A Depressing Way to Wake Up

As he awoke he heard a murmur from upstairs.  He could hear the creaking, he could feel the movement. He tried to shut it out, but it kept going like a stuck record, the needle spiking into his spine as he fought to throw the sensation from his mind.

“Fucking bastards,” he groaned as he rolled mournfully into the empty space beside him.

It had been a year since the end, yet as he sprawled in her absence he could feel the cold shape of her body, the ghost of her thigh against his own. His hand grasped where her hair would have been, her dark curls wrapping around his fingers as if they had a mind of their own.  His fingers deftly traced circles along the deathly soft flesh of her neck. He imagined her pale eyes looking back into his; long lashes blinking eternal sleep from her eyes. He leaned in, reaching for a good morning kiss, not caring about her breath, just the tenderness of her affection.
On opening his mouth he tasted the sweat of sleepless nights, tears of loss and anguish, and the dirt of unwashed sheets. He rolled away from the pillow, throwing it from the bed, before choking harshly to cleanse the flavour from his lips. He reached for a towel from the radiator next to his bed, stood up, and wrapped it around his lower half. He walked over to the door, reached for the handle, and stopped. He heard the sound of feet running down the stairs and the slamming of the bathroom door.

“Shit,” he mumbled as he opened the door, scowling at the giggles that escaped from the bathroom.

He stepped into the hallway, past the bathroom, and into the kitchen.  He turned on the kettle, and reached into the cupboard, taking out two cups, throwing a tea bag in one, and pouring coffee granules into the other.  Crossing the cold floor he opened the fridge and took the milk from the door, the chill of the glass bottle causing him to shiver as if someone had stepped on his premature grave.

He poured the milk onto the coffee granules, to prevent them from burning, grabbed the kettle just as it clicked off, and poured the hot water into the two cups.  He stirred the coffee and sipped it gently, savouring the scent of the sweet but bitter aroma.  He slowly sipped his coffee for a couple of minutes, then took the tea bag out of the other cup and stirred in some milk.

Carrying the two cups in one hand he walks back to his bedroom, pushes the door open, and shuts it behind him.  Standing still he suddenly chokes, drops both cups, and falls on his knees, the smashed ceramic digging into his naked flesh.

Blood weeping from his knees, he sobbed into his cupped hands, his mind filling with the emptiness that he has felt since she died.  Looking down he sees that somehow her cup survived the fall, remnants of fragrant tea filling his nostrils.  He picks up the cup and drinks the few drops that are not soaking into the carpet.  The flavour makes him choke, he never liked the flavour, and he would rather have tasted her morning breath than tea on her lips.

Pushing the door shut behind him, he used his towel to mop at the brown stain. Quickly giving up, he crawled back to his bed and buried his head in the mouldy sheets, adding more stains to the decrepit bedding. Closing his eyes to hold in the tears, his mind slowly cleared of the anxiety and he eventually fell once more into the arms of sleep.

12:00 flashes in large green letters on his clock as the alarm invades his eardrums. Lying on his back he stares at the roof with a glazed look across his face.  His hand slaps against the alarm, turning off the invasive beeping.  After a few minutes the radio kicks in, drowning the stillness of his bedroom with perky upbeat pop.

“Fuck off Lily,” he swore angrily as he turned off the radio.

Feeling defeated, he swung his legs back over the side of the bed, wincing with the movement. He stared at his knees, remembering his previous attempt at getting up, and looked around his room. The sodden towel was still next to the door, the half empty tea cup, the broken coffee mug,  and the mess of a year’s worth of unwashed clothes on the floor. To his right was pile of clean clothes, creased on his office chair, where he spent most of his day. The room was his workplace, his living room, his bedroom, his hell of memories and self pity.

His morose was disturbed by a clattering at the front door. He sat still for a moment, then heard footsteps, the shuffling of paper, and then the creak of the floorboard outside of his room. A polite knock echoed in his ears, but he didn’t move. The knock came again. He stood up, but didn’t move.

“John, I know you’re in there,” shouted his housemate.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he replied as he walked to the door.

As he opened the door he stared blearily into the face of Andrew. He eyes looked at him in a concerned yet annoyed way. The same way he’d looked at him for the last six months. He had grown to hate it, but knew it was sincere, and that was why he hated it so much. Sometimes he wished the world would just go away and let him be. Why should it always be there, asking him to be something he wasn’t ready to be?

Lost for a moment, he stared at Andrew’s lips, and realised they were talking to him. He looked back up and said “sorry?”

