14th July. Upon Waking Up Late and Being Forced to Look For A Job

So I’ve woken up late again and I’ve made my way down to the recruitment office and I walk inside the office and I tell the woman that I’m sorry I’m late. She looks at me with a right cold stare and she just goes,
What time was your appointment?”
“11.00.”
Well it’s now 12.00.”
I know this already so I just lie like I usually do when I’m trying to justify waking up late or procrastinating too long about my hair or looking for my keys or my ipod or whatever.
“Yeah there was quite a lot of traffic around Kings Cross. The bus-“
“Ok just take a seat and someone will be with you.”
She turns to look at her computer and I know now that I’ve been dismissed as it were. I do sit down but I do it sheepishly, I’m sweating profusely as I’m sure you can imagine because as we all know, being late is a stressful business.
I sit waiting for what seems like many many minutes. I try to pass the time by glancing through various pamphlets which have been placed on the table that reaches up to my knees. In between thinking about the bullshit contents of the pamphlets I look up frequently, stealing glances at the reception woman and hoping that she’s attending to my appointment right now. She has really big teeth and her glasses don’t suit her but yeah, I’d probably fuck her.
Next thing I know some woman comes out and calls my name. She smiles at me so I go over. I walk quick.
“Hello there how are you?”
“Oh I’m fine thanks, sorry I’m so late.”
“Dooon’t worry it’s fiiiiiiine.” She’s one of them. Drawing out her vowels as a pleasantry aid. I know already that she will put strong emphasis on plosive sounds and will also go up at the end of a sentence whenever she wants me to really take something iiiiin.
I make a mental note to turn the charm factor up to ten or eleven or whatever it is. High.
“Take a seeeeat love.” I don’t like being called love. Women shouldn’t call men love. “Sooooo what kind of work are you looking for then?”

I want to say this: “I DON'T FUCKING KNOW. SOMETHING THAT I LIKE THAT WILL PAY ME WELL. HOW ABOUT THAT EH? SOMETHING EEEEEASY.”

Of course I don’t though. “Office work mainly. Bar, retail.”
“OKAY.” She says the “K” proper heavy and I’m still thinking about the impressively foreboding sound it makes (as a standalone kind of noise) when she starts rambling on about all of these absolutely shit jobs that I’ll probably put myself forward for because I’m desperate and I’m bored and I’ve realised that my degree actually means fuck all.
She gets down to logistics now.
“So have you got your national insurance number and card?”
“Yes.”
“Passport?”
“Yup.”
“Full CV with education and work history?”
“Er...”
“Proof of name change if applicable?”
“I haven’t changed my -“
“P45 if applicable.”
“No.”
“Bank Details?”
“Yes!”
“Proof of address?”
“Yessssss.” I find myself drawing out the “S” like a frigging cobra or a goose on the attack.
“Passport photo?”
“Oh. No, see I didn’t realise-”
“Name, address and telephone number of two referees?”
I rack my brains trying to think of two friends who I trust enough to lie for me convincingly. I try to think of old employers who I didn’t disappoint in some way or university tutors who might remember who I am. There is no one.
“Yes got those.”
“Goooood. CRB disclosure or cheque for £36.00 made payable to us.”
“No.” Definitely definitely no.
“Ok unfortunately you haven’t brought all of the required documentaTION” (the emphasis on the “tion” there was niiiice). “So unfortunately we won’t be able to process your registration today. I’m soooooo sorry about that luuurve.”
“No problem it’s my fault.” Jesus, I didn’t think it was this complicated.
"Ok if you pop through to reception again and speak to Sarah before you leave then she’ll make the necessary araaaaaaangements for your new apPOINTment. Okaaaay.”
She offers me her hand to shake and I take it. My eyes wander up and up, beginning at the wrist, rolling right the way up her arms and going up and up and across to those perky little tits of hers. Her hand pulls away slightly snappishly and I realise that I‘ve probably been staring for too long but to be honest I really don’t give a shit.
She walks off to her desk without a word and sits there typing away without even looking up at me once. I kind of hope that she would look or something but she doesn’t and I don’t want to stand there lingering for too long because I’d only end up looking like a total dick.
I go back to the desk lady with the paving slab teeth. The one who I’d shag just for the shag.
“Hello again.” I say in what I think is a slightly over friendly way. She leaves me hanging. She holds up a finger as if to say “just one second.” It looks like she’s putting her finger to the lips of an invisible dwarf sat on her desk, trying to sexily make him be quiet.
I stand there waiting whilst she types with one hand and holds the other aloft, the single raised index finger keeping me in my place. She’s probably on MSN or Facebook or some shit. After about a full minute of me standing like an absolute chump she looks up at me and places her hands on the desk criss-crossing her fingers ceremoniously.
“Ok.”
“Can I book another appointment please?”
“For when?”
“Tomorrow?” I really don’t want to come here again tomorrow but I’ve gone and said it now so-
“Time?”
“12.00?”
“I’m sorry but the only available appointment is at 9.15. Would that suit you?”
I’m thinking no, no it wouldn’t. And also why did you ask me what time I wanted if there was only one fucking appointment available?
“Yes that would be fine.”
“Excellent. See you tomorrow then love.”
Love?
I walk outside of the office into the overcast outdoors and I’m really glad to be out of there. I delve into my bag and get my bottle of water and have a long grateful swig because I need it and I really hate those places. Seriously though, how else are you meant to find a job these days?

