by Matt Shaw
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
I can’t tell her what I’m doing. I want her to come back because she wants to be with me again. Not because she’d worry I was going to do something stupid and selfish.
It’s only stupid to people who don’t understand the illness. People who have suffered, in whatever form, know only too well it’s the best thing to do. And those who say you are selfish for wanting to die; they’re the selfish ones. Too selfish to let you go, so you can finally be happy, because they don’t want to lose you. They’re selfish making us live like this... with these feelings. If only they could experience them for a day - they’d understand the drive behind our desires.
“Were you going to tell me?” she asked.
“I didn’t feel the need.”
“No, of course not.... I’m only your wife.”
“You left me.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to need an address....” she said, eventually.
“Weekend visits?” A joke.
“We need to sort things...”
“Things? You’ve already taken what was yours. And more...” I said.
“More?”
“My Pink Floyd album....”
“What?”
“It’s not in the flat, I was looking for it....”
“I haven’t got your album! That wasn’t what I meant!” her voice was quiet but her tone - the hateful tone I remember so clearly from when she first left. I don’t know why I even mentioned the album.
She hated Pink Floyd.
“The divorce....”
“What?”
My heart, once again, skipped a beat.
“I need an address to send the paperwork.”
“A divorce?”
“We can’t very well stay married forever, can we....”
I kind of hoped we could.
My heart feels as though it’s stopped.
“I love you,” I said.
Silence.
Never good.
“Did you hear me?” I asked. I reached across the table and put my hand on hers, until she pulled away.
“You don’t love me.”
“Yes, yes I do.”
“No. You don’t love anyone.”
“What?”
“You’re incapable of that. I always hoped you loved me but.... you never did.... you were never able to.”
“I’ve always loved you. It’s just my moods.... and I’m sorry... I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve ever said to you, done to you.... I’m sorry. Truly sorry...”
Not the first time I’ve apologised for my moods. When I have snapped at her - the blame was never entirely mine because she never spotted the warning signs that all was not right.... she’d start on at me.... pushing me.... until it ended with an argument. It was during the arguments I’d turn on her. My very own Mr Hyde. I’d say the nastiest of things to her, rip her apart even with mental mind games and slurs against her character - none of them true.... just.... during those moods, I’d want to hurt her. I’d want to crush her. It would only be hours later, after I’ve calmed.... I’d realise what I’d done or said and it would haunt me. I’d always apologise.
And then, when I’m in a good mood.... I always have the thoughts at the back of my mind.... whispering to me.... ‘Hey, do you remember when you said such and such.... how hurt she looked..... how upset you made her.....’ Guilt is a powerful emotion, worse for people such as myself for we often have so much more to be guilty about than the average person.
“It’s too late. We were over a long time ago, it just took me a few months to realise it.”
Her words crushed me and I felt another piece, of my tormented soul, die.
“We could start again....”
“I am starting again.”
“What?”
“I’ve met someone.”
“You’ve met someone? It’s been less than two fucking months,” I hissed.
Control it.
The Darkness within wants to come out and play.
Don’t let it.
Control it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please pass your new address onto your mum and I’ll collect it from her.”
She stood up and picked her handbag up.
“I hope one day you can find happiness and peace,” she continued, “but I think you need help, James.”
“No, I don’t.”
She gave me a pity smile and walked towards the door.
“I’m dying, Mary.... I’ve just over a month left to live....”
She stopped in her tracks.
“What?”
“I’m dying.”
I know why she wanted to meet inside now; less people to witness our argument. Less people to witness any tears, shouting or screaming. Less people to witness two fools who were once in love.
“You’re not dying,” she said - tears in her eyes.
Tears.
That’s good.
She cares.
“Yes, yes I am.” I said. “Just over a month left to live.”
“You’re not dying because - people like you - you’re already dead.”
And with that, she turned and left the cafe. The door slamming closed behind her. The harshest of words - a perfect comeback to the horrible stuff I’ve said to her over the years, when I’ve been in a dark place.
I take little comfort in the saying you always hurt the ones you love.
3.
