PSYCHOMACHIA // matty healy

4.

Sunlight shone through my curtains and bounced off my skin like skimming stones in water, my eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the light. My bedside alarm clock read nine thirty-four, it felt like I'd slept far longer than that. I wasn't a good sleeper, ever since I'd started my fluoxetine prescription I'd wake up almost hourly after vivid dreams. Sometimes I'd mix up my dreams with reality because of their vividness, which is why I couldn't be so sure about what I heard last night. I dragged myself out of bed before tiptoeing to the kitchen, seeing Matty peacefully snoring lightly on the pull-out sofa. I craved a nice, hot cup of tea, so I turned the kettle on. I didn't care if it woke him up, hopefully it'd get him out of my apartment quicker. I liked having my own space - especially when it was to recover from a hangover. As the kettle came to a boil, he stirred slightly before rubbing his eyes. I noticed his clothes had been flung onto a pile on the floor beside him, his curls were disheveled and a frizzy mess. I turned back to my mug, finishing off the cup of tea I was making and deciding to make him one too. I brought it over to him and gently nudged him,

"What's- Oh, thank you." He grumbled as he took the mug and sipped on it gently. He sat up and studied my apartment in the daylight. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, he looked rough as all hell. "Fuck I've still gotta find my key."

"Do you think it's at the studio?" I queried,

"Maybe, my girlfriend has the spare and she doesn't get back for another two days." He rubbed his temples and scrunched his nose slightly, "If you see her in the studio don't tell her about this."

"Why?" I raised my eyebrow quizzically at him, "It's not like we did anything. We're only acquaintances-"

"No, no it's not that. She just thinks I maybe go out too much."

"Oh," I bit my lip. "What do you think?"

He paused and rubbed his eyes, "I probably do go out too much."

"Is there a reason you go out so much?" I sipped on my tea, I felt like a psychologist scrutinising his brain to help him find an answer to his own problems.

"I don't like the quiet. It's hard to deal with myself sober."

The quiet that fell in the room hung in the air like thick, sickly smog. He pulled the covers back and collected his clothes off the floor and started to put them back on. He was still wearing his boxers, but I turned around to provide him with some modesty as it felt unnatural to stare.

"Thanks for the tea," he flashed me a wistful smile. "I'd best be off now."And he slipped away, leaving me breathing in the sticky silence by myself.

A few weeks passed with us not even running into each other once, I was preoccupied with finishing our album so I hadn't thought about him too much. Frida told me he'd found his key after speaking with George, I assumed his girlfriend found out about our night as she would no longer smile politely at me down the studio halls. It wasn't a huge bother, but it's not like it was my idea. I found myself alone in the studio one evening, recording some vocals for one of our latest songs. My singing was interrupted by a burst of yells and racket coming from my neighbour's room, so loud my microphone picked up the background noise. I didn't mean to earwig, but the yelling couldn't have gone unnoticed. A few moments were inaudible, but from what I gathered Matty was trying to defend himself for the countless parties he went to. I thought back to that morning in my apartment, it made me question why he always seemed to be running away from himself. For someone so full of themselves, I didn't understand why he craved an escape. The front door slammed and the arguing ceased, I assumed his girlfriend had walked out and he'd stayed here. There was a moment of stillness before I heard knocking at my door, I opened it and saw Matty's tear-stricken red face.