Pseudology

FOUR: Granules.

Ade stirred the granules of white sugar slowly around the cup. The colour of the tea was off, a nasty brown lightened with a splash of milk. Mud brown. Dirty brown. Dirt.

They’d run out of milk first thing in the morning, and now Ade was attempting to make a cup of tea but it looked more like liquidised vomit. Or mud. Absent minded, he put down the spoon and cast his gaze out of the wide window which overlooked the tops of a rugged mix of victorian and modern roofing, like mountain tops of a great alps, shrouded that morning in a clingy mist.

His bony fingers tapped the edge of the work surface as Morton’s pounding footsteps echoed outside, snaking up the carpeted stairs of the flat. The door flung open and Morton entered, milk, biscuits and bread in one hand and front door keys in the other.

“Morning.”

“Hello.” Ade didn’t look round- instead, his eyes traced over each chimney and jagged roof tile, taking in each bump and line that was outlined by the rising light of the early morning. His breath hitched- it was beautiful. Streaks of striking colours smeared the sky, the rooftops framed by the rich, rugged splashes of red and orange. And yet a few days ago, he hated every inch, every millimeter, every tiny bird and whisp of smoke of the London skyline. It was beautifully awful.

“Oh, did you make tea?”

“Mud. It’s more like mud.”

“Shame. I’ll make another cup.” Morton placed the shopping down on the floor. “Have you had a shower?”

“No, not yet.”

“Maybe you should go and have one?” Morton suggested. “I’ve just got to nip out and get you some clothes.”

Ade felt a lump rise in his thin, rough throat.

“T-thank you.”

A few minutes later, Ade found himself in the shower, watching the hot, stinging water pelt down from the chrome shower head. The lock had been forcefully removed from the door, leaving a splintered chunk: a violent action to prevent violent intent, he supposed. He hadn’t been allowed to lock his own door for when he’d been away: when he’d got his own place, he could lock all of them. It’d made him feel safe. But now, at a moment when privacy was necessary for his own comfort, Morton had prevented it. What if someone came in? Ade shuddered and looked at the running shower again, unsure of whether he wanted to have one; he hated being naked. It was as though he was under scrutiny from the water, every inch exposed.

Finally, he found the courage -arbeit shakingly- to undress and have a wash. His hands viciously attacked the material of his t-shirt as Ade pulled it over his head: then, he slid off the tracksuit bottoms he’d been wearing, and got in the shower.

The water, hot and steamy, was like bliss. The heated water warmed his aching body, and for a moment, Ade forgot how much he detested his own body. Just for a moment, as he squeezed shower gel into the palm of his hand and lathered it up, spreading it over his neck and shoulders, he didn’t care for his scars. They littered every part of his paper thin skin of his arms, and the dots across the crook of his arms burned as the water fell, but he didn’t care. Tiny scratches inflicted by nails and edges of furniture didn't matter. Bruises from walls and rocks and floors randomly colliding didn't matter; didn't care. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care-

The door opened.

For the smallest of moments, Ade felt like he was falling, falling through a thick black pit of pure trepidation. His arms wrapped themselves around his torso, and his heart crawled its way up his throat as he saw a man in a white suit standing in the doorway, shrouded in a thin veil of hot mist.