Let's call it Finished.

I lie awake, drowning in rough, white. Crumpled over as my insides knot. The baby cries. Sheets damp with sweat, tears. The air conditioning hums. I never thought it'd end up like this.

Birds swoop low, in lazy arcs across the silent expanses of blue. The hard lines of concrete split the sky into angled expanses of smooth, enclosing grey. Our bench sits in secrecy amongst the towering giants. The city is quiet. It is always quiet. The outside world doesn't exist here, the city starts and ends in these grey walls. It's only ever you and I, and the lazy bird calls. Apple trees litter the quiet, unassuming grounds, the soft branches offensive amongst the hard buildings. Every expanse is smothered, the only hope is ever rising, drifting. The light sinks and settles amongst us. I sigh, my breath rattling in my ribcage as the rippling air is silenced, absorbed by the grey. It's been hours, hard, brittle hours. Crumbling away, falling through my fingers. You're always late. Always. A gentle breeze bounces around the compound, a creaking door and slamming metal echo. The colours shimmer, everything becomes vivid, the grey separates, and becomes more. You stride towards me, your eyes blaze, bleached summer memories burning, hooded by sleepless nights. A bitter smile seeps across your face, relenting on the scowl creasing your brow. I look down, at the knotted laces of my shoes, suddenly self conscious. You sit down next to me and the bench gives a little. You reach out, and take my hand.

I vomit. Searing agony emanating from my stomach. I knock the bedside lamp over, a loud smash, ceramic on cheap fading linoleum, it goes dark. The baby still screeches, I claw at my ears begging for this to stop, to escape.

I stir beneath the duvet, and send yawns rippling through the stagnant air. Awoken in the hours of uncertainty, unsure of my intent, a loud shot cracks the silence. I can't help but think this is getting a little old. I get up and shuffle through to the back porch. He's back again. Torn combat trousers, war paint caked upon his wrinkled flesh, his blue grey eyes sparkling beneath his weighted brows and a thick strip of fabric, wrapped extravagantly round his weary head. A cigar is draped languorously over his moustached lip, a bottle of bourbon lies empty on the thick, worn slats of the decking. A shot gun lies across his knees, as he fiddles with another cartridge. I sigh deeply into the strained morning light. We should never have let him see Rambo. He's already tried to use several chickens as makeshift petrol bombs.
"Come on gramps, in the hoose"
He smiles blankly, a childish look of impetuousness smeared across his lined face.

My body shudders, crippled, the darkness descends, the acrid taste of puke, painful. I cough up the burning liquid, tainted russet. Blood, its coming, another thought consuming, escaping.

The blades of a helicopter slice at the stagnant air, ripping it to shreds. It hovers, then circles the buildings, searching for prey. A great, buzzing insect, the glass glinting purple, above the sand drowned town. The radio whimpers instructions, the officer howls hang back but you dive into the catacombs of the stronghold, pounding through the deserted hallways, faster, faster. "McKinnon, slow down, slow down!" You don't listen. You never listened. Faster, faster. You're invincible, raining bullets. Red blossoms over dusty camouflage.

The baby wails, the walls rock, spin weakly. She wails for her parents, dead and departing. It's better this way. Another drink, another pill. More vomit, more blood. Spasms spread like ripples. I hoist myself to me feet, and fall, hard onto my knees, the linoleum squeaking, another memory dragging me deeper, deeper.

You park your car under one of the apple trees, the star light festering between the branches. The moon dies amongst the grey, it is consumed and forgotten. Silence, your hand fades into mine. You tell me you're leaving, we obliterate the silence in our haste, the squeak of vinyl, your warm breath heating the biting night. We lie, entwined, waiting for the sun to rise, praying that it doesn't.
"Promise me you'll come back? Promise ye won't go and get yerself kilt?"

I crawl towards the screaming, scraping my hands, my knees grating. She lies, blotchy and red, hoarse from screaming. I reach for her, and envelope her in a vomit stained embrace. I hush and I coo, comforting her between spasms. I tell her everything will be alright, that it's not her fault. The words are meaningless. She will never understand.

Grandpa lies in a hospital cot, disinfectant clings to the air, the blunt fluorescent lights insulting his puckered face. His cheeks are hollow, his eyes sunken beneath weather and time beaten skin. Breath rasping, and catching in his chest. The IV drips solemnly, and I clutch his withering hand. Bones packaged in crumpled paper, secured with blue veins. He wakes, and looks at me. His vulnerable eyes speak volumes, pleading. The nurses come and go, like ghosts, pale shades, overworked, stretched too thin.
Bedside manner rotting, wasted on those with money, not worthy of minutes that slip from his soul.
"Gramps... Am pregnant.." The wheels start spinning, his eyes light up. The room alters, he alters. A soft glow emanates from his words, it remains as he fades, it etches into my skin, into my soul. "Life is precious, savour it, you're never tae young tae loose it, you're always tae young tae end it. You can never get it back, you're deed, ye fade, ye dinnae linger." His heart screeches to a halt. He rattles to a stop. The nurses busy themselves around me, but they are dead, nothing moves but the world. I water his wrinkled hand with my tears, begging for him to be a liar.

His words bury deeper, and I realise my mistake, my hands are smeared in blood. I think it's my own, and I sink deeper, deeper, deeper...