The door’s left open after his heels depart.
One hour earlier, I’m thinking of trying to find him, but the thin carpet holds no clues. Neither does the bottom of my whiskey bottle.
Two hours earlier, I’m wondering who I am. I’m hoping that he knows.
Three hours earlier, he’s grinning sideways and chatting to a pretty girl in bad clothes while I pretend not to watch from across the smoky room.
Four hours earlier, we’re arriving at the student-flat of my school-friend, 6, Victoria Street, Northampton. I’m pointing towards pumpkin-shaped fairy lights adorning the front window-frame. One of his eyebrows is raised.
Five hours earlier, he’s saying his first hello to my parents. They seem ambivalent. I want to run upstairs.
Six hours earlier, we’re on the train together, hand held in gentle hand.
How can it all go wrong in a quarter of a day?
Well, in that short time, I saw many things.
I saw the countryside zipping by, and Scottish hills slowly flatten into English undulations.
I cringed when I saw my father awkwardly shake hands with the man who sleeps beside his youngest daughter, but chuckled when I saw my mother serve him more than he normally eats in a month on one plate.
I saw old friends, new faces and fake cobwebs.
I saw how I used to live, and felt better about my current life, with all its faults and failings.
Then I saw how wrong I was. I looked inwardly and saw a side of myself I didn’t know existed.
In the final three hours of my day, not only did I see things I didn’t want to see, I also heard things I didn’t want to hear: screaming, loud, repetitive sounds that ancient dial-up modems used to make. It turns out this ‘music’ is called Hardcore, like that durable, demanding material used for laying roads.
The beginning of the end, as they say, was when I spied him in Julia’s kitchen with that girl I instantly hated. Her eyebrows were too perfect. Her tight skirt was too short. Her hair was too soft, too straightened, too styled. I could come up with more, but why bother? She wasn’t me, and that was all that mattered.
I sauntered up to them after a while, gave them my most winning smile, and said, “Hey, how’s it going?”
I didn’t know the protocol on kissing him or not, so I stood there, glancing back and forth as if the pair were playing tennis rather than standing this still.
She giggled like a girl and looked at him. Typical.
He mumbled something akin to an introduction. I wasn’t listening though. In my ears was just bad music, reflected in mood.
The next couple of hours passed quickly. I remember the bottle I was clutching becoming empty. I remember playing with the worn-out edges of a chair, and trying to use the filthy bathroom without placing my fingers on a thing. I remember remembering, and wanting to forget.
This wasn’t how it was meant to be.
At about a quarter to midnight, I knocked over an overflowing ashtray and decided that enough was enough. I was going to look for my boyfriend. He was upstairs, in a pink and green faery-glen of a bedroom, next to the perfect girl from the dirty kitchen.
The facts were as follows:
They were sitting on a bed together.
The bed looked very cosy.
Their torsos were touching, one long, pale arm round her shoulders.
I drank all this in, and my mind stayed level.
In a flash, I flipped through everything he’d said the week before.
Then my mind skipped a beat, as if my feelings were a ventricle, lost inside my brain.
This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Even according to him.
I shouted “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” at him.
They were only doing what I’d agreed to, he said.
I said, “I agreed to be ‘open’, not completely fucking pathetic. I asked you to wait ‘til I was ready. This is way too... I mean, are you crazy? Time and place, Eric. Time. And Place.”
He looked at me like I was the crazy one, then said something to that effect.
I paused and realised through my haze that he was right. I’d never voiced such valid concerns. I’d simply looked away after he’d made his suggestions, and agreed.
The truth is, I’d only asked him one thing that night, the week before his heels departed, when he’d first broached the subject of our status-shift, from closed and secure to open and free. As we stared deeply into each others eyes, between claustrophobic sheets, I’d asked him whether he was ever trying to read my mind. He’d laughed at me; said no. Said he was just soaking up my beauty.
But, see, I was always trying to read his.
I guess that’s where we differed.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Thursday, 23 July 2009
Not About Him
The secure sensation of my friend's warm hands round my waist is hopelessly, irretrievably, forgotten as soon as I spot Him through the crowd. Still being herded forward by the mass of bodies pressed against us, suddenly all I want is escape. I unhand Richard and heave my way to the side-wall. I'm nearer Him now. Nearer the make-shift stage, that sweat-drenched shirt, those squinting eyes. The audience cheers drunkenly as the song comes to an electric close. I can't bear to be one of them - to applaud this absolute creep. Mesmerised nonetheless, I watch from the shadows. Meanwhile, my mind's racing to grasp the possibility of the conversation I've been conducting internally for a year finally being played out in reality. Oh shit. This can't be happening. Why here? Why now? Oh God... I hope to holy fuck I look hot.
The band lay their instruments down carefully, like mommas placing sleeping babes in their cots, and commence chatting. Glimpses of them can be gleaned from between the milling heads and I berate myself for simultaneously wanting to catch His eye and hide. Pressed against the cold brick, I'm sickened as I sense the light strengthen and crowds clear. The dingy disco becomes a rainbow of scarves and skin colours and a medley of accents replace the music. Soon He might actually see me. Thankfully, it's Richard's face that appears. He seems as relieved to see me as I am him. Mutual smiles ensue.
"There you are!" he yells above the din.
"Richard!" I enthuse.
"How's it...?"
I cut him off abruptly, mid-flow.
"It's Him."
There's a pause as his grin turns puzzled.
"Who?"
"Andy. Playing in the band. You have to save me."
I reach up and grab him by the shoulders, repositioning my friend to stand between me and the stage. He lets my hands move him but continues to stare into my eyes. I let him. We have this kind of relationship. Acting on an urge to look as gorgeously epic as possible, I glance down at my body to check my coral dress for creases or stains. Finding no obvious faults, I pull it down slightly to reveal a little cleavage instead. Richard's eyes are all over me, which pleases me inordinately. Hot enough for him is hot enough for Him.
"Do you wanna get out of here?" Richard asks with blessed sensitivity. Tempting as it is, I answer, "No. I'm OK. Why should I leave because of Him? Screw Him." He must recognise the trajectory of my tone, because he chuckles and shakes his head indulgently.
"A drink then, m'lady?"
"Why yes, good sir. A drink would be most appreciated." I curtsy sarcastically and we lock arms, heading for the kitchen-table-come-bar.
When we get there the choices seem somewhat limited: chunky Sangria from a massive plastic tub or cold cans of Carlsberg from a bucket filled with ice. He opts for the latter while I briefly compare alcohol content and select the former. Wine does funny things to me, but I'm comfortable with that tonight. The party seems full of people I partly know: acquaintances from the Forest cafe and some friends of friends of friends (of friends?). There are only a handful of places to sit, so when I spy a couple vacate their sofa and stagger away, I dive in before anyone else can, dragging poor Richard with me. It's a squeeze, but we fit.
"So which one is Andy again?" he asks with a mock-quizzical glint in his grey-green eyes. I smack his left shoulder with an open palm. "Shut up," I laugh. "The only one."
"The one who broke your little heart?" His jokey tone hurts; it must be written all over my face. "Sorry," he concedes with sincerity. "That... creep...? He really did a number on you then?"
Pretending to ignore him, I sup my Sangria. Tightly closed teeth deny slices of orange rind in favour of bitter red booze. The sofa seems intent on swallowing me, which wouldn't be too frowned upon right now. I adjust my ass, accidentally rubbing against Richard. Feeling embarrasment rise, I resolve to be enthralled by the cute girl swaying to my left. Her messy blonde dreads hang loose, teasing her tanned waist like brushstrokes. Andy's profile spoils the moment though, appearing like a flash in the distance before the throngs envelope him once more. I panic slightly, feeling that lurch of the stomach and subsequent sickness. There's nowhere to look except Richard or my knees. I opt for my knees. My hair acts as a curtain to my humiliation but feeling my friend's sympathy heavy on my curls, I turn back to face him.
"He's was my boyfriend when I went home." I admit.
"Back to En Zed?"
"Yeh..." Richard's face is open and patient. "When Mum died, I had to go home," I reluctantly explain, "he was meant to be my 'loving' boyfriend, totally 'in love' with me, but then the weeks became months thanks to my mum's asshole brother... anyway... his calls kept getting fewer and fewer and he kept making crap excuses for not answering mine. And then after like two months he disappeared off the radar for six weeks." Richard's reaction seems appropriately horrified, so I continue. "I was testing him, sort of. I wanted to know how long it'd be before he got in contact. How much he cared, maybe..? Well, the answer was, not much. After six weeks, I call to ask if he's alright, seriously worried that he's gone and died on me too, and he answers on the second ring, sounding all nonchalant! Says his internet's broken and he's got no credit. Talks about himself for ten minutes, then says he has to go. Doesn't even ask how I am. Out of sight out of mind, I guess."
Richard leans in and whispers forcefully into my ear, "What. A. Tool."
"Yeh," I agree, head low once again. "My friends were right about him all along. They kept saying he was using me for sex but I didn't want to believe them." I feel the need to make eye-contact for this next admission. It only feels right to give it the weight I, in my arrogance, think it deserves. "He was my first real love."
The cup in my lap contains only wet, dead fruit; luckily, more Sangria sounds like the perfect cure to such revelations.
"Anyway. I might get another drink," I add. Richard tries to grab my hand as I stand, but I brush him off and lurch into nearby bodies.
Another band's begun and the bulk of the crowd have vacated the bar area. Sweet, slow jazz fills the air; a sad saxophone and tinkling synths have tilted the mood from frenzied to relaxed. For some reason, the party's having an impromptu Happy Hour and the Sangria's only a pound a cup. I buy two for good measure. Remembering Richard, I pay for another, down one, and return to my friend feeling like I fooled someone, although whom, I do not know.
"So anyway," I say, as if the conversation was still going, "we haven't spoken since. I got back a year ago and I've seen him around a few places but we still haven't spoken. I hate his guts; I think he can tell."
Checking he's still listening, I find it's now Richard's turn to face away, looking subdued. I trace the line of his vision to the same cute girl with the paintbrush dreads, who's traversed the room in my absence. Fine, I think, aware of my own irrationality. Be that way.
"I'm going for a cig."
Waiting for a reply seems pointless seeing as Richard doesn't smoke, so I just leave, taking his full cup with me.
The stairs are alive with weed-smokers; damn, it must be raining again. Some mop-headed man cradles a guitar and an elderly chick huddles over a bongo drum: and then a Jam's broken out, trapping all the wasted hipsters with sultry, tribal beats. I join the tangled queue for the exit, downing both Sangrias as I make slow progress down the line. Feeling surplus to requirements, I avoid eye contact, leaving the sweet-smelling, smoke-filled stair-well to all the happy people.
