by J. S. Brent
No. I stopped. I was fine. Crying was stupid. Breaking the mug was stupid. Everything I was doing was stupid. I hadn’t lost anything. I had just gained an inheritance. Everything was fine.
The storm started to clear outside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It had been a stag in the end. The storm had dislodged a tree next to it. In fear it had ran. It had ran and ran and ran until it no longer knew where it was. It saw a road. It didn’t know that it was a road. It was dark. The stag was hungry and afraid. The road was quiet. It had decided to cross. Stupid fucking animal.
Only one living creature walked away from the crash. A stag with a broken antler.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I went for a walk the next day. It was just my usual walk to the supermarket, minus the cigarettes. The sun was shining on the back of my neck and there was not a single cloud in the sky. I had seen some teachers ambling about, talking. I passed them the moment they looked away. They seemed too ingrained in their own pointless words to each other to notice me.
Everything felt unfamiliar. I was lost in an unknown place, seeing it all for the first time. Familiar faces clouded by thoughts and smiles. Everyone hiding something. Everyone acting as the person they had been building up for their entire lives. Method acting under their own name.
There were school-children in the park. They wore my old uniform. It reminded me of when I had joined the karate school when I was younger, when I had been confronted with people like me. Learning to fight because instead of words of peaceful soothing they had been told to just fight back or that it was character building. Just because in a way it was true didn’t mean that it had to be said. Sometimes a gentle lie is better than the bitter truth.
I sat on the bench. It had been the bench I had always smoked at. Now the wood felt different underneath me.
A part of me learnt to smile. A part of me learnt to relinquish the weight that was preying on my weary shoulders. There was something comforting in it. Something that said see, I can still smile, everything can’t be that bad.
I had practised it in the mirror. Not just over the past few days. I was sure that everyone did it. I was certain that everyone prepared their smiles in the morning, before the failures of the day would uncover their mask. Laughing was a different matter.
My town really was beautiful. If different people had lived there it could have been perfect. I was unsure that I would have been a better person if I had been born and raised without conflict or pain, but time after time I had found myself yearning for a boring life. Life always starts as it means to go on. If you’re born into hell, that’s where you’re going to stay.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The funeral was held on the brightest day I had ever seen in Bishop’s Wood. The birds sang. Cars rolled on past the road next to the graveyard. Daffodils and roses and tulips blossomed under that familiar tree.
When I was younger my grandparents had told me that the tree would collect the souls of the dead as they were laid to rest. They told me that it was how souls knew how to find their way into heaven. I couldn’t help but wonder what dragged souls downwards.
In that moment I was glad I was an atheist. I had no Catholic guilt. I was glad that I didn’t believe in heaven or hell.
I had never been to funeral before. Not a real one, anyway.
I had been a pallbearer. I couldn’t help but remember all of the times my Dad had lifted me up onto his shoulders. Every time he had carried me on his back. Every time he had carried me to bed after I had already fallen asleep. Dada. Daddy. Dad. Father.
My grandparents were there. I couldn’t see my grandma’s face through her veil. She clutched her husband’s hand in despair. He had a stern look on his face. He wore sunglasses. I knew that it was to hide the tears.
I thought about all of it. In our most defining moments we always hide our faces. Veils of birth and love and life and death. Caul clinging to many of us, obscuring our view of the world, our first sights tainted by that thin membrane. Then we grow up to wear the veils of love, signifying a bond that may last for eternity, readying ourselves for a future filled with life’s strongest bonds. Then there are the veils of death. Death masks and black veils, hiding our emotions and our modest, human responses to the most natural tragedy to ever befall us. Maybe we’re afraid of what we might see. Maybe we’re afraid of what others may see of us. Maybe it’s both. One thing is certain, though. Whenever the veil is lifted, a new world is revealed to us, no matter how bright and hopeful, or how dark and despairing.
My Mother sat up straight. I knew that she was listening to every word the priest said, but she looked like she was looking beyond the coffin. It looked like nothing could ever disturb her. Not anymore.
Hannah was holding my Mother’s hand. They both wore their veils. They both looked through their obscured reality. Maybe they hoped that when they saw the world for how it was now everything would be back to normal.
I don’t know why I expected more people to be there.
Looking around I realised that I was the only one that wasn’t wearing anything to cover my eyes. My veil had already been lifted. I already knew about the universe I was now in. I knew about what was to come. I knew about the pain and the fear and the confusion. Though, this time it was much worse. This time my open wounds would be splattered with salt and vinegar. No. I had no wounds. They were more like papercuts.
My granddad stood up to the mark. He held in front of him a sheet of paper. On it was a combination of words he hoped he would never have to say them. Words that were supposed to be spoken years later. Words that were supposed to be spoken by me.
