Yo-yo

There's a harsh blinding light above you - and it's flickering, flickering in a jolting, irregular manner that is driving you insane. You want to avert your eyes from it but you can't, the nausea is causing you to restrict all movement. Even the smallest nictate evokes that sour, corrosive bile to form in your throat again. If it was to collect there once more it'd have no choice but to eternally canker away at your already raw flesh because you don't have the strength to spew it out. 
   Your arm has lost most of its feeling, instead replaced by a steady dull throbbing and an insufferable pinch from the DIY moth-eaten tourniquet still bound around your feeble joint. You yawn, every muscle in your body shaking as you strain them with the mighty intake of breath, seizing in protest. 
   God's gone now. You thought, for a fleeting moment, that he might still be holding you; but you can't feel the intense warmth of his hand any more. Layla's still here of course, embryonically coiled around the bass of the antiquated, busted sink. As you look at her you're fondly reminded of birth. Not that you remember your own, but in general - new life. You think to yourself how fitting it is that she is lain like this, to mark her rebirth into the world of opiates, theft and prostitution that looms above her now. A faeces encrusted pillow and a bleached tile bed, Jesus of the new age. 
   You remind yourself to tell God of this sardonic epoch if he ever returns. You chuckle at the notion but that causes the nausea to rush at you again, pulling your brain through your spine and flipping the room around you. You're just a dirty forgotten rag in a washing machine. 
   You feel it on your face before you taste it in your mouth, the putrid recurrence of yesterday's frugal meal. You lie there for a moment, feeling the chunks of food churning in your mouth as you choke, silently weighing up the pros and cons of death by asphyxiation against standing up. You decide that the central park subway toilets aren't where you want your soul to remain trapped if, for some inconceivable miracle, you're not going straight to hell. 
   Turning on your side you attempt to stand but gravity is twice as heavy as it normally is today, so your joints buckle underneath it all. You lie with your vomit coated cheek pressed hard against the synthetic gelid marble. Layla moves somewhere to the right of you but you're not sure where, the fall - however pathetic - caused you to move positions dramatically. The rest of the room might as well be the depths of another universe to you now, you'll never know where anything is again. Due to this adverse manoeuvre you’ll never find Layla, and you'll never find the exit; never find either salvation. 
   You rise on balled fists, knuckles taking the brunt of the increased gravity and your abused disposition. Wiping the vomit away with your sleeve you begin the daunting 5 foot crawl to Layla. You consider grabbing onto her battered Doc Martin and pulling yourself towards her (or her towards you, whichever came first), but presume it in bad form to use your girlfriend as a guide rope. Instead you squirm like a caterpillar, in a rippling convulse, into her vicinity.
   After much exertion and several close calls on the vomit front you reach her and hold her in a warm embrace; your bodies melting into one, glued together by tragic serenity. 
   As you listen to the sound of her aberrant heart palpitations you feel like survivors. Two lost children in a bomb shelter hiding from enemy shells. Two death-row inmates avoiding their judgement day. Two peas in a dingy, STI infested pod. 
   Every so often your heavy lids will part, searching for God, but somehow you know he's not coming back. Remebering the warmth and hazy clarity he inspired in you, you're overwhelmed by sadness. An agonizing stabbing occurs somewhere underneath your ribcage as you realize God will never hold you like that again. Your chest tightens and dry sobs escape your peeling lips drowning Layla in a sea of unmerited emotion. She awakes and turns to you with her purple eyelids still down, she can feel the extra gravity too. 

'What's wrong baby?' She rasps, a voice so hoarse and worn it could only ever belong to her in this concurring moment. 

'I miss God.' You whine back, spraying her face with spittle in your enthusiasm to convey to her your distress. 
   She half opens one eye, scrunching up the other as if to balance out the action. In that slit of eyeball amongst the confusion you can see a life of broken promises and lost loves - a mess of teenage angst. In yours she can see a violent thirst and a final dysphoria that will soon belong to her. She parts her thin lips and they quaver as she inhales the sufficient oxygen needed to speak; 

'God will come back, you still have his yo-yo'