He’s got a screw loose

When my head imploded, it col­lapsed in on itself, slump­ing to half its nor­mal size. It had been young and smooth once, but over the years it had become just one more sag­ging bal­loon, wrinkled and droop­ing at the tail-end of some spoilt child’s birth­day party.

My shrunken head slipped fur­ther and fur­ther down into the yawn­ing hole of my neck, into my chest, com­ing to rest heav­ily in the pit of my stom­ach like a Sunday din­ner, stuffed and bloated with all the trimmings.

I have been sat in the house for six days now, for­cing my fin­gers down my abused throat at forty-five minute inter­vals, reg­u­lar as clock­work. I will cough myself up even­tu­ally. Even­tu­ally. If my patience and my muscles last that long. So far I have only vomited slith­ers of skin, hairballs and whole falafels, barely chewed, but I’m sure it can only be a mat­ter of time before my head falls out onto the car­pet and stares back at me with a look of wide-eyed relief on its ruddy face.