Sideways rain lashes me as soon as I step outside, compelling me to hastily retrieve the umbrella and cigarette packet from my bag. The famously manic-depressive Edinburgh weather is evidently going through its depressed stage. This is what passes for Summer in Scotland? Move away, people. Move away. Then again, I decided to move here, twice in fact, so I'm being a total hypocrite. I build my shelter, then fumble for my lighter in the dark recesses of my bag. Before I can find it, a flame appears out the corner of my vision. I gratefully make use of it. About to voice my thanks, my eyes meet its owner. It's Him. Of course.
"Bob. Hey." he states earthily, a slow, caring smile gracing his lips.
I take a deep breath and look him up and down. He's soaked, even more so than when he was on stage; the energy of the gig continues to glitter on his skin. Tousled hair, a white shirt and tight trousers finish off the ultra-trendy look I remember it taking him forever to perfect - staring in the mirror for a long hour, twisting black strands with strong wax; pretensions to sloppiness; treasuring his reflection.
"Hi."
It's all I can manage at the moment, as both the heart-wrenchingly good and gut-stoppingly bad memories resurface in tandem, pulling me apart.
"How've you been?"
"Good, actually." My voice sounds so ambivalent that I'm actually impressing myself. "Just been back at college finishing my foundation. Did my end of year show the other week there. Yeh, it was good. Fun. You?"
His wet face is only getting wetter as I say this, allowing me to rejoice in not offering him shelter under my umbrella.
"Well, we finished the album a few weeks ago, so we've just been waiting for the production crew..." I can sense the start of one of his legendary exercises in technical jargon, so I do what I always did at times likes this - switch off. While he's rambling about mikes and amps and other such rubbish, I think back to when I considered this cute. An adorable foible. An imperfection that I loved so intensely, thereby proving my love for the whole person. Oh God. Was indulging his irritating self-involvement, the way he never even noticed when his audience had stopped listening... was this why I thought I loved him? Was I really that naive?
I zone back into what passes for conversation with Andrew McAvoy just in time to see an expectant raise of the eyebrows take shape.
"Sorry what?" I ask, not sorry at all.
"I was just asking if I could steal a bit of umbrella," he grinned. "My fag's getting soaked."
The answer's no, but instead of saying so, I choose to ignore the question in favour of confronting the situation. Sure, we could carry on being civil while all the time my blood boils. Or I could take the initiative. One lesson learned these last twelve months is that you should always speak your mind when you have the chance, or else you might just live to regret it.
"Look Andy, I can't just be normal with you like nothing happened. What you did to me was pretty damn awful. I was going through a really tough time; my Mum... and all that crap with Uncle Stazi. I really needed you. And where were you? Hm?"
He looks sunken, like he suddenly wants to be anywhere but in this conversation. Without giving him a chance to make an excuse, I continue saying what I need to say.
"You were here, playing gigs. Probably chatting up some other young girl. Getting drunk on cheap cider; sitting in the park with your idiot friends, categorically not ringing up your grieving girlfriend. Am I right?" I can feel the blood start to bubble, so take it off the heat. All that's left is pity and disdain. "God Andrew, you're thirty five years old. You need to grow up. I'm only nineteen and I know more about life than you. And you can wipe that scowl off your face as well." An apt picture springs to mind. "You look ridiculous; like Wolf dressed as Lamb."
He spits out a mumbled 'whatever' and huffs off inside. I'm shaking from the cold and heightened tension.
"Are you OK?" says a friendly voice in my ear, a warm hand encircling the opposite hip. "Was he bothering you?"
"Nah," I reply, "I'm sweet as."
I fold my hand over his and sit my chin on my right shoulder, so I'm looking up at him. Realising that the night was never about Andy; it was all about Richard, I close my eyes and lean in, finally ready for a gentle taste of reality.
The band lay their instruments down carefully, like mommas placing sleeping babes in their cots, and commence chatting. Glimpses of them can be gleaned from between the milling heads and I berate myself for simultaneously wanting to catch His eye and hide. Pressed against the cold brick, I'm sickened as I sense the light strengthen and crowds clear. The dingy disco becomes a rainbow of scarves and skin colours and a medley of accents replace the music. Soon He might actually see me. Thankfully, it's Richard's face that appears. He seems as relieved to see me as I am him. Mutual smiles ensue.
"There you are!" he yells above the din.
"Richard!" I enthuse.
"How's it...?"
I cut him off abruptly, mid-flow.
"It's Him."
There's a pause as his grin turns puzzled.
"Who?"
"Andy. Playing in the band. You have to save me."
I reach up and grab him by the shoulders, repositioning my friend to stand between me and the stage. He lets my hands move him but continues to stare into my eyes. I let him. We have this kind of relationship. Acting on an urge to look as gorgeously epic as possible, I glance down at my body to check my coral dress for creases or stains. Finding no obvious faults, I pull it down slightly to reveal a little cleavage instead. Richard's eyes are all over me, which pleases me inordinately. Hot enough for him is hot enough for Him.
"Do you wanna get out of here?" Richard asks with blessed sensitivity. Tempting as it is, I answer, "No. I'm OK. Why should I leave because of Him? Screw Him." He must recognise the trajectory of my tone, because he chuckles and shakes his head indulgently.
"A drink then, m'lady?"
"Why yes, good sir. A drink would be most appreciated." I curtsy sarcastically and we lock arms, heading for the kitchen-table-come-bar.
When we get there the choices seem somewhat limited: chunky Sangria from a massive plastic tub or cold cans of Carlsberg from a bucket filled with ice. He opts for the latter while I briefly compare alcohol content and select the former. Wine does funny things to me, but I'm comfortable with that tonight. The party seems full of people I partly know: acquaintances from the Forest cafe and some friends of friends of friends (of friends?). There are only a handful of places to sit, so when I spy a couple vacate their sofa and stagger away, I dive in before anyone else can, dragging poor Richard with me. It's a squeeze, but we fit.
"So which one is Andy again?" he asks with a mock-quizzical glint in his grey-green eyes. I smack his left shoulder with an open palm. "Shut up," I laugh. "The only one."
"The one who broke your little heart?" His jokey tone hurts; it must be written all over my face. "Sorry," he concedes with sincerity. "That... creep...? He really did a number on you then?"
Pretending to ignore him, I sup my Sangria. Tightly closed teeth deny slices of orange rind in favour of bitter red booze. The sofa seems intent on swallowing me, which wouldn't be too frowned upon right now. I adjust my ass, accidentally rubbing against Richard. Feeling embarrasment rise, I resolve to be enthralled by the cute girl swaying to my left. Her messy blonde dreads hang loose, teasing her tanned waist like brushstrokes. Andy's profile spoils the moment though, appearing like a flash in the distance before the throngs envelope him once more. I panic slightly, feeling that lurch of the stomach and subsequent sickness. There's nowhere to look except Richard or my knees. I opt for my knees. My hair acts as a curtain to my humiliation but feeling my friend's sympathy heavy on my curls, I turn back to face him.
"He's was my boyfriend when I went home." I admit.
"Back to En Zed?"
"Yeh..." Richard's face is open and patient. "When Mum died, I had to go home," I reluctantly explain, "he was meant to be my 'loving' boyfriend, totally 'in love' with me, but then the weeks became months thanks to my mum's asshole brother... anyway... his calls kept getting fewer and fewer and he kept making crap excuses for not answering mine. And then after like two months he disappeared off the radar for six weeks." Richard's reaction seems appropriately horrified, so I continue. "I was testing him, sort of. I wanted to know how long it'd be before he got in contact. How much he cared, maybe..? Well, the answer was, not much. After six weeks, I call to ask if he's alright, seriously worried that he's gone and died on me too, and he answers on the second ring, sounding all nonchalant! Says his internet's broken and he's got no credit. Talks about himself for ten minutes, then says he has to go. Doesn't even ask how I am. Out of sight out of mind, I guess."
Richard leans in and whispers forcefully into my ear, "What. A. Tool."
"Yeh," I agree, head low once again. "My friends were right about him all along. They kept saying he was using me for sex but I didn't want to believe them." I feel the need to make eye-contact for this next admission. It only feels right to give it the weight I, in my arrogance, think it deserves. "He was my first real love."
The cup in my lap contains only wet, dead fruit; luckily, more Sangria sounds like the perfect cure to such revelations.
"Anyway. I might get another drink," I add. Richard tries to grab my hand as I stand, but I brush him off and lurch into nearby bodies.
Another band's begun and the bulk of the crowd have vacated the bar area. Sweet, slow jazz fills the air; a sad saxophone and tinkling synths have tilted the mood from frenzied to relaxed. For some reason, the party's having an impromptu Happy Hour and the Sangria's only a pound a cup. I buy two for good measure. Remembering Richard, I pay for another, down one, and return to my friend feeling like I fooled someone, although whom, I do not know.
"So anyway," I say, as if the conversation was still going, "we haven't spoken since. I got back a year ago and I've seen him around a few places but we still haven't spoken. I hate his guts; I think he can tell."
Checking he's still listening, I find it's now Richard's turn to face away, looking subdued. I trace the line of his vision to the same cute girl with the paintbrush dreads, who's traversed the room in my absence. Fine, I think, aware of my own irrationality. Be that way.
"I'm going for a cig."
Waiting for a reply seems pointless seeing as Richard doesn't smoke, so I just leave, taking his full cup with me.
The stairs are alive with weed-smokers; damn, it must be raining again. Some mop-headed man cradles a guitar and an elderly chick huddles over a bongo drum: and then a Jam's broken out, trapping all the wasted hipsters with sultry, tribal beats. I join the tangled queue for the exit, downing both Sangrias as I make slow progress down the line. Feeling surplus to requirements, I avoid eye contact, leaving the sweet-smelling, smoke-filled stair-well to all the happy people.
Sideways rain lashes me as soon as I step outside, compelling me to hastily retrieve the umbrella and cigarette packet from my bag. The famously manic-depressive Edinburgh weather is evidently going through its depressed stage. This is what passes for Summer in Scotland? Move away, people. Move away. Then again, I decided to move here, twice in fact, so I'm being a total hypocrite. I build my shelter, then fumble for my lighter in the dark recesses of my bag. Before I can find it, a flame appears out the corner of my vision. I gratefully make use of it. About to voice my thanks, my eyes meet its owner. It's Him. Of course.
"Bob. Hey." he states earthily, a slow, caring smile gracing his lips.
I take a deep breath and look him up and down. He's soaked, even more so than when he was on stage; the energy of the gig continues to glitter on his skin. Tousled hair, a white shirt and tight trousers finish off the ultra-trendy look I remember it taking him forever to perfect - staring in the mirror for a long hour, twisting black strands with strong wax; pretensions to sloppiness; treasuring his reflection.
"Hi."
