Bad by dawn II

Apparently there's a timer with sleeping pills. When you take one, a one-hour countdown starts ticking, during which time you're supposed to actively try to fall asleep. And if you don't try, after that countdown ends a much shorter one starts before you start dreaming while you're awake. Before the hallucinations come.

Wednesday morning, B. didn't realize that and took his sleeping pills. And once again, at 2:50 in the morning, I stepped out of the room to discover that not only were the lights on, but the main room was smoky.

Just my luck, of course, that unlike last time he wasn't conked out on the couch. This time he was standing over the stove with a dazed-and-confused expression on his face, grilling what turned out to be a pig's foot directly on the burner. The smoke was coming from the bits of sizzling meat that had charred off and smoldered underneath it. There was water everywhere, all over the counter by the sink - and saturating the carpet I was standing on, too. Yuck.

I have never seen anybody so stupid as B. was that night. Whatever parts of his brain were responsible for causal reasoning had completely turned off, and his pride had took over their job. What he was doing, what he did, what he was going to do - none of it had consequences, even when it blatantly did.

Me: "B., you're smoking up the room."
He: "No I ain't." (the pig's foot sizzles under his fingers)
Me: "The room's full of smoke."
He: "That was someone else."
Me: "Who?"
He: "I dunno. Not me." (sizzles)

B. then picked it off the burner, turned to face away from me leaning forward with his knees slightly bowed, and as I watched he raised it to his face and started gnawing the scorched flesh off the bone, like an ogre feasting on gore. There was no getting past him, and he refused to sit down or get a plate ("I don't need a plate"), but at least I was able to turn the burner off while he wasn't looking.

I also thought to check the sink and see why it was half-full. The reason turned out to be two other feet, one gnawed and the other a fleshless bone, which were stopping the sink. I pulled them out, set them aside, and sponged the counter water into the sink as it drained. That was about the time B. stopped and put the fleshier foot into the slow-cooker.

Then, while I watched, he added two bags of fried crackers from a Chinese restaurant somewhere.

Me: "B., what the hell are you doing?"
He: "I'm puttin' these in."
Me: "They'll disintegrate!"
He: "I wan' 'em to to disinnigrate."

That was about the smartest thing I'd heard him say since this whole episode began, so while he was busy puttering around I opened the door to let the room vent. When I got back, I also thought to turn off the slow cooker. He didn't notice.

When I stepped out again twenty minutes later to use the bathroom, the room had vented and he was completely conked out on the sofa. I shut the doors, put the dehumidifier on to dry the carpet a bit, turned off the TV and the lights, and went back to bed.

It was almost worth retelling the story to him in the morning.