“Wake up mate, you’ve got some post,” Andrew replied, obviously slightly exasperated. But then he smiled, “come on, it’s Saturday, do something new.”

John stared at him and shrugged.

“Fine, I’m heading out with Chloe; try cleaning your mess up, we both were almost sick when we passed your room when you were making your brew.”

John shrugged again, “Sorry.”

Andrew looked imploringly at John but decided to leave it, “Fine mate, well have a good day.”

John half smiled and said “Cheers, you too.”

Andrew was still behind the door when he shut it, but John could not stand the way he looked at him. He wanted to get away as soon as possible; he knew it was wrong to hate someone for caring, but he just wanted be left alone. Company was torture. Could they not see that it took so much of his sanity to accommodate another person in his head space? He could barely make room for his own thoughts, and sometimes they were terrifying. But what scared him the most was what he saw when he was alone.

*

It had been a dark November evening. He was tired from a day of training end users how to use software. He was walking home, and was dreading getting home to a cold, empty house. It was nights like this that he would normally work late, exhaustion replacing the anxiety of lonely nights reheating yesterdays dinner or throwing freezer food in the oven. The only time he was excited was when he knew she would be waiting for him.

She was always in the kitchen, by the front door, sat reading the paper or listening to the radio. The light always shone like a beacon, drawing him home. When she wasn’t there it was just bungalow with an attic room. Just an empty armchair and an empty bed. He even missed the way she snored. And tonight it was going to be one of those nights.

As he walked he grumbled, the annoying stupidity of humanity seeping out of him as he ranted at the wind. “Problem exists between chair and keyboard,” he snarled. He constantly wondered why he still worked there, but he always came to the same conclusion; he had no idea what he wanted.

As he stepped round the corner he saw a light on in the kitchen, and for the first time that day he smiled. He quickened his pace and started to jog. As he got closer to his driveway he slowed down and crept up to the window. She was sat on a chair in the kitchen engrossed in her broadsheet. Every now and then she ran her fingers through her curls and adjusted the paper to a new reading position. He watched as she lifted her tea cup and drank daintily. He smiled at the sight of her pursed lips. He felt an urge to kiss them, to wrap his arms around her and hold her so close that all that mattered was that feeling, at that time, and he could forget the wearisome world.

*

John stepped into the kitchen and swore. His housemate had moved the chair again. He ran up the stairs and into Andrew’s attic room. He swept Chloe’s clothes from the old wicker and carried it back down to the kitchen. He placed it next to the counter, adjusted it a couple of times, then smiled faintly, but the smile quickly died. He went back to his room and slumped in front of his computer. After staring blankly at the screen for 20 minutes he looked out of the window. Andrew’s words were echoing in his head, “Do something new...”

“What can I do that is new?” he thought.

“New,” the word hung in his mind. He couldn’t think anything else. It hung like a lead balloon, and inflated into every corner of his mind, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“I don’t want anything new,” he shouted, “I just want you!”

He dropped his face into his hands and sobbed. Tears ran hot and dry. His eyes burned, and he wished that saline would flood and soothe the pain. He rubbed his eyes, and returned his gaze to the computer screen. The black blank screen of glass made his gaunt reflection even more ghastly. He glared into his eyes, hollow and black, and dared them to show any feeling.

“New.”

The word came to him again, but this time it was not in Andrew’s voice.

He said it aloud himself, “New?” but it still didn’t sound the same. Part of him knew who it sounded like, but he tried to hold it back.

*

“Why don’t you do something new?” she asked, her eyes wide open.

He stared into her baby blues and smiled. They fluttered back at him, concern and love pinioning him. He thought for a moment and rolled his eyes, “but what can I do?”

“You can do whatever you want, you don’t owe your boss anything; you have got to get out of there before it consumes you!” she pleaded.

He knew she was right, but the idea of change, of taking any risk, made him clam up. He knew he was tired, he knew he needed something more, but his brain went into overdrive whenever he tried to think.

She lowered her tone and her smile left her lips, “John, seriously, you need to do something.”

“I know, things are changing, it’ll be better next month,” he sighed, “it always gets better...”

He told himself that lie every day, and sometimes it was true, but he was never happy. Sometimes it was rewarding, sometimes he felt obligated, and other times he just hated every minute of it.

*

The monitor flicked as he twitched his mouse. His work’s intranet site taunted his tired eyes and he scowled. He had no idea why he was thinking of working on a Saturday. It seemed to distract his mind, but it was the reason for why he felt so powerless and trapped. Work was all he had left. She had helped him look for his exit strategy, but she was gone, and work was the only constant, the only support he felt he had. It was his coffin, but it kept him alive.