It's all I can manage at the moment, as both the heart-wrenchingly good and gut-stoppingly bad memories resurface in tandem, pulling me apart.
"How've you been?"
"Good, actually." My voice sounds so ambivalent that I'm actually impressing myself. "Just been back at college finishing my foundation. Did my end of year show the other week there. Yeh, it was good. Fun. You?"
His wet face is only getting wetter as I say this, allowing me to rejoice in not offering him shelter under my umbrella.
"Well, we finished the album a few weeks ago, so we've just been waiting for the production crew..." I can sense the start of one of his legendary exercises in technical jargon, so I do what I always did at times likes this - switch off. While he's rambling about mikes and amps and other such rubbish, I think back to when I considered this cute. An adorable foible. An imperfection that I loved so intensely, thereby proving my love for the whole person. Oh God. Was indulging his irritating self-involvement, the way he never even noticed when his audience had stopped listening... was this why I thought I loved him? Was I really that naive?
I zone back into what passes for conversation with Andrew McAvoy just in time to see an expectant raise of the eyebrows take shape.
"Sorry what?" I ask, not sorry at all.
"I was just asking if I could steal a bit of umbrella," he grinned. "My fag's getting soaked."
The answer's no, but instead of saying so, I choose to ignore the question in favour of confronting the situation. Sure, we could carry on being civil while all the time my blood boils. Or I could take the initiative. One lesson learned these last twelve months is that you should always speak your mind when you have the chance, or else you might just live to regret it.
"Look Andy, I can't just be normal with you like nothing happened. What you did to me was pretty damn awful. I was going through a really tough time; my Mum... and all that crap with Uncle Stazi. I really needed you. And where were you? Hm?"
He looks sunken, like he suddenly wants to be anywhere but in this conversation. Without giving him a chance to make an excuse, I continue saying what I need to say.
"You were here, playing gigs. Probably chatting up some other young girl. Getting drunk on cheap cider; sitting in the park with your idiot friends, categorically not ringing up your grieving girlfriend. Am I right?" I can feel the blood start to bubble, so take it off the heat. All that's left is pity and disdain. "God Andrew, you're thirty five years old. You need to grow up. I'm only nineteen and I know more about life than you. And you can wipe that scowl off your face as well." An apt picture springs to mind. "You look ridiculous; like Wolf dressed as Lamb."
He spits out a mumbled 'whatever' and huffs off inside. I'm shaking from the cold and heightened tension.
"Are you OK?" says a friendly voice in my ear, a warm hand encircling the opposite hip. "Was he bothering you?"
"Nah," I reply, "I'm sweet as."
I fold my hand over his and sit my chin on my right shoulder, so I'm looking up at him. Realising that the night was never about Andy; it was all about Richard, I close my eyes and lean in, finally ready for a gentle taste of reality.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Reflections on the Dogliness of Dog
Gavin placed his face as close as possible to Sam's - today's experiment was to determine whether this particular being also had 'personal space issues'. Mum had them, said Dad; but did Sam? Research had so far concluded that potential proximity changed day by day, minute by minute. Today, now, the distance was set at just two inches. Gavin kept his cranial muscles relaxed for fear of sudden movements wrecking the experiment. The blacks of their eyes crossed paths as Sam blinked and turned slightly, adjusting his position on the couch. This experiment was over. For now.
Gavin considered his subject. 'He seems bored. Unthinking. Like a mountain.' He surveyed Sam's cat-sized body. 'Or maybe just a small hill.'
"What are you thinking?" he whispered, barely expelling breath as he did so. Sam reacted nevertheless. Swivelling his head to sit at right angles to Gavin, he yawned massively, with gusto, then flopped his chin down on the cushions and fluttered his eyelids until they closed. Within milliseconds, he was asleep. Gavin continued his observations unperturbed. 'Can dogs dream?' he wondered with unnerving concentration.
This tranquil scientific inquiry was soon broken by a great stomping pile of laundry. After attempting to balance several towels on a thin, rickety ironing board, and watching them all predictably topple off one after another, the woman Gavin called Mum was revealed, flushed and cross.
"Bollocks," she muttered, before noticing the boy sprawled on the three-seater couch, staring at the dog. Again. Deciding not to excuse her foul language, seeing as Gavin was probably ignoring her in favour of the resident dumb beast anyway, she opted to ask him what he thought he was doing inside on such a gloriously sunny day.
Not even glancing up from Sam's sleeping form, the boy replied with,
"That's just it Mum. I know what I'm thinking. But does he?" She took a deep, supposedly healing breath. This is not what I signed up for, she groaned to herself.
"Does he know what you're thinking? No. He's just a dog, Gav..."
"Nooooo..." he leisurely disagreed, as if building to something, "does he think? Does he know what he's thinking? Does he think about what he's doing?"
At that moment Sam jumped up and tottered over to his food-bowl. A rhythmic lapping ensued. Gavin's mother, whose preferred name was Carol incidentally, and who wasn't technically his mother, resigned herself to completing housework surrounded by yet another circular conversation about a dog or a duck or a dinosaur.
"No honey, he doesn't think. He's just a dog. Which means he isn't clever enough to think. His brain's only about as big as a tennis ball." She looked down, spying Sam's triumphant tail-wagging at having chewed off and eaten a patch of the dog-food-coloured carpet. "At the most." Hoping for a satisfied nod from Gavin, she glanced over the stack of washing at this ever-curious child.
The boy's eyes were still on Sam though, and instead of grimacing in distaste, a puzzled expression was chiselling his chin.
"Sit", he suddenly commanded. Dutifully, Sam coughed up a fragment of fluff and sat down, cocking his head expectedly while lifting one mottled brown ear. Gavin ignored him and turned to Carol, who'd instinctively slid back behind the clothes-pile, hoping for respite from the explanation of something she didn't quite understand, nor particularly cared about.
Undaunted, "See?" asked Gavin, "he knows what that means".
"Yes but that's not the same as thinking", she accidentally snapped, "he's just learned to act that way".
"But if he can learn, he can think."
"No, just because he can learn, it doesn't mean he can think."
"But why?"
"Because...?" she searched for a way to finish this sentence. "Go ask your Dad," she suggested sneakily, "he'll know". As Gavin bounced from the room with his dumb dog in tow, Carol continued ironing in blissful silence, her mind positively brimming with ideas for the garden.
"Daaaaaad," he began, innocently starting the conversation in the most obnoxious way possible, "can Sam think?"
His father continued to type, the quick clips of the keys filling the room. Gavin waited patiently as Sam explored with impish enthusiasm.
"Not now son. I've gotta finish this." Gavin hovered near the desk until the hurried typing recommenced, then turned and left him in peace, disappointed to be so easily dismissed.
Flopping down on the door-mat, Sam once again exited the world of consciousness. Gavin crouched down beside him, roughly massaging the loose fur around his collar. It must be boring being a dog, he hypothesised. If you can't think, then what happens in your brain? How do you know if life is good or bad if you don't know anything? He flopped down half-on, half-beside the dog.
"Are you happy, Sam?" No answer.
"What makes you happy, hmm?" No change in position. He pondered the problem a little longer. He must like stuff; some things must make him happy.
"Walkies?" he tentatively asked.
Finally, a reaction! Sam leapt to his feet, his eyes connecting with Gavin's for the first time in hours, since before the experiments began. His ears shot up like they wanted to detach themselves from his scalp. His tongue struck out from behind pointed teeth and began panting at the pace of his wagging tail. It was like he was unfolding, every extremity behaving like a jack in the box, leaping out from within due to pure unadulterated excitement. Feeling instantly guilty for providing false hope, Gavin resolved to follow through on his promise.
"Yeh, walkies makes you happy, doesn't it boy?"
He fetched the leash from where it hung on the banister and hooked it to the dog's collar. They left the house together, Sam twisted amidst human legs, scampering for escape.
On the way to the park, three other dog-walkers were passed, two of which Gavin, and therefore Sam, already knew. The dogs sniffed and waltzed while their owners smiled politely and watched them, dragging their respective dogs away after an appropriate amount of time. The third owner was an unknown overcoat with a mystery dog, and Sam tried madly to drag Gavin towards her vicinity. Unfortunately for Sam, her owner called out that she was 'on heat', hinting that boy and boy-dog should stay well back. Following this interaction, Gavin got to wondering about whether Sam knows he's a dog. 'He must be aware of certain... similarities... with other dogs. He doesn't sniff every butt he sees, after all. And he knows his place in the world, like who his master is (me) and who gives him food (Carol) and who to avoid at all costs, on pain of being put in the garage (dad). So maybe he does know he's a dog, Maybe he does think and know and be happy.'
After an hour-long jaunt round the park and back, they returned home slightly tired. Gavin headed towards the study to find his father, while Sam nipped off in the direction of his food-bowl. The boy found the computer abandoned, the screensaver flashing brightly-coloured vortexes on a black background. He went to his bedroom instead, laying down flat on top of the duvet, head still cluttered, full of unanswered questions and experiments for the future. After a few minutes a stocky man with glasses appeared in his doorway.
"Hey Dad."
"Hey sport, how's it going?"
"...OK..."
"Just... OK?"
Gavin didn't know how to answer. The woman he called Mum in everywhere but his head hadn't seemed too bothered. Maybe these questions were stupid. Maybe he was stupid for wanting to ask them. All he wanted to know was what it was like to be Sam. Was that bad? Was he bad? Embarrassed, he wiped away tears that were about to fall, transferring them from his cheeks to the backs of his hands.
His father, whose real name was Patrick incidentally, who'd chosen this 10-year-old boy with his late wife when he was still a bawling baby, still hated to see him upset. Instinctively, he leant over and grasped his son's shoulder with gentle strength, trying to put his face near the boy's, trying to look at him square-on. Gavin thought of how he did the same thing to Sam, and how it was only because he wanted to know if he was happy. Because he cared.
"What is it? What's up? Something about the dog, right?"
Gavin couldn't look at him, but something about his tone made it alright to speak.
"Yeh... I just... do you think he's happy?"
Patrick sat beside Gavin on the bed. Clearly he was genuinely thinking about it. Several seconds passed before he ventured an answer.
"Yeh. I do. I think that despite the fact that he's only an animal, and supposed to be stupid an' all, he's happy. I see you guys together and I see two very happy animals." Gavin grinned, tears clearing. "And I know you just want him to be happy, and that's what makes you a good person, so you shouldn't ever feel ashamed for saying so. OK?"
Gavin felt comforted. Comfortable. He noticed Sam sitting quietly by the foot of the bed. He must have padded in silently as they were talking.
"Dad?"
"Yes son?"
"Do you think dogs can think?"
Again, a slight moment while he formulated his reply.
"No son, I don't think they can think. But that doesn't mean they can't be happy."
Gavin was unconvinced, but nodded nonetheless.
