Domestic Peril

As he lay on the kitchen floor waiting for the ambulance to arrive, John searched for the strength to berate his flat mate one more time. It was a chore after the incident, but he felt it a necessary effort considering the situation in which he found himself today.

The discomfort of inhaling the cool air past his shredded trachea into his failing lungs paled in comparison to the pain he felt when attempting to form the words with his blistered, peeling remnants of a tongue.

John knew full well that it wasn't his turn to clean the kitchen - Phil's name was marked clearly in red on the rota. Unfortunately, he did not know full well that Phil would choose today to descale the kettle. He certainly didn't expect him to leave the seemingly innocuous kettle in its regular spot without even the most basic scribbled note of caution indicating the danger in drinking the simmering poison within.

Sitting next to him on the chequered tiles, Phil held John's teary gaze with a look of genuine concern while internally managing to detach himself from any kind of responsibility for the grizzly episode. Having already resolved any hint of inner conflict, Phil had assured himself that this was, after all, a matter of unfortunate circumstance.

John did not share Phil's rigid belief that this was a case of unfortunate circumstance, because that would infer that the events of this Saturday morning were somehow unavoidable. Granted, the risk of unwittingly drinking boiling poison was not a common one in most households, but John felt that the incident could have been avoided with little effort and the minor price of paper and ink - a belief he would assert if he had retained the power of speech. Phil's lack of consideration and basic common sense had come at a more substantial price today: a major chunk of John's respiratory faculties and pretty much all of his dignity. Not to mention the sensation building in his lips that he imagined comparable to kissing a furnace door.

Phil had heard the screams from the third floor. The tall and narrow halls of their shared Victorian house had funnelled John's cries into a ghoulish howl emanating from the ground floor. With the harrowing message successfully transmitted, Phil had rushed toward the noise as fast as the deadly stairs would allow him, having his fears confirmed in spectacular fashion when entering the fluorescent glow of the kitchen doorway.

The scene that faced him was one of blind hysteria and slap-stick fury. John wailed to the gods while trying to tear out his own throat, pirouetting around the kitchen and leaving a trail of smashed crockery in his wake, akin to final throws of an abstract ballet. It was a bizarre theatrical sight and, were it not for the pangs of empathy Phil felt at his friend's obvious discomfort, he might have found the look of horror on John's face slightly comical. Maybe he had actually laughed a little, he couldn't remember now. Thinking back on that outrageous moment he had been certain only of one thing at the time - that he would not intervene and risk being at the receiving end of John's apparent primal rage, which was escalating by the second. No, he would kill time in the hall until the situation had deteriorated to it's natural and adrenaline-bereft conclusion.

The mood was more sombre now. It is never good to see a grown man cry. John lay on the kitchen floor, clutching his throat in one hand and the nearest table leg in the other, as if trying to grasp at some stability within the unbelievable madness that had befallen him. Inhaling and expelling barely enough air to fuel his thirsty heart, John emitted a pitiful wheeze that sounded like a dog chewing on a broken toy. But through the tears of pain there was menace in his eyes. He looked squarely at Phil and, with his ruined lips, mouthed the words "I…will…KILL…youuuuu.."

"There, there," said Phil, gingerly patting John on the chest inducing a pathetic yelp. "Cup of Tea?"