Poppy, First chapter

Chapter 1

“I suppose that it all started when Poppy died.”
A pause. An awkward cacophony ticked in the background.
I stroke my unshaven chin and stare deeply into the eyes of the woman paid to salvage the wreck of my life. They were deep blue; with an unshakable concentration that screamed-‘I am in control of my life, how about you?’
Poppy. Even after 18 months in a semi conscious blur, the sound of her name provided me with a pang of warm familiarity.
Poppy. A patchwork of memories whirled into motion, bursting vividly with each syllable.
In an instant, the ten year old girl with scruffy pig tails and rainbow tights sat before me, reading in the schoolyard, under the old oak. At her side, the thirteen year old girl, first to dye her hair black, the first to get her nose pierced and the first to win my heart. Poppy, the 15 year old girl who’d told the fat careers advice lady she was to be a poet and nothing else, 17 year old Poppy, 19 Year old Poppy, 25 year old Poppy, a whole room filled with inescapable versions of Poppy, My best friend, The centre of my world. A whole room filled with Ghosts...
Everything about her impish smile had thrilled me, and sent my suburban heart into a riot. For, it was she that had drawn me into a world of Technicolour, a world away from conventional drudgery, and my middle class upbringing. Away from the stiff upper lip mentality, forced upon me by my parents, away from the monochrome misery. In short, Poppy had taught me how to feel.
Sometimes, in the lonely nights after her death, I would lie awake, desperately alone. I would Pace the house, toss and turn in the sheets, and say her name again and again, until I could almost smell her favourite perfume, and see her smiling still, as she danced to her favourite song.
But the morning would come, and I would be reminded that she was gone, gone, gone and I was left living in a void….

“Mr James…MR JAMES… BEN!”

It was then that I fell back into that strange, wood panelled hell, and I realised I’d been staring into the woman’s face for five minutes. Staring without saying a word…
Fuck.
“Glad you are back with me, Mr James, So. I would like to be able to identify the problem a bit better, would you be able to tell me what your relationship to Poppy was?”
I pause, hating this question. “She… She was my best friend…” my tongue sticks stubbornly to the roof of my mouth.
“So she was not your partner?”

I laugh inwardly. It would’ve been easier if we had been together. Easier for the both of us. For at least then I wouldn’t have felt obliged to like the endless influx of idiots that shared her bed. Nor would she have had to pretend to accept the flighty women who briefly entered my life. I guess it would have been easier if Poppy wouldn’t have had a real eye for utter bastards, who treated her like an object, or a means to an end. They didn’t see her for the brilliant, intelligent woman that she was. But, she loved them for their faults, and believed they loved her, for when Poppy loved, she loved with a whole heart.
Not one of them came to her funeral.

The woman’s eyes meet mine.
“I… I am sorry to ask Mr James, but, I need to build an adequate picture, did you have feelings for Poppy, I …did you love her Ben?” The woman is trying her best, adopting a softer tone, but it does hide the fact that she is probing. That is all it ever came down to. Building an adequate picture, trying to understand. Emotionless, clinical, cold, precise. To make notes, scrutinise my life to the very detail, Study it like a foreign object, but never come up with any answers. Never fix the gaping whole inside my heart…

“I...”
What could I say? How could I make her understand how I felt, when I didn’t even understand myself? How could I eloquently describe the feelings I’d had for a woman who’d been my world for 20 years?
In the deepest depths of my heart, I knew that I loved her, and I would probably never love anyone in the same way again. I knew that my Love fluctuated between storge and Mania, but the mere sight of those two, cold, unwavering eyes made me see it was no time for sentimentality.

“She was my best friend. And, we did everything together, and I suppose I loved the time that we had shared together” I swallowed hard.

