#139a

  There's no doubt about, John has to go. He's become scary and threatening and God only knows what he's capable of.

  Last night I didn't sleep a wink. I lay on the bed just looking up. John did the same. Only where I was being horribly crushed by the weight of the room, John just stared ahead with gritted teeth and eyes shot through with madness.

  “I'm gonna kill you, Tristy!” he would whisper, “There's no other thing for it, I'm gonna fucking kill you.”
  When I said “John, stop it, you're scaring me!” he replied, “I'll cut your throat, Tristy, I swear to fucking God I will. In your sleep, I'll bleed the life clean outta ya! They'll find you like that... bled in the bed. The only thing keeping your head on will be the spinal cord! Don't sleep Tristy, don't you dare fucking sleep.”

  He kept up like that until the light broke through at some time around seven. But this wasn't a welcome or refreshing light. It was harsh and cruel. A time light – something that goes with thawing icicles, dripping taps and the remnants of shattered lives. It washed the room in coldness and picked out a strange stillness that I had only ever known once before. It was a light normally reserved only for the broken and bereaved. I suppose it was the end of summer.

  As I got up I looked around at John. He was still laying there, still with his glasses on, still staring out insanely at whatever it was he saw. He looked like a disease... a malignant lump which subsisted of its own corruption. It wasn't me who was a maggot, it was him... a maggot fattened on an apple that had gone horrendously bad.