Realising none of these animals had any food to offer, Sam left in search of somewhere nice to nap. He turned back when he reached the door and saw the two male monkeys hugging one another on the bed.
"Gay..." he thought, as he walked away.
Gavin considered his subject. 'He seems bored. Unthinking. Like a mountain.' He surveyed Sam's cat-sized body. 'Or maybe just a small hill.'
"What are you thinking?" he whispered, barely expelling breath as he did so. Sam reacted nevertheless. Swivelling his head to sit at right angles to Gavin, he yawned massively, with gusto, then flopped his chin down on the cushions and fluttered his eyelids until they closed. Within milliseconds, he was asleep. Gavin continued his observations unperturbed. 'Can dogs dream?' he wondered with unnerving concentration.
This tranquil scientific inquiry was soon broken by a great stomping pile of laundry. After attempting to balance several towels on a thin, rickety ironing board, and watching them all predictably topple off one after another, the woman Gavin called Mum was revealed, flushed and cross.
"Bollocks," she muttered, before noticing the boy sprawled on the three-seater couch, staring at the dog. Again. Deciding not to excuse her foul language, seeing as Gavin was probably ignoring her in favour of the resident dumb beast anyway, she opted to ask him what he thought he was doing inside on such a gloriously sunny day.
Not even glancing up from Sam's sleeping form, the boy replied with,
"That's just it Mum. I know what I'm thinking. But does he?" She took a deep, supposedly healing breath. This is not what I signed up for, she groaned to herself.
"Does he know what you're thinking? No. He's just a dog, Gav..."
"Nooooo..." he leisurely disagreed, as if building to something, "does he think? Does he know what he's thinking? Does he think about what he's doing?"
At that moment Sam jumped up and tottered over to his food-bowl. A rhythmic lapping ensued. Gavin's mother, whose preferred name was Carol incidentally, and who wasn't technically his mother, resigned herself to completing housework surrounded by yet another circular conversation about a dog or a duck or a dinosaur.
"No honey, he doesn't think. He's just a dog. Which means he isn't clever enough to think. His brain's only about as big as a tennis ball." She looked down, spying Sam's triumphant tail-wagging at having chewed off and eaten a patch of the dog-food-coloured carpet. "At the most." Hoping for a satisfied nod from Gavin, she glanced over the stack of washing at this ever-curious child.
The boy's eyes were still on Sam though, and instead of grimacing in distaste, a puzzled expression was chiselling his chin.
"Sit", he suddenly commanded. Dutifully, Sam coughed up a fragment of fluff and sat down, cocking his head expectedly while lifting one mottled brown ear. Gavin ignored him and turned to Carol, who'd instinctively slid back behind the clothes-pile, hoping for respite from the explanation of something she didn't quite understand, nor particularly cared about.
Undaunted, "See?" asked Gavin, "he knows what that means".
"Yes but that's not the same as thinking", she accidentally snapped, "he's just learned to act that way".
"But if he can learn, he can think."
"No, just because he can learn, it doesn't mean he can think."
"But why?"
"Because...?" she searched for a way to finish this sentence. "Go ask your Dad," she suggested sneakily, "he'll know". As Gavin bounced from the room with his dumb dog in tow, Carol continued ironing in blissful silence, her mind positively brimming with ideas for the garden.
"Daaaaaad," he began, innocently starting the conversation in the most obnoxious way possible, "can Sam think?"
His father continued to type, the quick clips of the keys filling the room. Gavin waited patiently as Sam explored with impish enthusiasm.
"Not now son. I've gotta finish this." Gavin hovered near the desk until the hurried typing recommenced, then turned and left him in peace, disappointed to be so easily dismissed.
Flopping down on the door-mat, Sam once again exited the world of consciousness. Gavin crouched down beside him, roughly massaging the loose fur around his collar. It must be boring being a dog, he hypothesised. If you can't think, then what happens in your brain? How do you know if life is good or bad if you don't know anything? He flopped down half-on, half-beside the dog.
"Are you happy, Sam?" No answer.
"What makes you happy, hmm?" No change in position. He pondered the problem a little longer. He must like stuff; some things must make him happy.
"Walkies?" he tentatively asked.
Finally, a reaction! Sam leapt to his feet, his eyes connecting with Gavin's for the first time in hours, since before the experiments began. His ears shot up like they wanted to detach themselves from his scalp. His tongue struck out from behind pointed teeth and began panting at the pace of his wagging tail. It was like he was unfolding, every extremity behaving like a jack in the box, leaping out from within due to pure unadulterated excitement. Feeling instantly guilty for providing false hope, Gavin resolved to follow through on his promise.
"Yeh, walkies makes you happy, doesn't it boy?"
He fetched the leash from where it hung on the banister and hooked it to the dog's collar. They left the house together, Sam twisted amidst human legs, scampering for escape.
On the way to the park, three other dog-walkers were passed, two of which Gavin, and therefore Sam, already knew. The dogs sniffed and waltzed while their owners smiled politely and watched them, dragging their respective dogs away after an appropriate amount of time. The third owner was an unknown overcoat with a mystery dog, and Sam tried madly to drag Gavin towards her vicinity. Unfortunately for Sam, her owner called out that she was 'on heat', hinting that boy and boy-dog should stay well back. Following this interaction, Gavin got to wondering about whether Sam knows he's a dog. 'He must be aware of certain... similarities... with other dogs. He doesn't sniff every butt he sees, after all. And he knows his place in the world, like who his master is (me) and who gives him food (Carol) and who to avoid at all costs, on pain of being put in the garage (dad). So maybe he does know he's a dog, Maybe he does think and know and be happy.'
After an hour-long jaunt round the park and back, they returned home slightly tired. Gavin headed towards the study to find his father, while Sam nipped off in the direction of his food-bowl. The boy found the computer abandoned, the screensaver flashing brightly-coloured vortexes on a black background. He went to his bedroom instead, laying down flat on top of the duvet, head still cluttered, full of unanswered questions and experiments for the future. After a few minutes a stocky man with glasses appeared in his doorway.
"Hey Dad."
"Hey sport, how's it going?"
"...OK..."
"Just... OK?"
Gavin didn't know how to answer. The woman he called Mum in everywhere but his head hadn't seemed too bothered. Maybe these questions were stupid. Maybe he was stupid for wanting to ask them. All he wanted to know was what it was like to be Sam. Was that bad? Was he bad? Embarrassed, he wiped away tears that were about to fall, transferring them from his cheeks to the backs of his hands.
His father, whose real name was Patrick incidentally, who'd chosen this 10-year-old boy with his late wife when he was still a bawling baby, still hated to see him upset. Instinctively, he leant over and grasped his son's shoulder with gentle strength, trying to put his face near the boy's, trying to look at him square-on. Gavin thought of how he did the same thing to Sam, and how it was only because he wanted to know if he was happy. Because he cared.
"What is it? What's up? Something about the dog, right?"
Gavin couldn't look at him, but something about his tone made it alright to speak.
"Yeh... I just... do you think he's happy?"
Patrick sat beside Gavin on the bed. Clearly he was genuinely thinking about it. Several seconds passed before he ventured an answer.
"Yeh. I do. I think that despite the fact that he's only an animal, and supposed to be stupid an' all, he's happy. I see you guys together and I see two very happy animals." Gavin grinned, tears clearing. "And I know you just want him to be happy, and that's what makes you a good person, so you shouldn't ever feel ashamed for saying so. OK?"
Gavin felt comforted. Comfortable. He noticed Sam sitting quietly by the foot of the bed. He must have padded in silently as they were talking.
"Dad?"
"Yes son?"
"Do you think dogs can think?"
Again, a slight moment while he formulated his reply.
"No son, I don't think they can think. But that doesn't mean they can't be happy."
Gavin was unconvinced, but nodded nonetheless.
Realising none of these animals had any food to offer, Sam left in search of somewhere nice to nap. He turned back when he reached the door and saw the two male monkeys hugging one another on the bed.
"Gay..." he thought, as he walked away.
Jacking It In
I keep seeing fists flying and eyes penetrating mine. Eyebrows locked in a V. Not a neck in sight. Only foreheads and one shoulder after the next, pistoning forward, propelling the right arm, then the left. And then their meaty knuckles: emergent; airborne.
This isn’t really a thought that I’m having though; recalling last night means remembering how it felt to not think at all. Heart pumping, body charging, my eyes focused, but nothing going on behind them. The world was a blur of sounds and a dim awareness of my distance to another charging, pumping self. No idea if he was on my side or not. Didn't care. I guess I knew on some level that I’d find out soon enough if he wasn’t. I wasn't thinking; just acting on instinct, like the animal I am. Fight or flight. Winner or loser. Dead or alive.
Such a series of opposites seems so ghetto, so hardcore, as to almost be real. But it isn’t. I know in my soul that it isn’t. That simplistic reasoning’s all well and good when you’re a dumb dog, snarling with the pack in the moment of attack, but a human brain’s wired differently. And when it’s your skin and your limbs affected, you’re bound to reflect on it eventually, when the world’s silent once more.
God. I wonder if this is how the other guys are feeling.
I doubt it somehow.
Here and now, in my warm bed, under this thick duvet, I’m hidden in my sanctuary, my cave. Yesterday should be far enough away as to be abroad, but it isn’t. Fuck, it really isn’t. My cave’s recycled air mirrors my brain's recycled thoughts. I'm not going anywhere, so I might as well hear them out.
I do know why we did what we did. Of course I do. I know why we planned it for days and why I crouched down behind that bush, peering out through the prickles, enthralled by the imminent danger. It’s cos we like being violent. The element of surprise! Ha-HA! I threw myself at this one kid with a second-chin the size of a melon. Nah, not cos he’s blatantly a geek – give me some credit - just cos he was nearest to my bush! I mean, to me! Seriously though, I battered the poor kid. And it was so much fun, after he fell, I found myself another. Resisting a headlock from Gaz, this kid was bigger, stronger. I felt strangely satisfied when together, we brought him to tears. It was only after their reinforcements came that regret began to seep in, but only cos we started getting beat.
So, yeh. That’s it. I like violence...
Makes me feel well empty though, that sentence. Not only is the world a fucked up place, but I’m a fucked up individual within it. Great news…
“Knock knock…!” yells my Dad, as opposed to actually knocking. He thinks he’s so fucking funny.
“Silence..!” I sarcastically yell back.
Muffled by the sheets enveloping me, I hear the door open, hit the mess on the floor, and have to be forced the rest of the way.
“Get up Jack. It’s past twelve. Seriously. Your mum’ll be back in ten, so I want you downstairs in five. We wanna be there as soon as visiting time starts.”
God, I think: all these numbers. Leave it out. I’m not in school anymore.
