Wright Left by Peter Marks

Author:Peter Marks [Marks, Peter]
Language: spa
Format: epub
Tags: April, 28, 2012
Publisher: Free-eBooks.net
Published: 2018-05-14T06:00:00+00:00

It wasn’t a bad day as days went and they went faster than Wright’s metabolism was. He was getting older, his arteries were getting clogged. His lungs wheezed and coughed in rebellion every time he drew breath getting really pissed off with him each time they were assaulted by another cigarette (which was every second breath according to the now liquid sacks).

Nathan’s body was decaying as surely as the leaves on the lawn and Nathan knew it, knowing his physical home was degenerating only fractionally less rapidly than his fangs (which were still his but had turned the colour of mud; coated nicotine and fragile).

These days his mind wandered farther than it had ever been game to when he’d been younger, seemingly taking whole days off to go on holiday.

This caused a surprising, considering his usual verbal diarrhoea, impediment. Wright was occasionally lost for words. Sometimes, when he tried to finish a sentence without the assistance of his sun baking on a beach somewhere brain, he found that he couldn’t finish what he started and had to just stand there hoping the person to whom he was waffling would finish it for him. Mostly they laughed and told him he was senile. Wright in turn would have told them to go find nirvana under a truck but couldn’t. He’d get as far as “Go find n..n..” then lose the thread and so now accepted senility as a logical explanation for such incomplete sentences.

‘Why are you so preoccupied with age?’ Kelly would ask every time he alluded to it. Which was most of the time.

‘Who me ?’ He’d answer innocently, then add that personally he was not the least bit concerned. It’s my organs that are preoccupied he’d say and advice Kelly to speak to them, claiming they were the ones that were moaning and wailing all the time.

‘Ask my legs why they refuse to function at a rate they could have walked at a few years ago. Talk to my heart and ask it why it labours so hard to pump a few measly pints around a few hundred miles of choking tubes. Don’t speak to me, talk to them,’ he’d say. Then punch himself on the chest to give a few sluggish pints a spurt on.

‘Hypochondriac,’ Kelly would huff, then punch him in the kidneys to give a few sluggish pints of whisky a spurt on.

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