Foggy Night

Take a walk outside and calm those nerves. Get a hold of those emotions of yours; wrestle them into submission and rationalise the situation. It’s foggy, so foggy that it makes visibility really difficult. In fog of that kind, it’s easy to let your imagination run wild with paranoia, especially when it’s cold. Why does fog always come with the cold? There’s probably some kind of scientific explanation for it. There usually is.
Staring blankly into the mist and idly toying with the keys in my pocket, the cool air refreshes me; it helps to clear my mind. Last night we fought tooth and nail. We argued relentlessly, malicious utterances spilling out of us until there was nothing left inside. The emotions flooded me, it was like they’d come out of some kind of yawning chasm right inside of my guts that I’d never even known about. I think that it had been the same for her, the way her eyes had burned at me. They had been like the headlights of a speeding car in the night, roaring towards you, intense and frightening to behold.
As we argued, the room had filled up with the thick noxious fumes of profanity and passionate fury. It had got so that I couldn’t see anything at all; just her eyes glowing bigger and redder as her anger and presence swelled, totally disproportionate to anything and everything.
I wonder now how I must have looked to her, probably just a large throbbing lump of gristled anger and humiliation burning away at her. We’d surprised each other I think. I had stormed out, floating off into the night on that cloud of bad feeling. She had remained, presumably crying and wishing I would come back.
I had returned and of course by that time she had left. Our place seemed drained; looking outside at the weather it seemed as if that dense fog that so engulfed us both last night had spread outside, quickly escaping out of the door as I left and blanketing the surrounding area. I couldn’t be in there anymore, I had needed to get outside again; it wasn’t even hot but the room had seemed so stuffy that all of my senses stifled and clogged up. It felt like I’d swallowed a clod of wet tissue without chewing it properly. Snatching her note from the table I quickly left, stumbling down the stairs in haste, practically hyperventilating.
Now as I take in deep breathes I watch my exhalations cloud up and drift off into the night sky. I look down at the note one more time and I’m not sure if she’ll ever come back. The more I think about it though I’m not completely sure if this makes me happy or sad; it’ll probably take me some time to decide yet, I need to think on it.
Looking back on these last three months together I try to remain objective. She had left her husband for me. I’d been utterly ruthless with her. You see, when I truly want something I really go after it and there’s not a lot that can stop me. It’s always been that way and I don’t think it’ll ever change.
At the time all that I could think about was how I could possess her; everything else just seemed to take a back seat as I mutated into some kind of relentlessly inhuman cajoling machine, a massive cock and balls laying in wait for her in my office with a knowing smile. Eventually she came round to my way of thinking; I had known right from the very start that she would.
Whenever he would come to pick her up I’d be there looking out of my window. Watching. I would stand there peering through the blinds and I would watch her kiss him on the cheek before guiltily glancing back in my direction. The first time she looked back I knew. After that it had been easy really; it was just a matter of biding my time and applying pressure at the right moment and in the right place.
Now she’s left though I’m pretty sure that she will have gone running straight back to him. Last night she had said that she’d made a mistake by leaving him for me, all the usual shit you know, "he was safe and he was dependable and he really cared about what happened to her". Please. I told her straight; I said he was a loser.
Still if I’m honest, I really really hope that he hasn’t taken her back. Losing to a loser, I don’t like the way that makes me look.
My guts churn. I can feel an acidic sensation in the back of my throat.
That fucking note. A bit ambiguous for my liking that’s for sure.