I hear the door click shut. Alone with my thoughts again. And the knowledge that I’m totally fucked. And of course all the symbols of that fucked-ness. I peer out from under the duvet, at my belongings, the symbols of who I am. Not much to look at. A drum-kit gathering dust, footie trophies filling a shelf, hearkening back to that one time I bothered to try. Everything distressed like old denim, filtered through navy curtains screaming ‘I’m A Fucking Boy!’ to anyone who’ll listen.
Reluctantly, achingly, I rise from my warm cave and stretch upwards and outwards, fingertips almost touching both walls as I bring them down to my bare sides. I never strut around naked, but this feels almost liberating. ‘Nakedly, King Jack surveys his kingdom.’ Hm.
Not 'surveys' though. Explores. I feel like a new person today, shaken by revelations about myself. My old ratty bedroom looks like someone else’s. Weird. Or maybe I just never really looked.
I mean, what do these things really say about me? Are they clues to what I call my 'self'? To the reason why I’m so fucked up? Or are they just things I have because I am the way I am? It’s worth looking into I reckon; after last night, life doesn't seem that simple.
OK. Let’s start with the wardrobe. Finding number one: I dress like a chav. No surprises there... Rifling through, it's all bright white and clean black, with flashes of neon orange and lime goo green. Trainers that resemble marshmallows on crack. Labels, everywhere. I obviously care a lot about what other people think of me. Gotta keep up with the peers. Feel the pressure? Yeh, thought so. I’d rather stay naked from now on, cheers. Better cold and nude than a numpty in a day-glo tracksuit!
So what’s next? Ah right - the drum-kit I spent 6 months persuading my parents to buy me, that I've played about 6 times since. Usually when trying to piss off said parents. Don’t even know where the drumsticks are. I tap on the snare and it rattles back at me. It’s as angry at me as I am at myself. I turn my back on it.
Half-way up the far wall, dog-eared and dilapidated, it’s that picture I tore from Zoo last year. Danielle Lloyd. Leaves fuck all to the imagination. She’s a pretty girl under all that make-up, you can tell. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve wanked off to her more than once. But it’s weird, cos every time, I’ve felt empty afterwards. My thoughts've turned ugly and sexist. I always hate women after I wank though. Must be cos I can’t have any of ‘em. Either that or there's something seriously wrong with me.
On the right of the poster, a shelf carries the dozen dusty trophies I won over that particularly motivated season last year, not acknowledged since. I think my dad made that shelf himself. Or maybe he just put it up. Whatever. I look at its contents now and all I can think about is how much you want your team to win almost as much as you want the other team to lose.
I go over to the curtains, draw one back a bit. Not enough for the neighbours to catch a glimpse of my tackle, but enough to shine some light on this mess. And there sits my ashtray in the middle of the window-sill. Fag-butts sticking their bums in the air like ducks diving for food. It stinks, and I hack out a cough in response. The curtain gets closed quick-smart and the room sinks back into murk.
So much for an attack of clarity.
But then it hits me. Attack. The blade... That ultimate symbol of my own depravity, of my own violence and root-less rage. It’s still sat there, amongst my socks. It must be. I don’t wanna be reminded of its weirdly sexual silver face, but I have to check it now, just to stop worrying. God, if my parents ever found it, they’d kill me. And I’m already ashamed enough for all of us.
I open the right-hand drawer of my wardrobe slowly, bent down, shadowing it cos I really don’t want to see. I lift up a knotted pile of socks, feeling for its hard metallic sheen. It's there. Thank fuck.
“Jack?” he knocks for real this time – a quick tap, meaning impending entry, “You up yet?”
I slam the drawer shut and leap back into bed in the time it takes him to swing the door open.
“Right. Get up!” he orders, as if his words had any chance of being obeyed, “I've had just about enough of this”. I hear him stomp over to my window and rattle the curtain rings as he draws the sunlight in. Even deep in my cave, I notice the upgrade in radiance. “Jack. Seriously. I want you up and dressed in one minute.” He settles gently on the side of the bed. “On a day like this, you need to man up”. His voice becomes gentle, loving. “We know this is hard on you, but you have to go. The doctors are trying their hardest. I'm sure he'll be fine. But you need to go see him now. Just in case.” He stands up and marches from the room. Job done, in his head at least.
In my head, I'm consciously blocking him out. I have imaginary fingers lodged in my ears. I feel bad enough already, cheers.
Peering back out from under the duvet, I survey my kingdom once again. The sunlight's having this strange effect on the essence of my belongings. What seemed doomed mere minutes ago now seems alive. A shower of dust particles glimmer in the summer sun, drifting towards me as if the process of refraction's pushing them my way. This shift in intensity's transformed my room's whole character.
I lay my head back on the pillow. Reflect. Stare at the ceiling in a daze of cranial connections forming. The first smile of the day's born. What do the things I own say about me? Well, it depends on your perspective. And the intensity of your gaze.
Exhibit A: my drumstick-less drum kit. It doesn't just represent how lazy and ungrateful I am. I begged for it in the first place cos it's all about energy. Creativity. The companionship of a band. Just wanting to express myself can't be TOO awful.
My eyes wander to the poster of Danielle. Exhibit B-cup. That pure hate it always leaves me with – could there be a deeper meaning to it than me just being a total bastard? Well... It represents love, doesn't it? Or the potential for it at least. It may be unrealistic and sexist and wrong, but it only makes me hate the girl because I want intimacy, not fantasy. And this is all I can get... especially when I look like a walking asbo!
Right. So what's Exhibit C? My trophies? Maybe I was just being negative earlier. Football's not only about wanting the other team to lose. It's also about being part of a crowd in the stands. Support; loyalty; love even. The only time I've ever seen a grown man cry's at a match. That's gotta say something.
The ashtray (exhibit D) just means I'm an unhealthy fucker, no hidden meanings there. And the knife (exhibit Eeeeeee!). Fuck. Not funny Jack. You are SO not funny. Focus. Right, the knife. My gaze strays to the drawer it's hidden in. This one's the bitch. Because maybe, even though it's no good, never could be, not to anyone with half a brain anyway, maybe, just maybe, there's a damn good reason why it's there.
Just then, my dad comes flying in, tossing the door aside with a thwack. We lock eyes. He looks mad, but I look sad. It just straight out melts him. He stops mid-stride and lets the tension flow out with an audible exhale.
“Dad”, I say, quieter than I mean to. He doesn't reply. I take that as a good sign. “The fight. Last night...”
“It's OK. It's fine!” he interrupts, before turning on his heels and marching out.
It's kinda funny really, how sometimes we can't just stand up and confront things. My dad's probably scared I'll get sent to prison. Of losing both sons. When I came in last night, covered in someone else's blood, he turned the other way. Told me to get cleaned up before mum saw. Pretty fucked up, but I can see his point still.
And he was right about one thing. Time to man up.
If I'm brutally honest with myself, the reason I took that knife last night, the one wrestled from me and used against Gaz, was cos I wanted to be safe, but still be involved. Have my cake and eat it, and all that. I was scared that they'd have blades, so I brought one. Made total sense at the time. I didn't want to die. But add that reason to the reality of fights being genuinely exciting, because you''re bored, as if you're waiting for that bus that's never gonna come, stuck in a society that rejected you a long time ago, and you're bound to get a bad mix. Worse so when you're still sixteen, and skinny enough to be overpowered. Worse still when your twin brother's standing right next to you.
I definitely owe it to Gaz to go see him, no matter how scared I am or how much I hate myself right now. Even if he tells on me... after all, he was the one who tried to persuade me not to take it, who only went along to watch my back. The one who saw me pick up the weapon used against him, wipe his red blood off, and scarper. Only looking after myself. Yet again.
But maybe he'll understand. Maybe he'll look in my eyes and see it from a different perspective. See how sorry I am. How I get it now. Hell, he might even forgive me. And then everything'll be alright.
One thing's for certain though. I'm not fucking going dressed like a chav! I get out of bed with a jump, pull on my dressing-gown, and head for someone else's room.
This isn’t really a thought that I’m having though; recalling last night means remembering how it felt to not think at all. Heart pumping, body charging, my eyes focused, but nothing going on behind them. The world was a blur of sounds and a dim awareness of my distance to another charging, pumping self. No idea if he was on my side or not. Didn't care. I guess I knew on some level that I’d find out soon enough if he wasn’t. I wasn't thinking; just acting on instinct, like the animal I am. Fight or flight. Winner or loser. Dead or alive.
Such a series of opposites seems so ghetto, so hardcore, as to almost be real. But it isn’t. I know in my soul that it isn’t. That simplistic reasoning’s all well and good when you’re a dumb dog, snarling with the pack in the moment of attack, but a human brain’s wired differently. And when it’s your skin and your limbs affected, you’re bound to reflect on it eventually, when the world’s silent once more.
God. I wonder if this is how the other guys are feeling.
I doubt it somehow.
Here and now, in my warm bed, under this thick duvet, I’m hidden in my sanctuary, my cave. Yesterday should be far enough away as to be abroad, but it isn’t. Fuck, it really isn’t. My cave’s recycled air mirrors my brain's recycled thoughts. I'm not going anywhere, so I might as well hear them out.
I do know why we did what we did. Of course I do. I know why we planned it for days and why I crouched down behind that bush, peering out through the prickles, enthralled by the imminent danger. It’s cos we like being violent. The element of surprise! Ha-HA! I threw myself at this one kid with a second-chin the size of a melon. Nah, not cos he’s blatantly a geek – give me some credit - just cos he was nearest to my bush! I mean, to me! Seriously though, I battered the poor kid. And it was so much fun, after he fell, I found myself another. Resisting a headlock from Gaz, this kid was bigger, stronger. I felt strangely satisfied when together, we brought him to tears. It was only after their reinforcements came that regret began to seep in, but only cos we started getting beat.
So, yeh. That’s it. I like violence...
Makes me feel well empty though, that sentence. Not only is the world a fucked up place, but I’m a fucked up individual within it. Great news…
“Knock knock…!” yells my Dad, as opposed to actually knocking. He thinks he’s so fucking funny.
“Silence..!” I sarcastically yell back.
Muffled by the sheets enveloping me, I hear the door open, hit the mess on the floor, and have to be forced the rest of the way.
“Get up Jack. It’s past twelve. Seriously. Your mum’ll be back in ten, so I want you downstairs in five. We wanna be there as soon as visiting time starts.”
God, I think: all these numbers. Leave it out. I’m not in school anymore.
I hear the door click shut. Alone with my thoughts again. And the knowledge that I’m totally fucked. And of course all the symbols of that fucked-ness. I peer out from under the duvet, at my belongings, the symbols of who I am. Not much to look at. A drum-kit gathering dust, footie trophies filling a shelf, hearkening back to that one time I bothered to try. Everything distressed like old denim, filtered through navy curtains screaming ‘I’m A Fucking Boy!’ to anyone who’ll listen.