Bored with charity shops now. Five different shops in one day, the last few saying they don’t currently need any more clothes. I’m not entirely sure when charities became so fussy with regards to what people donate but, whatever, I’m sick and tired of trying to give away my clothes.
Not all of them, obviously.
I need some of them.
Not sure I’ll be allowed onto a plane in nothing but a pair of pants.
It’s just.... how did I end up with so many clothes? Eight bin bags, in total. Some cheap clothes and some.... less cheap. As I was bagging all the bits I didn’t want to keep, I kept thinking - who needs this many clothes? Surely, you only need enough clothes to see you through a full week. Maybe you don’t even need clothes on a Sunday - instead you could sit around in nothing but a dressing gown as your clothes are washed in the washing machine. I know, since being alone, I’ve hardly bothered dressing myself on the weekends - unless I had to run another errand to keep myself on track for my plan.
I’ve saved myself a suitcase worth of clothes. If it weren’t for the trouble I could get into at customs - I probably wouldn’t have even kept that many items. It’s just, it may raise a few eyebrows if I try and go to their country, for a month, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a smile. They might end up thinking I was going to disappear into the night, once I crossed over where the ‘arrivals’ ends and ‘Australia’ begins - become just another illegal immigrant. Another statistic.
I want to be a statistic alright, but not an illegal immigrant. Emigrating out of this shit-hole country into another won’t cure me of my moods. Sure, for a bit, I’ll feel happy - like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders but, not in the long run, the moods will catch up as soon as the jet-lag disappears. Of that I’m positive.
Dad used to say, “You can’t run from your problems.”
Of that, we agree.
I emptied another one of the bags of clothes onto a pile I had already made in the communal gardens, outside of my flat. Just one more bag, to fetch from the car, and that’s the lot.
Wonder what this lot cost me, over the years.
Didn’t bring happiness.
And the memories I have, from wearing the clothes... most of them washed away when the clothes were cleaned in the weekly cycle. Hell, half of the clothes here I don’t even remember wearing - let alone what I did when I was wearing them.
The trip back to the car was short - only parked around the corner - and I emptied the final bag
onto the pile.
A yellow shirt on top.
Did I really buy that?
Couldn’t have done.
Must have been a Christmas present from someone who doesn’t know me very well... or doesn’t like me. Fucking hideous.
I walked over to the steps, which lead to my flat, and picked up a can of petrol which I had already stashed, when I first started emptying the clothes out. I’ve always wanted to do this.
Can open.
Petrol over clothes.
Sick joke runs through my mind, how do you make a cat go woof?
Can of petrol and a lighter.
With the petrol soaking through the clothes, I fished a small, black lighter from my pocket. Being a non-smoker, I had to buy this especially for this occasion. I didn’t budget for this, in the sale of the flat.
A quick flick backwards, of my thumb, and a spark turned into a flame.
I’ve always liked fire.
So pretty, the way the flame dances around.
“What are you doing?!”
I looked up - a concerned neighbour looking down from the balcony.
No need to be concerned, for once I’m sure everything is under control.
I dropped the lighter onto the pile and stood back as it went up in a ball of fire.
“What the fuck?!”
“Spring-cleaning....” I called up.
He didn’t hear me, too busy dialing a number on his mobile phone.... no guesses who that’s going to be.
“Fire brigade please!”
Spoilsport.
He needn’t worry. I won’t be here after tonight. The sale of the flat has gone through quite nicely and he’ll have shiny new neighbours to cosy up too within a week or so - whenever they decide to move in.
I threw the empty can onto the burning pile and walked towards my car. I best not be present when the fire brigade turn up. Although, is this really my fault? Or is it the fault of the charity shops who turned my stuff down? Yeah, that probably wouldn’t stand up in court.
I climbed into my car and sat back in the driver’s seat, the flame visible via the rear-view mirror. Jesus, that’s pretty big. Not sure what I expected but I didn’t think it would look like a proper bonfire with thick, black smoke flowing from it. Can’t help but think my neighbour did a good job, calling the brigade out.
Turning the key in the ignition, I fired the engine to life.
Really don’t want to be present when they show up.
Reverse gear selected I pulled out of the parking space where I had abandoned my car and drove from the car park.
