It should have happened on an
ordinary day, these things always do. In fact, this day was possibly the most
ordinary day he had experienced for some time. Life had been so, so
catastrophic, so full of energy, dazzling and dizzying. But now, somehow, it had
ceased. The books lay to one side, disused and unattended. The paper left in
piles around the room stood proof to his previous state of disarray. Pens left
inky marks across the carpet: trodden upon during anxious retreats or disbanded
during moments of helpless vexation. By the window lay an empty packet of
Marlborough cigarettes, the stubs left haphazardly across the windowsill and
floating in a mug of mouldy, half-drunk coffee. One might have imagined this
room to be disbanded, abandoned in a half-hedonistic, half-dazed departure,
leaving the traces of a half-life frozen in memoriam to its’ previous occupant.
Nonetheless in the corner of the room, on a small double bed there remained a
sole occupant, a crumpled form under a mass of linen, duvet and pillows.
As the
light began to permeate through the half drawn vertical blinds, the crumpled
form beneath the sheets began to stir in a mass of groans: a gradual
affirmation, somewhat resentfully of consciousness. With a further groan, and a
rasping cough reflective of an over consumption of tobacco, the figure
furtively shifts as if unsure of his surroundings. An outreached hand grabs
towards the bedside table in search of something, grasping onto the spindly
stem of a wine glass, he moves it carelessly to a pair of dry, wine-stained
lips, sips furtively and immediately returns the red liquid to its glass. This
is not what he wants. With a further sigh the spindly legs move effortlessly,
surprisingly effortlessly, out of the bed, to reveal a neglected body of about
twenty-two. The feet tentatively touch the floor, like one touching hot-coals
for the first time. But no showman miracle is needed here. The floor is shaky,
uncertain, but substantial. He makes
his way to the door, across the paraphernalia so carelessly scattered around
the course, stained carpet and reaches for the handle.
The cold sensation of the iron
handle brings a sudden realisation: he is naked. Nudity is not appreciated in
this house, not that he would want to be seen naked anyway. It has been years
since anyone has seen him naked. Even lovers he has brought home for one or
even two nights have seen a carefully constructed, demi-lit silhouette of what
he feels to be an obscene form. Better preserve some dignity, or at least,
maintain some self-respect and prevent humiliation. He pulls from the floor,
another crumpled heap, this time an overly large t-shirt not suited to one of
his form at all; it may be knee-length in fact. This is pulled unceremoniously
over hair greasy from the hair spray, wax and smoke of the night before to
vaguely promote an idea of modesty.
At the point when he opens the
door, he is confused to what he wants from the world outside. The stuffiness
within his nose indicates fresh air, but the light already blinds his eyes, sunglasses
would have been a better idea. He does not yet want a cigarette as the mouth
feels dry and inhospitable. Yes that is what he needs, water, liquid,
rehydration.
Stumbling through the house, his
eyes glued together with sleep and the beginnings of an eye infection
indicative of over-work and a weakened immune system, he makes out the mess
overflowing from every room. Something here needs to change. The kitchen is
worse still; the bin has rebelliously surged onto the floor. Cardboard
everywhere crunching underfoot, accompanied by the jarring of wine bottles.
Nonetheless somewhere behind a month’s worth of washing up, he can see what he
moved for. There are of course no clean cups, so he places his head directly
under the tap, switching it immediately to cold. This is exactly what he needs;
the cold liquid instantly removes the dryness of stale tobacco, gin, and the
red-wine stains from around his mouth. This is the first stage of his becoming.
Now that the staleness has
drifted from his mouth, the muzzyness in his head becomes the next priority.
Fortunately a clear path is always kept towards the kettle. Of all the people
that lived in the house it had been mutually agreed that a common need for
caffeine required the kettle to be full and accessible at all times. He opens
his cupboard to find the mug from last-nights coffee still accessible, still
presentable, potentially hygienic. He seeks the strong Columbian coffee he
always buys and pours a generous quantity of the blackish granules into the cup,
reaches into the fridge to find milk, anybodies milk, and adds the slightest of
splashes. Then the water is poured on.
Careful not to scald himself, he
removes the mug from the table and hobbles, cripple-like to the nearest
comfortable sofa. It is a crippled thing itself, the cushions dented and worn,
the fabric faded and sun-battered, uncared for, unattended, but reliable and
accommodating. It creaks with his insubstantial, but evidently challenging,
weight. “Im getting fat”, he muses to himself, “it never did that before”. It
probably did of course, but neurosis has become the past time of choice, a
distraction from reality, or perhaps a heightened sense of it. For him, it is
easier to obsess upon the unintelligible, it can never really be understood or
explained, subjectivity binds him like a rope to an obscured reality that can
never fully be escaped. The coffee is thick and bitter, jokes could be made
about this later, but now it was serving an essential purpose in pushing away
the remnants of fog that lurked in his consciousness.
With a sudden lurch of awareness,
he jolted upright as a distant memory forced its way to the forefront of the
stage of consciousness. With a surprising jolt of energy, he jumps up and races
across the kitchen and back to the stale habitation that remained his sleeping
place and previous study place. In a blur of movement, and a sudden
unsteadiness of the head that must have remained symptomatic of last nights
behaviour caught him reeling as he opened the door. Upon the bed was something
he hadn’t noticed until now.
A yellow crumpled sticky sheet, above the bed, lay a
single word written in black block capitals. THANKS. The empty silence
of the word resounded around the room, echoing in its emptiness, until he felt
nauseous and dizzy. Clutching the walls for support, his hands slid down the
smooth surface. It was not the gravity of the word that had instigated this
moment of neurosis, but the realisation of what had come before. He crumples
slightly as if receiving a blow to the stomach, and finally gripping a nearby
table, lowers himself back into the bed and throws the duvet over his head. In
the warm darkness, he wraps his arms around his torso and closes his eyes.