Reluctantly, achingly, I rise from my warm cave and stretch upwards and outwards, fingertips almost touching both walls as I bring them down to my bare sides. I never strut around naked, but this feels almost liberating. ‘Nakedly, King Jack surveys his kingdom.’ Hm.
Not 'surveys' though. Explores. I feel like a new person today, shaken by revelations about myself. My old ratty bedroom looks like someone else’s. Weird. Or maybe I just never really looked.
I mean, what do these things really say about me? Are they clues to what I call my 'self'? To the reason why I’m so fucked up? Or are they just things I have because I am the way I am? It’s worth looking into I reckon; after last night, life doesn't seem that simple.
OK. Let’s start with the wardrobe. Finding number one: I dress like a chav. No surprises there... Rifling through, it's all bright white and clean black, with flashes of neon orange and lime goo green. Trainers that resemble marshmallows on crack. Labels, everywhere. I obviously care a lot about what other people think of me. Gotta keep up with the peers. Feel the pressure? Yeh, thought so. I’d rather stay naked from now on, cheers. Better cold and nude than a numpty in a day-glo tracksuit!
So what’s next? Ah right - the drum-kit I spent 6 months persuading my parents to buy me, that I've played about 6 times since. Usually when trying to piss off said parents. Don’t even know where the drumsticks are. I tap on the snare and it rattles back at me. It’s as angry at me as I am at myself. I turn my back on it.
Half-way up the far wall, dog-eared and dilapidated, it’s that picture I tore from Zoo last year. Danielle Lloyd. Leaves fuck all to the imagination. She’s a pretty girl under all that make-up, you can tell. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve wanked off to her more than once. But it’s weird, cos every time, I’ve felt empty afterwards. My thoughts've turned ugly and sexist. I always hate women after I wank though. Must be cos I can’t have any of ‘em. Either that or there's something seriously wrong with me.
On the right of the poster, a shelf carries the dozen dusty trophies I won over that particularly motivated season last year, not acknowledged since. I think my dad made that shelf himself. Or maybe he just put it up. Whatever. I look at its contents now and all I can think about is how much you want your team to win almost as much as you want the other team to lose.
I go over to the curtains, draw one back a bit. Not enough for the neighbours to catch a glimpse of my tackle, but enough to shine some light on this mess. And there sits my ashtray in the middle of the window-sill. Fag-butts sticking their bums in the air like ducks diving for food. It stinks, and I hack out a cough in response. The curtain gets closed quick-smart and the room sinks back into murk.
So much for an attack of clarity.
But then it hits me. Attack. The blade... That ultimate symbol of my own depravity, of my own violence and root-less rage. It’s still sat there, amongst my socks. It must be. I don’t wanna be reminded of its weirdly sexual silver face, but I have to check it now, just to stop worrying. God, if my parents ever found it, they’d kill me. And I’m already ashamed enough for all of us.
I open the right-hand drawer of my wardrobe slowly, bent down, shadowing it cos I really don’t want to see. I lift up a knotted pile of socks, feeling for its hard metallic sheen. It's there. Thank fuck.
“Jack?” he knocks for real this time – a quick tap, meaning impending entry, “You up yet?”
I slam the drawer shut and leap back into bed in the time it takes him to swing the door open.
“Right. Get up!” he orders, as if his words had any chance of being obeyed, “I've had just about enough of this”. I hear him stomp over to my window and rattle the curtain rings as he draws the sunlight in. Even deep in my cave, I notice the upgrade in radiance. “Jack. Seriously. I want you up and dressed in one minute.” He settles gently on the side of the bed. “On a day like this, you need to man up”. His voice becomes gentle, loving. “We know this is hard on you, but you have to go. The doctors are trying their hardest. I'm sure he'll be fine. But you need to go see him now. Just in case.” He stands up and marches from the room. Job done, in his head at least.
In my head, I'm consciously blocking him out. I have imaginary fingers lodged in my ears. I feel bad enough already, cheers.
Peering back out from under the duvet, I survey my kingdom once again. The sunlight's having this strange effect on the essence of my belongings. What seemed doomed mere minutes ago now seems alive. A shower of dust particles glimmer in the summer sun, drifting towards me as if the process of refraction's pushing them my way. This shift in intensity's transformed my room's whole character.
I lay my head back on the pillow. Reflect. Stare at the ceiling in a daze of cranial connections forming. The first smile of the day's born. What do the things I own say about me? Well, it depends on your perspective. And the intensity of your gaze.
Exhibit A: my drumstick-less drum kit. It doesn't just represent how lazy and ungrateful I am. I begged for it in the first place cos it's all about energy. Creativity. The companionship of a band. Just wanting to express myself can't be TOO awful.
My eyes wander to the poster of Danielle. Exhibit B-cup. That pure hate it always leaves me with – could there be a deeper meaning to it than me just being a total bastard? Well... It represents love, doesn't it? Or the potential for it at least. It may be unrealistic and sexist and wrong, but it only makes me hate the girl because I want intimacy, not fantasy. And this is all I can get... especially when I look like a walking asbo!
Right. So what's Exhibit C? My trophies? Maybe I was just being negative earlier. Football's not only about wanting the other team to lose. It's also about being part of a crowd in the stands. Support; loyalty; love even. The only time I've ever seen a grown man cry's at a match. That's gotta say something.
The ashtray (exhibit D) just means I'm an unhealthy fucker, no hidden meanings there. And the knife (exhibit Eeeeeee!). Fuck. Not funny Jack. You are SO not funny. Focus. Right, the knife. My gaze strays to the drawer it's hidden in. This one's the bitch. Because maybe, even though it's no good, never could be, not to anyone with half a brain anyway, maybe, just maybe, there's a damn good reason why it's there.
Just then, my dad comes flying in, tossing the door aside with a thwack. We lock eyes. He looks mad, but I look sad. It just straight out melts him. He stops mid-stride and lets the tension flow out with an audible exhale.
“Dad”, I say, quieter than I mean to. He doesn't reply. I take that as a good sign. “The fight. Last night...”
“It's OK. It's fine!” he interrupts, before turning on his heels and marching out.
It's kinda funny really, how sometimes we can't just stand up and confront things. My dad's probably scared I'll get sent to prison. Of losing both sons. When I came in last night, covered in someone else's blood, he turned the other way. Told me to get cleaned up before mum saw. Pretty fucked up, but I can see his point still.
And he was right about one thing. Time to man up.
If I'm brutally honest with myself, the reason I took that knife last night, the one wrestled from me and used against Gaz, was cos I wanted to be safe, but still be involved. Have my cake and eat it, and all that. I was scared that they'd have blades, so I brought one. Made total sense at the time. I didn't want to die. But add that reason to the reality of fights being genuinely exciting, because you''re bored, as if you're waiting for that bus that's never gonna come, stuck in a society that rejected you a long time ago, and you're bound to get a bad mix. Worse so when you're still sixteen, and skinny enough to be overpowered. Worse still when your twin brother's standing right next to you.
I definitely owe it to Gaz to go see him, no matter how scared I am or how much I hate myself right now. Even if he tells on me... after all, he was the one who tried to persuade me not to take it, who only went along to watch my back. The one who saw me pick up the weapon used against him, wipe his red blood off, and scarper. Only looking after myself. Yet again.
But maybe he'll understand. Maybe he'll look in my eyes and see it from a different perspective. See how sorry I am. How I get it now. Hell, he might even forgive me. And then everything'll be alright.
One thing's for certain though. I'm not fucking going dressed like a chav! I get out of bed with a jump, pull on my dressing-gown, and head for someone else's room.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Thundering Heart
I wake up with a thundering heart for the hundredth time, blind palms once again searching the sheets for his inert form, too scared to open my eyes in case I see him lying there, looking back. When I touch hard wall I know I’m safe. Until then, I’m afraid to say I really don’t.
I fall asleep every night thinking of those guilt-inducing eyes of his, waking to the vivid memory of his cold dream-body lying beside me in my narrow bed, all entangled with my limbs, staring soullessly at my face. He has the gaunt look of a particularly depressing question, waiting patiently for an answer already predicted.
Can you be haunted by someone who’s still alive?
I think you can.
It’s 7:45 and I have to get up right this minute if I’m to make it to work by 9. Shoving my recurring nightmare from my sleepy head, I clamber out of bed, across the obstacle course of my room, pull the curtains wide and spy the remaining dusk retreating from sun. All I can make out in the navy sky is softly settling snow. That makes me very happy. Snow Days remind me of the comfort of padded cells in mental asylums you see in films. The world’s padded with an extra-calming layer of white and the psychos (like me, like him, like all of us) are appeased into nothingness. We drink cocoa and light the fire, or put the heating on full blast, allowing ourselves the luxuries we normally ration. The world’s on hold and even adults make snowmen.
Shaking such thoughts from my head, I head for the shower. I burn my skin thoroughly and satisfyingly before stepping out and drying off. The misty mirror beckons the brush of my fingers, so I swipe at it, revealing a striped flash of reflection.
It isn’t me. It’s him.
I jump backwards, almost trip over the edge of the bathtub, catching myself just before catapulting in. That flash of reflection caught the accusations in his gaze, not the guilt in mine. My mind’s playing tricks on me. This isn’t fair; I only dumped him because he deserved it.
After the mirror incident, I’m tetchy and shaking somewhat, and consider calling in sick to work. My boss knows the bare bones of what happened and yet will not, I feel, be sympathetic. And to think, she used to be my friend before promotion turned her nose up and scrunched it into disapproval. No, I’ll face work. I won’t let this beat me. And anyway, I can’t sit around all day with nothing to do but mull over past mistakes.
I stride out of my cosy flat and into the Winter Wonderland. It’s almost daytime now and a few brave souls are making newborn footprints in the crisp flat snow. The snow stops, and then the sky’s the same bright white as the ground-cover. Trudging off across the park, I take in the picture-postcard beauty of the undulating mounds and trees dripping with crystals. My feet are already soaked (damn my work-shoes, damn them to hell), but I’m feeling somewhat relaxed.
And then I see him.
It isn’t really him. I know that; I’m not stupid. But it could be, from behind. He has the same shuffling gait, height, hair-colour, curls and coat. For a split second I’m convinced and then I notice slight differences, like in the boots this man is wearing (Dave once said “Doc Martens are for teenage lesbians”… I can’t see him buying a pair any time soon). Only then do I know it isn’t him and can breathe again. But for that moment I’m back in my dream and my fingers are reaching out, touching his beard and feeling hair but not heat. In my dream he can move but not breathe; stare but not speak. I’m terrified of him and yet I still love him.
Why oh why do I always mourn my asshole ex-boyfriends?