Everything’s falling into place quite nicely now. Within days, the money from the sale of the flat should be cleared in my back account. Most of the furniture and worldly possessions, which were worth anything, were sold a few days ago in Cash Convertors - a fraction of what they were actually worth but I didn’t care. It was nice to have the clear out. If anything, I felt cleaner for it.
It won’t be long now.
A couple more days at work to secure my final pay cheque.... what am I doing? Do I even need the money from the job? With everything sold and the sale of the flat, minus the commission for the estate agents, I’ve probably got just over forty-thousand pounds.... and that’s not including the new credit cards - there’s another five thousand pounds right there. What, in my brain, made me think it was a good idea to work the notice in full? It’s as though a tiny bit of me was telling me to do the notice, on the off-chance I changed my mind... I’d have something to fall back on. Why’d I doubt myself?
I’m sure, given how much time and effort I’ve put in for them over the years.... I’m sure they wouldn’t put a stop on my wages if I didn’t go in for the final couple of days. Sure, they’d probably dock my wages by a few days but so what? I’ve got money at the moment, more than enough for what I need. What’s a few days worth of wages? Fuck all.
Walking out. Leaving them in the lurch. Probably leave a bitter taste in their mouths when it’s time to leave a reference, though.
A reference?
What am I thinking?!
I don’t need a reference!
Decision made - I’ve now officially finished work too. I’m a free man. For the first time, in a long while, a smile spread across my face.
I’m a free man.
This is it.
No turning back now.
Freedom.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Freedom.
It feels great.
I’ll get mum to phone into the office in the morning. Let them know I’m not coming in.
* * * * *
“How many nights will you be staying with us?”
A nice hotel close to the railway station - the railway being the only option I have having sold my car to a dodgy dealership a few streets away. Another five hundred and twenty pounds towards living my final month. The man in the car yard wanted to give me five hundred pounds on the dot. He made out he was doing me some huge favour but, he’ll get at least a grand for that car. Not the newest of models but... what do I care. I don’t need to worry about it now. It’s not my responsibility. I got what I wanted. Even forced him up by another twenty pounds - the cost of the taxi ride home. The fact he didn’t bat an eyelid proves he knows he’s got a good deal there.
I hate people like him but, again.... won’t be my problem much longer.
“One.”
The hotel receptionist frantically bashes the keyboard - inputting God only knows what into the hotel computer.
“Not a problem, sir.... will you be needing an early morning wake-up?”
“No, thank you.”
I hate it when they call me sir. It implies I’m better than them. Far from it.
“Any newspapers?”
I shook my head. I only want a bed.
“Thank you....”
More frantic keyboard bashing. I wonder how many keyboards they get through in a day.
“How would you like to pay?”
“Card,” I said.
I handed it over before he asked. I know the procedure from when Mary and I used to book into the hotel, the night before we’d fly off on one of our annual holidays. The hotel’s only about an hour and a half away from the flat but we’d always treat ourselves to a night here before the flight - so posh, made us feel like royalty. Made us feel like we were starting our holiday early - especially as it was in the country.... everything seemed calmer here. Nothing nearby other than a small village with the train-station I’d be using in the morning.... at least, that’s the impression the hotel gives. Yes, it’s in the country but only just - drive a few miles further down the road, from the village, and hey-presto - civilization and a motorway linking you to major towns and, of course, the airport. The illusion of seclusion.
With my credit card details stored, the receptionist handed me my credit card back, along with a keycard to what would be home for the next couple of days.
“You’re in room sixty-three,” he said. “We’ll get someone to bring your bags up to you.”
“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”
“We hope you enjoy your stay and, if there’s anything you need, just press zero on the phone in your bedroom to come straight through to reception.”
“And for an outside line?” I asked as I gathered by bag up.
“Nine, sir.”
I grimaced.
“Thank you.”
And with that, I headed in the direction of the lift and, ultimately, room sixty-three.
4.
Large bed, bigger than the one I have at home.... a small desk in the corner of the room with a flatscreen television on top of it. Bedside cabinet next to the bed, two chairs by the window. The window, overlooking fields as far as the eye can see.
The illusion of seclusion.
If I were to stick around - I’d get a house in the country, I think.