“Right Mr James, now tell me, are you finding it hard to accept that she is gone, and that the time you shared had to end… is this difficult to bear?”
I grew tired of the woman and her questions. Of course I found it hard to accept! Doesn’t everyone? I didn’t tell her about how I’d kept all of Poppy’s letters and Postcards, or of my routine where I would read them late at night, in a haze of alcoholic melancholia. Nor, did I tell her about the endless nights when I would lie awake, convinced that death was the only option, only to find out I was too much of a coward to see it through. I certainly didn’t tell her that sometimes, for a brief, euphoric moment I would forget she was gone.
I nod.
The woman scribbled furiously.
I begin to think that she knows something I don’t.
I sit rigid, blinking incessantly, desperately trying to keep it all in. I wanted her to think that I was a reasonable human being, not a raving lunatic.
“Could you answer me Mr James…?”

“I just find it hard to deal with sometimes. It’s just like everyone does when they have lost someone. I feel… devoid of all colour and light, as if, all purpose and meaning is gone… and I am just there, acting out this existence…That’s normal right? Surely this emptiness is normal? It has to be normal? And, besides, she was all that I had. Most men have lives, kids, wives at my age, but all I had was Poppy. And now, all I have is these memories, these beautiful, fucking memories that just won’t leave me alone” I think of the Ghost Poppy’s again.
“I don’t want to feel like this, but, I just don’t know what to do.”
I pause. Realising that I had said too much.
So much for smiling and nodding and keeping my mouth shut.
The woman would now be sure of my fragile mental state.
“And these memories… Do they leave you feeling unable to partake in normal everyday life?”
I Nod. I do not tell her that I cannot recall the last time I had a shave, that I am wearing yesterday’s suit and that I cannot remember when a meal didn’t comprise of cold beans on toast.
She scribbles still, and I begin to feel trapped, helpless like a cornered animal. The clock on the wall ticks slowly, surely and appears like a Dali nightmare. I blink desperately, attempting to look socially acceptable, feeling the sweat run down my back.
The scratch of the pen echoes around the room, sending uneasy shivers up my spine.
She attempts eye contact again, but I look away, desperately, to the door, then to the floor.
She speaks but I don’t recognise the words. I turn to her, blinking still, and try to understand, but fail. So I stare blankly at her face, hoping to gain a little understanding, but those two blue eyes unnerve me still…


When I leave that office I am desperate for a drink.Desperate for something, anything to numb the feeling rising up from the depths of my chest. I stalk the crowded streets in a frenzy, searching for a pub, a bar, anywhere that would serve me alcohol and not ask questions.
But they are all closed.
I check my watch.
12.45pm.
They wouldn’t be open for hours.
Fuck.
But that wasn’t good enough. No. I was not about to give up on my quest just yet. I began to wander again, until eventually, I found an off license.
A strange sense of desperate satisfaction seized me. As I walked inside, I made a point of greeting the shop keeper, with what must have been a ghastly grin. The tubby man, with a red face and a receding hair line greets me with a quizzical scorn. I wander over to the alcohol slowly, perusing the other aisles first, as I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression after all. Eventually, I reached my goal, and grabbed at whatever I could get my hands on. It didn’t matter so much to me what it was, as long as it did the job.
.I look to the shop keeper, who is studying me intently. He probably thought me the local tramp, or madman so, to quash his suspicion and prove I am not an alcoholic, I decide I need to buy something other than alcohol. Demonstrate that I am just a normal, Reasonable man, who fancied a drink… or was having a party. Yes. I wanted him to believe I was just a normal man having a party. I smile at the thought, and then, decided on a curly wurly.
I smile again, satisfied, and place the items at the till.
The shop keeper pauses. A bottle of whiskey, a bottle of Vodka and a Curly wurly. I tell him I am having a party and pause for the reaction, producing another ghastly grin. He shrugs it off. I surmised that in this part of town, he was probably used to serving madmen.

As soon as I leave that shop, my throat is itching. I decide that in my present state of mind, I am not fit for the flat. Instead I wander around for about 10 minutes, until I end up in the park. It was almost empty, except for a few school kids and a couple going for a ‘romantic’ walk. I wanted to throw my curly wurly at them. I wanted to scream and shout and tell them to get out now, and save themselves the heartache. but Instead I walk away, find a deserted spot away from the crowds, the concerned glances and prying eyes. A place I can be alone. I take a long gulp, feeling the cool liquid moisten my mouth and burn the back of my throat. I take another swig, another, and another, drinking away my worries, until I cannot see or stand up…