It's like, in the absence of the intimacy we once shared, my mind’s flirting with another universe – one where the events of last month are null and void. Parallel universes where things are different. One where he’d never raised his martial-arts-trained fists. One where I’d never baited him into it.
I must imagine him everywhere because I hate him as much as I miss him. These two undercurrents are colliding with such force that a huge wave forms. I’m riding the crest of that wave now, but it’s OK, I tell myself resolutely. My wave will dissipate. Give it time. Maybe in the future I’ll even forgive us both.
I keep walking, my thoughts lost in a swirl of what I know to be true and what I wish the world was like. A snowman smiles crookedly at me from beyond the path. I smile back. It’s gigantic. Someone must have gotten up pretty early to build him. Then I think about it further – it’s only been fully light for about ten minutes and this big-boy’s over 6-feet high. Whoever built him must have started when it was still dark, I realise as I pass. 'Unwholesome' is the only word for that.
Then it clicks. His scarf.
I rush back across the buried grass, yanking the striped scarf from the snowman’s neck, searching wildly for the label. I swallow dryly when I find it. Paul Smith. I knew it. This is the spit of the scarf I bought him for Christmas. Either that or it is the scarf I bought him.
A nasty breeze whips by and I notice that I’m alone in this corner of the park. I can’t help but have a flash-back of our last phone-call. The one where he begged me to take him back, apologising profusely, crying pathetically. And me yelling “No. Never!” – still furious, inconsolable. And his “Fuck you then,” in a hollow, spiteful grumble.
I fall further back. Remember the pain of that first punch. The humiliation and surprise of all the others. The precise moment when it dawned on me that he could kill me if he wanted to. That it was going that way right now and I was helpless. And I feel that way again, suddenly.
He’s watching me. I know he is.
I run to work. Never in my life have I flown so fast along such a slippery path. I almost fall twice, bringing to mind bad slasher films like Scream, where the inappropriately dressed girl stumbles and the psycho in the mask comes up behind her and stabs her in the chest with a fatal embrace. On some level, I’m debating whether the stupid girl in this case may have been Drew Barrymore, aware that such an inane, pointless thought should not be my last.
I get to work though. I get there and go inside. I’m alive! I’m safe and he can’t get me.
And then my phone rings abruptly. It’s him. I deleted his number a long time ago, but I recognise the last few digits nonetheless. I let it ring. Fuck you, I think, not entirely sure of anything anymore.
It rings again.
FUCK YOU! Even my thoughts tremble in my head.
When it rings again, I pick up. If that snowman was his idea of a sick joke, he needs to know I’m not amused, to think I'm no longer scared.
“Hello? Chrissie?” says the voice at the other end. It isn’t his. Now I’m confused.
“Hello? Dave?” I answer dumbly. There’s a silence while my whole body tenses until I feel like I may snap.
“… Chrissie. It’s not Dave. It’s his flatmate, Sam. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I thought it should come from me. I didn’t want you hearing on the grape-vine”. He sounds more scared than I am. I hate to say it, but I’m sort of intrigued.
“Go on,” I say, suddenly steady, “but if it’s a message from Dave, I don’t wanna hear it. I think he's said enough”.
“No,” he says, “I'm sorry. Dave’s dead. He hung himself last night. I’m so sorry…”
Not sure what to say, I drop the phone and watch it shatter into its component parts.
I fall asleep every night thinking of those guilt-inducing eyes of his, waking to the vivid memory of his cold dream-body lying beside me in my narrow bed, all entangled with my limbs, staring soullessly at my face. He has the gaunt look of a particularly depressing question, waiting patiently for an answer already predicted.
Can you be haunted by someone who’s still alive?
I think you can.
It’s 7:45 and I have to get up right this minute if I’m to make it to work by 9. Shoving my recurring nightmare from my sleepy head, I clamber out of bed, across the obstacle course of my room, pull the curtains wide and spy the remaining dusk retreating from sun. All I can make out in the navy sky is softly settling snow. That makes me very happy. Snow Days remind me of the comfort of padded cells in mental asylums you see in films. The world’s padded with an extra-calming layer of white and the psychos (like me, like him, like all of us) are appeased into nothingness. We drink cocoa and light the fire, or put the heating on full blast, allowing ourselves the luxuries we normally ration. The world’s on hold and even adults make snowmen.
Shaking such thoughts from my head, I head for the shower. I burn my skin thoroughly and satisfyingly before stepping out and drying off. The misty mirror beckons the brush of my fingers, so I swipe at it, revealing a striped flash of reflection.
It isn’t me. It’s him.
I jump backwards, almost trip over the edge of the bathtub, catching myself just before catapulting in. That flash of reflection caught the accusations in his gaze, not the guilt in mine. My mind’s playing tricks on me. This isn’t fair; I only dumped him because he deserved it.
After the mirror incident, I’m tetchy and shaking somewhat, and consider calling in sick to work. My boss knows the bare bones of what happened and yet will not, I feel, be sympathetic. And to think, she used to be my friend before promotion turned her nose up and scrunched it into disapproval. No, I’ll face work. I won’t let this beat me. And anyway, I can’t sit around all day with nothing to do but mull over past mistakes.
I stride out of my cosy flat and into the Winter Wonderland. It’s almost daytime now and a few brave souls are making newborn footprints in the crisp flat snow. The snow stops, and then the sky’s the same bright white as the ground-cover. Trudging off across the park, I take in the picture-postcard beauty of the undulating mounds and trees dripping with crystals. My feet are already soaked (damn my work-shoes, damn them to hell), but I’m feeling somewhat relaxed.
And then I see him.
It isn’t really him. I know that; I’m not stupid. But it could be, from behind. He has the same shuffling gait, height, hair-colour, curls and coat. For a split second I’m convinced and then I notice slight differences, like in the boots this man is wearing (Dave once said “Doc Martens are for teenage lesbians”… I can’t see him buying a pair any time soon). Only then do I know it isn’t him and can breathe again. But for that moment I’m back in my dream and my fingers are reaching out, touching his beard and feeling hair but not heat. In my dream he can move but not breathe; stare but not speak. I’m terrified of him and yet I still love him.
Why oh why do I always mourn my asshole ex-boyfriends?
It's like, in the absence of the intimacy we once shared, my mind’s flirting with another universe – one where the events of last month are null and void. Parallel universes where things are different. One where he’d never raised his martial-arts-trained fists. One where I’d never baited him into it.
I must imagine him everywhere because I hate him as much as I miss him. These two undercurrents are colliding with such force that a huge wave forms. I’m riding the crest of that wave now, but it’s OK, I tell myself resolutely. My wave will dissipate. Give it time. Maybe in the future I’ll even forgive us both.
I keep walking, my thoughts lost in a swirl of what I know to be true and what I wish the world was like. A snowman smiles crookedly at me from beyond the path. I smile back. It’s gigantic. Someone must have gotten up pretty early to build him. Then I think about it further – it’s only been fully light for about ten minutes and this big-boy’s over 6-feet high. Whoever built him must have started when it was still dark, I realise as I pass. 'Unwholesome' is the only word for that.
Then it clicks. His scarf.
I rush back across the buried grass, yanking the striped scarf from the snowman’s neck, searching wildly for the label. I swallow dryly when I find it. Paul Smith. I knew it. This is the spit of the scarf I bought him for Christmas. Either that or it is the scarf I bought him.
A nasty breeze whips by and I notice that I’m alone in this corner of the park. I can’t help but have a flash-back of our last phone-call. The one where he begged me to take him back, apologising profusely, crying pathetically. And me yelling “No. Never!” – still furious, inconsolable. And his “Fuck you then,” in a hollow, spiteful grumble.
I fall further back. Remember the pain of that first punch. The humiliation and surprise of all the others. The precise moment when it dawned on me that he could kill me if he wanted to. That it was going that way right now and I was helpless. And I feel that way again, suddenly.
He’s watching me. I know he is.
I run to work. Never in my life have I flown so fast along such a slippery path. I almost fall twice, bringing to mind bad slasher films like Scream, where the inappropriately dressed girl stumbles and the psycho in the mask comes up behind her and stabs her in the chest with a fatal embrace. On some level, I’m debating whether the stupid girl in this case may have been Drew Barrymore, aware that such an inane, pointless thought should not be my last.
I get to work though. I get there and go inside. I’m alive! I’m safe and he can’t get me.
And then my phone rings abruptly. It’s him. I deleted his number a long time ago, but I recognise the last few digits nonetheless. I let it ring. Fuck you, I think, not entirely sure of anything anymore.
It rings again.
FUCK YOU! Even my thoughts tremble in my head.
When it rings again, I pick up. If that snowman was his idea of a sick joke, he needs to know I’m not amused, to think I'm no longer scared.
“Hello? Chrissie?” says the voice at the other end. It isn’t his. Now I’m confused.
“Hello? Dave?” I answer dumbly. There’s a silence while my whole body tenses until I feel like I may snap.
“… Chrissie. It’s not Dave. It’s his flatmate, Sam. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I thought it should come from me. I didn’t want you hearing on the grape-vine”. He sounds more scared than I am. I hate to say it, but I’m sort of intrigued.
“Go on,” I say, suddenly steady, “but if it’s a message from Dave, I don’t wanna hear it. I think he's said enough”.
“No,” he says, “I'm sorry. Dave’s dead. He hung himself last night. I’m so sorry…”
Not sure what to say, I drop the phone and watch it shatter into its component parts.
Monday, 18 May 2009
Many Ways
I fly through the door-frame like a hurricane; pelt across the street and round the corner before he can see where I've gone. I would love to keep running until my lungs fail, but my car-keys are still on his desk. There's nowhere to go. I stop. Panic. Feel like I always do on days like this – I'm autumn leaf floating haphazardly along the pavement, ready to be whisked up by the next strong breeze. I lean on the wall behind me and my palms lick sharp brick. He's not going to do anything, I tell myself defiantly. These intimidation tactics are getting old.
Screw him.
I collect myself, Breathe, straighten my shoulders, and peek back round the corner. And there he is, standing in the doorway like a disobeyed king, knife in fist, scowl firmly fixed in place. My body tenses like an angry cat's and I AM that angry! Furious perhaps.
OK. Think fast – you need to get your keys but you also need to not get killed. I look up and he's lurching towards me. He's spotted me. I'm dead. No-one on this road of unknowns would answer if I knocked. Not even some lost souls wandering the streets on this pale Thursday dawn. I turn, run. What else can I do?
I stray into that dodgy estate and duck down behind a parked car. I don't know if he saw me. I'm crouched, hiding, and suddenly I realise: I've ran myself into a dead-end and the terraced houses are tall as prison walls. Not wanting to look up in case he sees me, I stare at the car's shoddy bodywork and bald tyres. And now my life just seems rather stupid. I mean, what am I doing? How the hell did it get this bad?
