Drowning, Swimming By Joe Hakim

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Keith sat and stared at his wife, who was holding his daughter and staring at the 28" Philips Widescreen TV situated in the corner of his house, on his laminate floor, flanked at either side by his Sony sound system and his X-Box. He was sweating and his head was throbbing - the general effects of the weekend chemicals leaving his bloodstream.

Sitting in his black leather Laz-e-boy chair, and feeling somewhat weird, Keith found that taking stock of his material possessions in a mental list while his daughter gurgled and his wife watched Heartbeat, somewhat elevated the fog that had come to settle upon his brain. He had it good, fuckin' great even, and he repeated this over and over again in his mind like a mantra in an attempt to stave off the black bits that were slowly creeping in from the corners. His wife stood up. 'I'm gonna take Alice to bed. I'll ring the Chinese when I get downstairs,' she said. 'Start thinking about what you want.' Keith seemed to shrink as she moved over to him. 'Are you ok?' she asked, and placed her hand on his forehead. 'You haven't over done it again this weekend have you?' 'Fuck no, just a few pills, a couple of grams of billy, few beers, not much...no more than usual, anyway.'

'Are you sure? You look terrible, you're pouring...'All the strange fucked up feelings swimming about in his head converged into something tangible - a shark under the surface. Keith couldn't help himself, and he bit: 'Hey, I work at that fuckin' shithole sign makin' factory, five, sometimes six days a week. I've spent nearly a fuckin' decade of my life constructin' flashin' fuckin' bulbs in the shape of words for a fat greaseball with a hygiene problem. I feel a bit rough, gimme a break, yeah?'

His daughter started to cry. His wife gave him that look, that what-the-fuck-did-you-do-that-for look. There was an uneasy silence, and then she spoke, 'I'll take her upstairs. Come and see her when you've calmed down.'Keith didn't reply. His breath had become shallow. His lungs tried to grab the air, which suddenly felt thinner, as though the house had quickly gained altitude. He imagined his house teleporting from the middle of Hull to a Tibetan mountainside. Reaching up to his forehead, he realised that his wife had been right. His skin was oily and slick, and he noticed that his shirt was wringing wet. This made him panic a little, and his breathing quickened.

Keith stood up and was almost toppled by the blood rushing from his head. 'Jeezus,' he muttered to himself. He managed to make it to the bottom of the stairs and weakly shout: 'I'm sorry, luv, I think yer right... I'm gonna step outside for a bit. I feel a bit funny.' He walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside into the cool night. He shivered as the breeze hit his face.

Reaching into his pocket, Keith produced a crumpled joint that he lit with trembling fingers. He sucked at it, and then exhaled the smoke and watched the wind carry it out of his front garden, onwards to wherever. The thoughts that were splashing around in his head began to momentarily sort into some kind of order. I'm in my fuckin' thirties, he thought, and I'm still going out every weekend and largin' it like a fuckin' teenager, there's no wonder I feel so fuckin' shit. Once again, he had to tell himself that he had it good, fuckin' great even...

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