Chapter 4: Martin

It’s getting harder and harder to get out of bed. Martin was staring at the ceiling, listening to his aching body. Gravity was a cruel mistress, waking him at night and nagging throughout the day. His once has an athletic figure. One he had been admired and envied for. Ha! It was behind him now and he could ponder the ever-growing tiredness, an existential luxury he could afford with retirement. He pondered which excuse he would use that day to pull the sheets away from his embarrassing legs and, as an old man, face the wooden staircase.

As his thoughts lazily unravelled, he stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how he had been manipulated (because there could have been no other explanation) into painting his room “canary yellow”. Was it the pale wedding dinning-set, communally purchased by his erratic circle of friends? Or was it one of her erratic desires she knew how to twist his heart with? He sighed, it didn’t matter now; he was used to the shade; they were fading together.

He had married his wife five months after their first night together- he grinned. Those were the days when you did such a thing. He twitched at the fleshly memory. He knew then as he knew now that his love resided in her big wide eyes. They were blue yet he always felt that simple, monosyllabic word failed them. The colour escaped definition really. At the beginning, he had tried to write a letter about them to his mother. “They aren’t from the blue of a clear sky –azure- nor the blueberry blue from the painting you gave me on my wall. You know the one that Suzi calls purple... They aren’t blue-grey that we find in the horizon or dark deep blue encountered in the sea”. How embarrassed he still was thinking of his efforts. It was so bad it almost made him laugh. Dismal. He had folded his shame and tucked it, and any further attempts at poetry, safely in his desk.

Her face gently unveiled in his mind. It was a simple colour really, which in its simplicity - dare he think honesty? - you could get lost in, not knowing what it resembled, having no reference to guide you. That was the basis for his marriage. A colour, which had no other significance but itself and no other reason to exist than to drown him entirely. It was the type of blue he wanted to pour in his coffee to keep him alive throughout the day. He knew Isabelle had been, despite their early romance, a catastrophic wife and mother but the blue of her eyes had entrapped him even as it failed to redeem her disappearance.

The phone disrupted the rapidly distorting mood of his recollection, tittering violently towards Isabelle’s unforgiven death. He rolled over, with a grunt, and picked up the receiver. Damn son-in-law. What could have pushed Helen to marry that idiot? Seconds later, his hands were shaking more violently.

To whoever is reading this...

It is extremely difficult not to fall into that trap of taking yourself seriously as you write. I think writing should be a serious matter, at times, but the actual author ends up believing in the things he or she writes.

If my own narration fails the lightness it aspires to, I apologize. If it is heavy with cliches, forced truths or imbecilic stereotypes, yet again, I am sincerely sorry. To try to be a writer is too new to be successful at the first attempt.

At the same time, I am enjoying writing so, damn mistakes and let the torture carry on. If you are one to read this message, thank you for being here :-)

Chapter 3: Zach

He woke up thirsty. His mouth was plaster and only after a few moments did he realise his throat felt scratched. He vaguely remembered making himself puke the binge of drinks he had subjected himself to… Scenes rolled through his head; he pieced them up. Today was going to be a downer, he knew it.

His body was aching and his head throbbed. Despite the pain, he recognised the familiar wave of darkness loaming ahead. His depression had surreptitiously settled in, waiting like an old friend at the door. Drinking had probably not helped, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference any way. Zach looked at his hands, grappling with the idea that it would get worse before it could get better. He was staring, plunging into himself to find the courage to face this day. He knew what was coming and he felt fear. He hesitated and looked for a second too long into the black box. That’s how they had labelled it at the ‘institute’. The ultimate exit strategy, the one mom had chosen. He couldn’t think of that. He pulled himself out, catching himself in time: ‘Come on man, get it together. Toughen up. You can do this. We can do this. Just get out of bed,’ he pleaded with himself. 

He put the black box aside, rolled out of the sheets and braced himself for the weighty week ahead. It goes up, it goes down but it’d go up again, he mechanically drummed in his head. He knew his own words like his own dog: predictable, loyal, relentlessly at the foot of his bed. His headache have him a thud. He sat back down, stunned by the pain. He still had those pills he picked up last week. He’d pop a couple and a few gallons of coffee later, would hit work, he mentally calculated.

Zach was blessed with an ease for anything he tried out, self-destruction being his speciality. Having been told all his life he could do anything, be anything he wanted had robbed him of desire and ambition. He had settled for independence and made websites commissioned by start-ups, working to his own pace, wherever and whenever it suited him. So when his dark friend came visiting, he could wall himself up and wait for the tide to subside. They had labelled him manic depressive. They had labelled him many things but this ‘condition’ seems to have stuck. Fuck’em. He got up again and put the kettle on when the phone rang.

He picked up the cell, a battered Nokia he kept in defiance of the splurge for smart phones, commuters’ life-line. He glanced at the number and his heart skipped a beat. He had erased that number numerous times in the dim effort to rid himself of her memory and yet, powerless to avoid knowing the last three digits burned in his mind. He decided to ignore the call and by its own volition, his thumb pressed the little green (fucking) button.

‘Hey! What’s up?’

‘Oh, hi Zach. Not much. Hoe’s it going?’

‘Yea. Well, smashing actually.’ He never said smashing. Dick. Why was she phoning so early anyway?

‘Oh, right. Well, I just wanted to call to say hi.’

‘That’s nice.’ No, it’s not. That blood sucking leach you’re permanently in heat for is going to want something. Just hang up pal. Do it.

‘So, what are you up to these days?’

‘Well, I actually had a little favour to ask.’

No you fucking can’t. Not now, not ever. And make sure you don’t call again. Even if you are in a corner somewhere bleeding. Just make sure I don’t hear about it.

‘Yea, sure. What can I do?’

And for the next eight minutes, he gave his ex a step-to-step guide on how to structure her essay, every minute hammering his dignity further into annihilation. When she suddenly had to go, his heart was stuck in his throat, his self-loathing overwhelming. He put his hand on the kettle waiting for the burn.

Fuck you Zach. Fuck you.