I'm there a while before I start to cry. Frustrated, bleak tears, for a future shrouded in days like these. He's out there somewhere, I can feel it, and my inner strength's upped and left. It must have been slowly eroded as he took it bit by bit. Like just now, when he handed me his machete and invited me to use it on myself. Every time he silently slid the bolt on his bedroom door, put the keys in his pocket, and turned round to face me. Whenever he screamed “THIS IS WHAT YOU DO TO ME!”, he was actually stealing me. The insecure, fat man stole me. Everything I was, I'm not anymore, so what am I now? Someone who hides behind cars because she chooses to go out with psychopaths, that's what I am.
I should have taken the knife.
My legs start to moan. Can you still grow at eighteen? Maybe a few hours asleep just aren't sufficient for dealing with this level of abuse come morning. My body can't physically cope. I can vividly hallucinate some lunatic launching himself from a nearby door, accusing me of trying to nick his car: a criminal judging me on his own past mistakes. I'm not strong enough for a two-pronged attack.
On the numb trudge back, the ghost-roads are glittering with neglect. Strewn rubbish decorates the street and the wood-masked windows stare back. This world stinks. I've known the truth a long time, but never had such certainty clarified by someone else. I guess I should resign myself to that cliche and remember to thank him.
When I get to the front door, it's shut. I know from experience that it's unlocked, so his customers can come and go without disturbing the faceless strangers who share his kitchen. The curtains are drawn tight and I wish I could tell if he was still in there. I'm desperate he's not, so I can get my keys and drive home, never looking back. But another part of me, the part that's as realistic as it is pessimistic, knows he's in there and waiting. There's no point in hoping. He's probably still holding the knife.
I turn the knob and enter the corridor, ready for whatever I've got coming. I don't care anymore. I'm exhausted and this is it. Hot tears dive off the end of my chin, leaving my wet cheeks to freeze. Inside, I'm just empty and dead. That's what keeps circling in my mind. That I'm already dead. I'm already dead. I'm already dead.
When I push open the door to the bedroom, I find out I'm right. He's there, looking no different to normal. Pro Evolution Soccer's on the television screen and he's just sitting there, with his back to me, playing the game. The lights flash obnoxiously; the commentary rabbits away. I just stand there for a few seconds, taking it all in. He presses pause; turns to look at me.
“Alright?... What ya go runnin off for?”, he smiles in a benevolent, puzzled way, like he honestly doesn't know. “Want some of this?” He holds up a big, well-rolled spliff. I take it and sit behind him on the bed, while he restarts his game and rotates back to face it. I'm out of his vision - the eye of the storm - and understanding melts through me.
There are many ways of being dead.
Screw him.
I collect myself, Breathe, straighten my shoulders, and peek back round the corner. And there he is, standing in the doorway like a disobeyed king, knife in fist, scowl firmly fixed in place. My body tenses like an angry cat's and I AM that angry! Furious perhaps.
OK. Think fast – you need to get your keys but you also need to not get killed. I look up and he's lurching towards me. He's spotted me. I'm dead. No-one on this road of unknowns would answer if I knocked. Not even some lost souls wandering the streets on this pale Thursday dawn. I turn, run. What else can I do?
I stray into that dodgy estate and duck down behind a parked car. I don't know if he saw me. I'm crouched, hiding, and suddenly I realise: I've ran myself into a dead-end and the terraced houses are tall as prison walls. Not wanting to look up in case he sees me, I stare at the car's shoddy bodywork and bald tyres. And now my life just seems rather stupid. I mean, what am I doing? How the hell did it get this bad?
I'm there a while before I start to cry. Frustrated, bleak tears, for a future shrouded in days like these. He's out there somewhere, I can feel it, and my inner strength's upped and left. It must have been slowly eroded as he took it bit by bit. Like just now, when he handed me his machete and invited me to use it on myself. Every time he silently slid the bolt on his bedroom door, put the keys in his pocket, and turned round to face me. Whenever he screamed “THIS IS WHAT YOU DO TO ME!”, he was actually stealing me. The insecure, fat man stole me. Everything I was, I'm not anymore, so what am I now? Someone who hides behind cars because she chooses to go out with psychopaths, that's what I am.
I should have taken the knife.
My legs start to moan. Can you still grow at eighteen? Maybe a few hours asleep just aren't sufficient for dealing with this level of abuse come morning. My body can't physically cope. I can vividly hallucinate some lunatic launching himself from a nearby door, accusing me of trying to nick his car: a criminal judging me on his own past mistakes. I'm not strong enough for a two-pronged attack.
On the numb trudge back, the ghost-roads are glittering with neglect. Strewn rubbish decorates the street and the wood-masked windows stare back. This world stinks. I've known the truth a long time, but never had such certainty clarified by someone else. I guess I should resign myself to that cliche and remember to thank him.
When I get to the front door, it's shut. I know from experience that it's unlocked, so his customers can come and go without disturbing the faceless strangers who share his kitchen. The curtains are drawn tight and I wish I could tell if he was still in there. I'm desperate he's not, so I can get my keys and drive home, never looking back. But another part of me, the part that's as realistic as it is pessimistic, knows he's in there and waiting. There's no point in hoping. He's probably still holding the knife.
I turn the knob and enter the corridor, ready for whatever I've got coming. I don't care anymore. I'm exhausted and this is it. Hot tears dive off the end of my chin, leaving my wet cheeks to freeze. Inside, I'm just empty and dead. That's what keeps circling in my mind. That I'm already dead. I'm already dead. I'm already dead.
When I push open the door to the bedroom, I find out I'm right. He's there, looking no different to normal. Pro Evolution Soccer's on the television screen and he's just sitting there, with his back to me, playing the game. The lights flash obnoxiously; the commentary rabbits away. I just stand there for a few seconds, taking it all in. He presses pause; turns to look at me.
“Alright?... What ya go runnin off for?”, he smiles in a benevolent, puzzled way, like he honestly doesn't know. “Want some of this?” He holds up a big, well-rolled spliff. I take it and sit behind him on the bed, while he restarts his game and rotates back to face it. I'm out of his vision - the eye of the storm - and understanding melts through me.
There are many ways of being dead.
Spamming and Examming
I have reached the final cone of the egg timer.
My fingertips are trembling with pent-up pressure.
When I stop typing I can physically feel the time being wasted, even as I contemplate its passing. I procrastinate by letting thoughts about the nature of time take over.
For the Hopi Indians of Native America, present moments are also the dreams of the future and the efforts of our past. Time's a process of accumulation, of built-up hopes and best-laid plans.
My body's jittering away the remaining moments of my life.
I'm spending long minutes studying the expressions on far-off faces as they stare at space, chat trivially, be as unproductive as I'm being. I want to know what they're thinking. Are they faced with facts anywhere near as boring, as complicatedly mundane, as those I'm being forced to learn?
Did I pick the wrong degree?
I like to watch until their sixth sense twitches and they glance back. You can watch some people for a very long time without them noticing. Some seem to be missing peripheral vision; others preen out of the secret knowledge that I'm watching. Boring, ordinary exhibitionists.
I keep finding myself drifting into gloriously gory fantasies involving the fuckwits in my immediate vicinity. They're only whispering at each other, but it's as loud as thunder, lost at sea. I get up and go to the loo. Not because I really need to. Just so it's one of those things that happens - taking up precious time by acting human. When I return, these tedious cretins behind me continue to whisper and titter; about what, I can't make out. This slight annoyance sparks a forest-fire of misdirected rage. It's not their fault, I have to forcibly remind myself.
A quote floats over. 'It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen...' If only I could pen something that profound, I think wistfully, after staring at a blank screen long enough to conjure dark dots.
Outside the big windows the sun beckons and I can see nature in all its splendour, obnoxiously more beautiful because I can't enjoy it. Forbidden fruit glistening; emerald grass winking. Aches and sharp pains from years of shoddy posture beckon me back. My neck didn't click this badly yesterday.
Am I damaged now? Is this me?
Perhaps I should wait until the sand lies still, until I've been told to regurgitate information not yet gorged on, before deciding if I'm fully done for. I could even try swallowing some of their bullshit in the meantime. It was worth a cursory thought, but nah, I'm already done for. My sixth sense is tingling: I've been watching myself all semester, failing to study day after day, and I can feel my comeuppance calling.
They were right. Time's a process and tomorrow reflects on the actions of yesterday. It's too late.
On the other hand, fuck it. Time is nothing and I'm too spaced out to care.
My fingertips are trembling with pent-up pressure.
When I stop typing I can physically feel the time being wasted, even as I contemplate its passing. I procrastinate by letting thoughts about the nature of time take over.
For the Hopi Indians of Native America, present moments are also the dreams of the future and the efforts of our past. Time's a process of accumulation, of built-up hopes and best-laid plans.
My body's jittering away the remaining moments of my life.
I'm spending long minutes studying the expressions on far-off faces as they stare at space, chat trivially, be as unproductive as I'm being. I want to know what they're thinking. Are they faced with facts anywhere near as boring, as complicatedly mundane, as those I'm being forced to learn?
Did I pick the wrong degree?
I like to watch until their sixth sense twitches and they glance back. You can watch some people for a very long time without them noticing. Some seem to be missing peripheral vision; others preen out of the secret knowledge that I'm watching. Boring, ordinary exhibitionists.
I keep finding myself drifting into gloriously gory fantasies involving the fuckwits in my immediate vicinity. They're only whispering at each other, but it's as loud as thunder, lost at sea. I get up and go to the loo. Not because I really need to. Just so it's one of those things that happens - taking up precious time by acting human. When I return, these tedious cretins behind me continue to whisper and titter; about what, I can't make out. This slight annoyance sparks a forest-fire of misdirected rage. It's not their fault, I have to forcibly remind myself.
A quote floats over. 'It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen...' If only I could pen something that profound, I think wistfully, after staring at a blank screen long enough to conjure dark dots.
Outside the big windows the sun beckons and I can see nature in all its splendour, obnoxiously more beautiful because I can't enjoy it. Forbidden fruit glistening; emerald grass winking. Aches and sharp pains from years of shoddy posture beckon me back. My neck didn't click this badly yesterday.
Am I damaged now? Is this me?
Perhaps I should wait until the sand lies still, until I've been told to regurgitate information not yet gorged on, before deciding if I'm fully done for. I could even try swallowing some of their bullshit in the meantime. It was worth a cursory thought, but nah, I'm already done for. My sixth sense is tingling: I've been watching myself all semester, failing to study day after day, and I can feel my comeuppance calling.
They were right. Time's a process and tomorrow reflects on the actions of yesterday. It's too late.
On the other hand, fuck it. Time is nothing and I'm too spaced out to care.
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