‘My son.’ He said, quietly. He cleared his throat. ‘Our family have a lot of stories. A lot of things that never seem to… Vanish. Memories. A lot of the time maybe one’s we’d like to forget. One comes to mind that we’ve laughed about over the years. Tom was young and lost control of his little legs running down that hill. He hates me telling that story. Sorry Tom.’ He paused and smiled in pain. I tried to smile with encouragement. Something caught in his throat. ‘But maybe. Maybe memories like that are the most important memories. If you try to remember past the pain, past the hurt, then eventually, eventually you’ll get to a place of love. Because that’s why he was such a good Father, such a good brother, such a good son, because he never gave up on anyone.’ I looked down at my hands. ‘Never.’ Tears stung my eyes. ‘During all the bad times he was always there. There at the bottom of that hill to catch you.’
There was a song playing whilst he was being lowered into the ground. I didn’t recognise it, but it was the most beautiful song that had ever affected me. It was simply perfect. It pulsed on and on, giving me the most welcome goose-bumps I had ever experienced. It still wasn’t a fitting end, but it was the closest we could get at that time. I was more of a promise. A promise of closure. Just not right now.
After that we started to disperse. My grandparents were staying with us. Before we walked back to the car I saw my granddad looking over the fresh dirt and pretty flowers. It was all counterpointed by that dark headstone, on it, the only name we knew in the entire cemetery. My Mother didn’t seem to notice and continued her slow and silent walk towards the car. I stayed behind.
‘Every day you look more and more like him.’ My granddad said as I approached. He nodded. ‘That’s how I know he’s not...’ It was the first time I had ever seen him cry.
I still had no idea what to do, what to say. I didn’t want to show too much that I was fine. Nothing could affect me.
At home there were messages on my phone. I ignored all of them.
I loosened my tie and sat at the sofa. The past few days had been draining. I had learnt so much about that man in all of my photos at the wake and at the funeral. I felt like I knew him more then than I ever had. I sighed. In the end it was only me that had truly known him. It was only me that knew everything about his last few weeks on earth, when he had shown his true self.
The nee
d to be silent snapped at my heels. I wanted to talk, to tell them everything, but I knew that I couldn’t. I knew that I had to keep quiet. I could take everyone else’s burdens because I didn’t have my own to bear, but I didn’t want to. It was better to let everyone else deal with it in their own way.
I had always been worried about how I would react. I had been selfish, hoping that I would die first so that the world wouldn’t have to see my lack of reaction to my Father’s death. The reality of it was much different. I couldn’t eat properly. I couldn’t sleep properly. I became obsessed with death. I lost the ability to feel things. Putting a lighter under my hand didn’t do it for me so I cut my left arm instead. There had to be blood. There had to be a sign that my heart was still beating. I couldn’t listen to music because the happy songs that tried to cheer me up made me angry and the songs that understood what I was going through made everything feel more real, more rational, less completely fucked up. I didn’t understand why because I didn’t care. He was just a man. Everyone dies.
In spite of my Mother’s pleas, I decided to go back to Durham. I needed to carry on with my life. I hated Bishop’s Wood. I missed Durham.
When I returned I had lost weight. I don’t know why. I had probably had less opportunities to eat because of the funeral arrangements. I had to talks with the counselling services. Partly because of ‘my situation’ partly because of how I was feeling. They didn’t go well. How much do you drink? Too much. Ever taken any illicit substances? No, ma’am, never.
At least I could take my exams with all of the re-takers.
I quickly learnt of an addiction that was much worse than alcoholism or smoking or sex and a lot more deadly. It was a good thing that it didn’t affect me.
I felt like I didn’t need help. When I was down and injuring myself it was because I was bored. Most of the time I just swung between anger and guilt. Anger and guilt. Anger and guilt. I didn’t understand why. Everybody kept a watchful distance. They were giving me space to heal, but were ready to step in at any time. Thank fuck my lock was broken.
I stopped seeing her. She still wanted to help. I told her she’d be the most help at her own college. I’ll text you when I’m ready to talk.
It pissed me off that everyone was assuming that I was upset.
In the end I was too busy to do the open-mic competition.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I was on the hill. My hill. I always went there when I needed to centre myself. Always. It was through a forest away from college, away from everything. My own personal spot in the universe. You could see the whole city when you were perched up on it.
The sun was beginning to set over that city before me. The skies purple with a tint of orange over the horizon. The train in the distance bringing people to and from whatever fate awaited them at whatever station they would depart at. Workers, shoppers, travellers, people. Just people. People all in front of me, no one behind, no one to the side.
Cars and streetlights and ambulances and hearses and police cars and houses and castles and cathedrals and clubs. Everywhere inhabited with people just living their lives, exploring their options, all with their own hopes and fears and loves and losses. All of them playing out their lives, tiny specs in the distance.
It always made me feel small. It was a comforting kind of small. It was as if nothing happening to me mattered because it had happened to so many before me and would happen to so many people after my last breath poured from my lips like some alcohol, helping someone come closer to a lack of feeling or fear, helping them feel like they would never die, helping them feel as if where they were and what they were doing was the only thing in the universe.
The stars were beginning to emerge above me. You could always see shooting stars over Durham. They were like angels, watching over people and deciding whether they would live or if they would be lifted up to inhabit the stars above me.
