In my dream, Christ is painting his nails again.
We’re sitting on a park bench placed incongruously in desert sands, behind us, a vast stone has been rolled away from a tomb carved into solid rock, revealing nothing but cool darkness. One of his hand sports arterial crimson, the other a shimmering blue-green that reminds me of the ocean. He holds them up, waggles his fingers.
‘Which one, d’you think?’
I point wordlessly at the kingfisher blue. He nods thoughtfully, hair catching the sun in glints of electric jet. The rattle of palm leaves sounds above us, when I look up they’re like blades of jade against the pale sky.
‘Very interesting, you know that says a lot about you as a person.’
‘Don’t try and psych 101 me, Jesus.’ I say. He laughs, a burst of something loud and joyful and carefree…Whenever he appears in my dreams Christ laughs more often than, to my knowledge, he is ever given credit for.
We sit kicking our heels under the trees for a while. At some point, Christopher Walken joins us. He picks the crimson red nail polish, Jesus and I exchange a significant look.
When I wake, it’s to the sound of the buses beginning their endless circuit of this town. I get up, make breakfast, swallow new pills designed to keep my Picasso brain in check again. I spend a lot of my days drifting in and out of consciousness at the moment because of the side effects, I’m told they won’t last too long. I am six months sober and clinging on to awareness like someone in a plane crash wondering if clouds could break their fall; it reminds me horribly of taking opiates, that struggling to surface like a fish with scales of iron.
Later at a meeting someone who heard my first main share last week, and oh boy was it as depressing as I told you it probably would be…
‘I drank because I am alive, but I didn’t want life; not adulthood with its loss and responsibilities and exit wounds…I still don’t know if I do…’
…Comes up and gives me a hug. They know I went into hospital the morning after that share because I wanted to kill myself; I’ve only just taken the plastic band of A&E baggage reclaim off my wrist. I get a mouthful of well-meaning angora jumper drenched in Chanel and her fingernails catch the light like swarming ladybirds, they are streaked the same bright poppy red of Christ’s right hand.
I think, Fuck you, Christopher Walken.