Graham

It was the end of the day, and Graham welcomed it like a cold drink in summer. He stormed through the pub with his usual determination, throwing his coat on as he waved goodbye to his friends working behind the bar, despite being busy they cast him a quick look that said: You lucky bastard!

He walked out of his pub and down the street. The last of the dye-hard weekenders were out, garbed in their Sunday best, usually for the girls a high skirt that could be considered a belt and a bra so minimal a shoelace had more material, and for the guys a cheap shirt and jeans with some polished black school shoes. No point spoiling decent clothes with the nights blood now is there. This was the dark side of the drinking world, one he knew very well and chose to avoid as best he could. With a couple of twists in his path he found himself stood outside a taxi rank in China town. As he stared the nearest oriental karaoke bar sign, as was his custom his phone buzzed. He hated the sound of mobile phones, deftly he answered the call and the subsequent questions. Shortly after he was sat in the taxi which drove him to his street and local store. Handing the taxi driver a crisp five pound note he hopped out and darted into the shop. The clouds were gathering. It was going to be a wet night.

Moments later he emerged carrying a couple cans of cider and fresh pack of cigarettes and with a well practised hand movement he removed the wrapping from the pack of smokes and removed one with his lips, flicked his lighter and lit it. He inhaled deeply revelling in the deep burn. The walk home was less the time it would take to smoke the whole cigarette so he waited outside till he finished. Entering his flat he noticed the time was nearly seven PM. He turned his computer on as he poured himself a can of cider into his favourite glass.

Soon enough he had his favourite music on, and was enjoying his chat with his friends online. Naturally there were the questions about how his family were doing after his grandmother had passed away. Then the topics of conversations turned to him, they asked how he was. He had been lying to himself. He always lied to them. He told them he was fine. He told them work was good. He told them his life was good. He was good. He was good. He was... anything but good. Then the thoughts surfaced. The ones he had been ignoring. The questions about happiness, the questions of worth, the questions of life... He smiled, he always smiled, he always laughed, and now he was laughing as he wrote the famous words:

“You know, the usual shit”

But that was it, he thought, that was what it always was, he spoke to everyone and it was always the same shit. Should it be? He thought, should he always have the same shit. Of course. He deserved it. He deserved everything. He deserved the countless hours of unpaid work, he deserved the slight remarks, the consistent increasing pressure, the constant demands on is time, it didn’t matter about him, he had to keep everything going so everyone else could have a life. He managed, he struggled but for how much longer could he handle it... he stared at his hands as they danced across the keyboard typing: I'm fine, I'm good, yeah everything is fine! He gritted his teeth, as he watched as lie after lie appeared on the screen.

He turned the music off. He flicked the TV on. He turned it off. He stared at the conversations unfolding, as his friends rabbited on about their lives. Same usual shit. Same usual shit. From somewhere within him a rage boiled, deep down, deep from within a rage as primal as fear flared and he punched his desk. His glass scattered across the top and fell spilling its contents along the black surface and dripping to the floor. Fighting desperately against an uncontrollable rage he dragged himself into the bathroom and ran a shower and stood for an hour hoping the water would wash away the rage. It didn’t. It fuelled it.

Wet, uncontrollably angry and naked he burst from the bathroom like a feral creature. Night had now fallen it was late and approaching midnight. He was alone in the house, his flat mate working. He had no one to call. His mind reeled through the past, his losses, his shame, his self hatred all materialised before him in a mirror image. Clutching at his jet hair he threw himself against the wall of his bedroom. He wanted to scream but something held him back. Something controlled him. Clawing at his scalp and face he grasped at his arms and chest where the scars of past anger still remained. He wanted to take to the blade once more, he wanted the burn, he wanted the blisters of hate burned into his skin. But something stopped him. Something held him back, something told him no, not this time.

He was mentally trapped in his own room like a twisted willow, a personification of his contrasting desires. Slowly an eerie calmness came over him. He looked at the mirror and smiled his common smile and nodded. He dressed simply, a t-shirt, jeans some boots and a coat and left.

The riverside was cold. The wind whipped at his tear and rain flecked face, his rage hadn’t abated but all the way here he felt like a voyeur on himself. Watching as if removed as he walked through the side streets like some drunken crazed man, his mouth contorted in some sinister clowns grimace, his eyes wide and rage ridden, he watched himself as he broke. He listened to his own voice tell him he needed to go, he needed to die. Watched himself approach the waters edge.

Graham realised he was staring at himself. He watched himself standing so close to the edge. The angry tears marring his face, his eyes red with rage, his voice gasping for words that couldn’t describe. He watched and hated himself. He pushed. There was no splash, there was no body, the only victim was his own self. He walked home, limp and drained. He found his room. He crouched. He huddled into the corner. He cried and he cried and he cried, the end had come. He was no more. He was now Graham.