“New,” he repeated.

He shut down his computer and went into the bathroom. He stepped over his housemates grey boxers and what looked like a lacy catapult. He sighed and stepped into the shower. As the hot water ran over his body his knees screamed at him. He looked down and saw the stale blood running down the plug hole. He laughed at himself, and finished showering. As he stepped onto the bath mat he reached for a towel, but there wasn’t one. He looked at his knees and laughed aloud.

“What an idiot,” he thought. He grabbed the hand towel from by the sink and quickly dried his hair and hands. He held it over his crotch and walked through the hallway and into his bedroom; looking around sheepishly even though he knew everyone was out. He dropped the sodden towel on top of the mess of coffee and pulled on some clean clothes. They clung to his damp flesh, but they felt fresh and warm. He looked in the mirror and swept his dark brown hair to one side. His eyes were clear again, and his pallid skin was clean but dark rimmed under his eyes.

“New,” he muttered again. The words seemed to ring true to part of him. He looked at his squalor and tutted under his breath. He picked up the towels and put them in the wash basket. He gathered up the mess of clothes that littered his floor and split them between wash and bin. He took a load of laundry into the kitchen and then returned to his room with a black sack. He filled it with mouldy old socks and t-shirts that were torn filthy. Once he’d deposited the sack in the kitchen he sat down on the wicker chair and stared at the washing machine.

“New.” He heard it again. It was her voice. He could not deny it anymore; he could hear it so clearly. He looked around, but nobody was there. The voice was only in his head, but it was so clearly hers.
“I miss you,” he said aloud, but there was no reply, just the whirring of the washing machine.

He stood back up, grabbed a dust pan and brush, and went back to tidying his bedroom.
After tackling the floor and the dust, and the piles of paperwork, he stood staring at the bed. He didn’t know how he’d slept on the same sheets for so long. Her scent had only lasted a week before it was replaced by his own sweat and anguish.

“New.”

*

His mobile phone vibrated against his thigh and he fished into his trouser pocket to pull it out. Her face smiled at him from the LCD screen and he grinned back. He was smiling audibly and simply answered, “Hey you.”

“I’ve just arrived at the train station,” she shouted over the sound of the wind blustering down the microphone.

“Okay,” he spoke up, “I’ll be home as soon as I can, sorry I couldn’t meet you at the station.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll see you soon, don’t work too late?”

“I missed you,” he replied, but she’d already hung up.

He looked back at his computer screen and glared at the clock, willing it to hold still until he’d finished setting up the training session for the next day. Unfortunately it didn’t, and when he left he was scowling at it.

“Six bloody thirty,” he growled as he left the office and walked the gusty mile home.

As he walked home he texted to let her know he was on his way. As he arrived on his street he was surprised that his bungalow was sombre and dark. As he opened the door the alarm beeped, begging to be disabled. He obliged and then turned on the light. The kitchen felt cold. No one had been home all day, and there was no tell tale newspaper covering half the surfaces.

“Where is she?” he pondered as he reached for his mobile phone. He navigated to received calls, and it was soon ringing. It went to voice mail. He tapped his foot in frustration and hung up.

“Where is she?” he said it aloud this time, the annoyance evident in his speech. He pressed call and raised the handset to his ear again. This time the phone rang four times and was answered.

“Where are you?” he exclaimed.

“Hello?” came the reply, a lot manlier than he had expected.

He paused for a moment, then enquired “who is this, and why are you answering Emma’s phone?”

“I’m very sorry,” the man replied, “there’s been an accident.”

*

John smiled as he threw the bedding into the green wheelie bin. He went inside and washed his hands; the refreshing scent of the handwash cleansing his nostrils as well as his palms.

He picked up the wicker chair and carried it back up the stairs. He put it in between the unisex clothes that littered the floor, flung off in the fit of passion, and smiled.

“Good for them,” he thought as he descended the staircase.

He went back into the kitchen and looked out the window, recognising for the first time that the sun was slowly setting. The autumnal skyline aglow with reds and oranges, stray low lying clouds drifting across the last rays of sunlight, and he admired it as if seeing a sunset for the very first time.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He unlocked the keypad and scrolled through the contacts. Eventually he found what he was looking for and stroked his chin thoughtfully. He bit his lip and pressed call.

Each ring made his fingers twitch in anticipation.

After nine unnerving tones his bosses voice answered, “Hi John, what’s up?”

“Hi Frank,” he greeted pleasantly, then firmly said, “I quit,” and hung up.

The word echoed one last time in his mind, “New.”