishes. Fuck.
Still in his pajamas, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and somewhat sorted his hair. He pulled a plate from the pile, washed off the muck, then, without drying it, tossed his toasted bread on it. With a clang, he put the plate on the table, then munched his bread.
He felt the voices and questions further swelling in him. Amazon? Will? Timur? Elmer? I’m broke. Loan? Should I see Truman? Haven’t worked out in days. Should I clean up? What if I get lost in the Amazon? Mushrooms? “Pfff-fuck,” a sigh turned into a curse as he rested his head in his palm.
He watched an episode of Full Metal Alchemist, then sat on his sofa for a moment. He suppressed the restless demons in his mind by sheer willpower. What to do today? Studies? Do I…. “Arghhh…” he pulled his hair.
Out of nowhere, he felt sparkles of excitement as the memory of pungent weed penetrated his mind. A weed elf danced before his eyes. “Fuck yes,” he said. I am not doing shit today. I’ll get high, chill, and order some Indian…food. He laughed.
However, it went a bit different than he had expected. He hit the bong, and anxiety filled his chest instead of relief. In an instant, he felt small, insignificant, incompetent, and unreliable. The demons broke down the walls, sat him down on the couch, and locked him in place. Shawn couldn’t move even if he wanted to. What do they put in the weed nowadays?
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The demons made themselves nice and comfy on the coffee table. Each of them had something to say. “Well, well… look at you, with your greasy hair and crumbs. Hihihi, could as well have some mother’s milk running down your chin, aye? Haven’t been working out, have you? All soft and pale. How do you think anyone would want to lay in a bed with you? All alone in this shithole, aren’t you?
On this sorry-looking couch… all wrinkled… the stuffings showing. Don’t you have shit to work on? What about your studies? Mister I-will-be-a-mycology-doctor, do you really think you will make it anywhere… frail as you are?” Said the first of the demons, with his head leaning toward Shawn, grinning and staring at him with his leery devilish eyes. Like one of those Aztec masks, but his face was obscure like a dark cloud. He dug his finger into Shawn’s chest.
Another one jumped in. “Weak is a good one! Innit? Weak is a good one! Hehe. That Elmer fella… he has your daddy… you know that, right? What are you gonna do about it, huh? You… little, stinky, smelly… cockroach! A cockroach he is. Hehe. Isn’t he? Smelly, and a cockroach too! No wonder he doesn’t love ya, your daddy.”
The demon nodded in quick and short intervals, some kind of tic, laughing and looking toward his demon brothers for affirmation, just to be met by a whack to the back of his head. “Shut up,” said the tallest demon. His voice was deep, almost bearish, clearly somewhat older than the other two.
Then the demon turned and looked at Shawn, “So is that what you will do? Smoke weed and play video games? Letting your mother worry? Don’t you think she could need your support? Then the audacity to be surprised that she doesn’t love you...? All those half-witty remarks you make every time? Tsk, childish. Man… I thought you’d at least be there for them, that you’d at least show some solidarity… before you… decompose. Tsk.” Every click of his tongue felt like a whip on Shawn’s back.
They kept mocking him, but he hadn’t looked at them once, his head hanging from his neck like a deflated balloon, his hair hanging before his eyes like a curtain.
He got up, walked to the fridge, and pulled out a chocolate milk bar. He then walked to his table, sat at his laptop, put on some headphones, and listened to rap music.
He bobbed his head to the beat.
All the while, the demons followed him, mocked him, and glared at him, never leaving his side. Never. Here and there, he felt disturbed. He couldn’t see them but felt their presence, which grew stronger at the slightest sign of sobriety. Without hesitation, he filled the bong bowl a little more each time. When he took a lungful of smoke, despite the burn in his throat, despite the buzz in his head, he sucked on it like it was fresh mountain air.
No matter how much he took in, he never felt he got his fill. After he overdosed, reaching delirium, he passed out on the couch. Once he got up, he’d fill up again. He created a ritual that would be repeated for the next two weeks.
He even, somehow, managed to do his homework and labwork, high as a kite. Which, as he assessed, was quite a performance.