I could not cry. I had no tears left inside my barren ducts. I had nothing left. Nothing but the addiction inside my mind and a craving for destruction. There was no consequence for the rest of term. I could do anything and it wouldn’t affect my grades. There was nothing before me but drink after drink.
I could almost see the city’s heart beat before me. The veins of the roads bringing people to and from their pains or their happiness. Bringing people home, only for them to repeat it day after day, moment after moment, unselfish with their fears of losing whatever they cared about.
There were no cigarettes in my pocket. It was the first time I had been up there and hadn’t smoked. There was nothing there that could numb the pulsing heart under my chest. Just the city and just the music that beat through my ears and through my shattered mind.
I felt safe there. The wind seemed to surround me like a blanket, keeping me warm and secure and safe. It seemed to whisper in my ear, echoing the thoughts at the front of my mind. Thoughts at war with the other voices of pain and anger and fear. Thoughts too often ignored.
Everything was fine, anyway, though. I didn’t need that hill, I just liked it up there.
I never wanted to leave, but I didn’t want any phone calls worrying about my absence.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next day I woke up feeling fresh. I thought I had finally found the right remedy to force myself into a good night’s sleep. It turned out that I had finally found a peaceful lapse from pain.
I immediately took the opportunity to pick up my guitar and begin to write.
It started ok. This that and the other word sprawled onto the paper before me. Good.
Chord after chord. It was working.
The middle 8. Stuck. Shit.
Try again. Start it again. It was sunny outside. It was a good day.
Chorus fine. Chords fine. Middle 8. Stuck. Shit.
Start it again.
Interesting. No. Pedantic.
Grab a beer. Drink. Try again. Start it again.
Chorus fine. Chords fine. Middle 8. Stuck. Shit.
Grab another beer. It’s fine. Nobody will know.
Chorus fine. Chords stuck. Shit.
Grab another beer. Drink. Spill. Start again.
Chorus. Shit. Pain. Tears.
It’s ok. It was sunny outside.
Chorus fine. Chords fine. Middle 8 fine. Fuck. Chorus isn’t fine.
Start again. Running out of paper.
Sun begins to set. Fuck. It’s not sunny another day.
It’s ok to drink, though.
Grab a beer. It’s after five. Drink. Try again. Nothing. Nothing is ok.
Hands on face. Tears. Burning. Silent wails. Nothing. Cut. Cut. Cut.
Try again. Blood on arms. Nothing comes out.
Go to bed.
I was like a moth trying to break free from its prison, ready to accept that it may be its tomb.
I could try again when I woke up.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I was tired. This was not a tiredness, however, that any amount of coffee or heart stopping energy drinks could cure. Nothing could stop it. No amount of sleeping pill induced sleep or self-prescribed hypnotism because it was not a tiredness inside my head or behind my eyelids. It was a tiredness in my bones. I must’ve been stressed out for some reason.
I knew my friends had seen the cuts on my arms as they grew fresher and deeper. They hated seeing me like that. They hated it because of their powerlessness. It had happened to someone else and had become a silent talking point on the floor, but I thought that when it happened to me they would be able to talk to me about it. I thought I was more open, and more able to confront. Maybe I made it difficult by my smiles and bashful talk whenever I saw them. Only Flora had confronted me on it in the end. Are you OK, Tom? I saw your arms. Even then I had brushed it off as a phase. Boredom. At least she didn’t tell me the whole ‘it gets better’ soliloquy.
One night I found myself downstairs talking to someone from the floor below. Just try to be happy. He had said. See, you laughed, it can’t be that bad. He had se
en similar things but he had never experienced them for himself. That was the greatest difficulty. Everyone had seen it. Everyone had been affected by it in some way. In a way that was helpful, the watchful, fearful distance, but I just wanted people to talk to me as if nothing was different. Nothing had changed, really.
I just hoped that my floor didn’t notice that the beer was disappearing from the fridge from about ten o’clock in the morning. I told myself at least it’s just beer. It could have been whiskey or scotch. Some poison guaranteed to rot my liver at a much faster rate.
Showers stung. The hot water dripped over my itching cuts. That was the worst thing, the pain was still there even when I didn’t want it anymore. The moments after I was done, after one of my cutting songs had ended and my blood began to dry, after I had lathered myself in some anti-bacterial cream, after the guilt returned the cuts still stung and itched and burnt. If I didn’t get bored so often, people would probably still be talking to me.
Music began to bore me. I couldn’t write anything so there was no point trying. I couldn’t play for shit, anyway. There was no point picking up that heavy instrument and pouring out my pent up injuries because those same scars were fading into a feeling of nothingness.
I read the script. I got to my bit. I was playing a man in a flashback, someone’s brother. It was impressively written. Even then it only took a moment before I closed the window and skimmed through short minutes of various videos or articles. I could not concentrate on anything.
There was a post about another open-mic night somewhere. I paid no attention to it.
I told myself the boredom and the flittering between pages was because of the alcohol in my bloodstream. I told myself a lot of things in that state.