Women enjoy toying with the emotions of men, it’s all about empowerment. Sooner or later it always comes up; they don’t care how they get it, just that they get it. You, your balls, your manhood, whatever makes you you, that’s what they want. They either want it or they want a big hefty piece of it; a stake in it. Seriously, the sooner they learn that it’s impossible the better.
She won’t say anything about the money, I’m pretty certain of that. I mean, she enjoyed spending it just as much as I did. But like the smoke from the head of a match after you’ve just blown it out, there is a wisp; a wisp of doubt.
I have given her a way to hurt me; I have unequivocally given her the option. Sometimes that’s all it takes. She could be thinking of ways to blame me right fucking now. She could literally be telling that loser everything right now. Christ how could I have been so godamnedstupid?
I’m pacing up and down.
What did I say last night? We had both said things in haste; we were deliberately trying to hurt each other. All the time we were together we never spoke about what we’d done, that was a taboo between the two of us that was frankly untouchable, well as far as I was concerned it was. What about her though? Those blazing eyes of hers; two blistering rings of fire, two searchlights peering down from the darkness above, illuminating me completely. Her voice clear in my mind now speaking to all and sundry
“Coercion” she whimpers,
“Embezzlement"
"Fraud” I can hear her now in my mind crying to unseen faces with willing ears and blackened moral hearts.
Suddenly I’m reaching for my mobile. I have to know. My mouth is dry and I can feel my heart start to loosen its way out of my chest, crawling up my neck and leaving a slimy cold trail of guilt and fear as it goes.
The dialling tone purrs and my pulse quickens, a jack-hammer in my wrist that reaches a deafening crescendo as the tone goes straight to her answering machine. I’m still standing outside of my building as I completely liquefy. I’m just an ice cold puddle of panic splattered on the tarmac. Sickened with an ever increasing sense of paranoia, this is the first time in many weeks where I no longer feel in control. I collect myself, easy, reaching out into the night for composure. It might seem strange and alien right now but need to just hold on and not let go.
I need to see her; I need to hoist myself from the palm of her hand. If we can just talk then we can compromise, you can’t just turn off passion, not the kind that we have.
I’m getting myself together now. I’m climbing into my car and I’m driving. She’ll see me; she has to. I’m driving and I think I know just where to look for her.

Rogers Finger (part one)

Roger found it about three weeks ago under his mothers sink. It was wrapped up tight in a damp sock that had already begun to smell rather horribly; it wouldn’t be long before mould would cover it further, speckling the cotton surface with green and white patches of nasty looking fur.
A finger of all things. Wrapped up in a sock and wedged in tight behind the pipes that led up into his mothers leaky old sink. Roger told me that he wondered just how long it had been there for and whether or not it could have come from somebody who he knew. He also wondered who in Gods name could have put it there and why on earth they didn’t dispose of it in a more logical way. Why didn’t they just throw it away or bury it? Why place it in a sock and place it in such a specific place in such a methodical way? These were the principle concerns that he told me about in the pub on the Monday night; two days after he originally found it.
“I’m telling you Nathan I’m definitely holding onto it for a bit. At least until I’ve had chance to have a good think about it anyway – I really think that it’s been placed there for me to find for a reason.”
“What reason? Maybe it was put there for your mother. Maybe it was your mother who put it there! What if someone’s out to get her or something Roger? This could be really fucking serious. You should phone the police.”
“Oh don’t be so bloody melodramatic. Why on earth would it have anything to do with my mother? She’s a sixty seven year old woman for god’s sake, what does she know about severed limbs and appendages? Think about it. Besides, it’s a female finger, it was bound to be left there for me to find - it makes sense.”
“Sense? Just because it belonged to a woman doesn’t mean that it was left for you. What do you think it was some kind of romantic gesture or something? “Please accept this token of my affection darling. Do me a favour.”
My friend Roger was never one who had the capacity for lateral logical thought. He was one of those people so absolutely sure of their own correctness that any alternate outcome sends them into a hail of confusion and denial. The older we got, the more certain Roger became of his own authority on every topic known to man, he could rarely be talked into compromise. I doubt he even knew the meaning of the word. Perhaps that was why he was single, unemployed and overweight.
Anyway I spent the rest of my evening with him voicing my disbelief at the situation and marvelling at the way that Roger was dealing with the entire turn of events. Rather than being cowed or in any way intimidated by his macabre discovery, it appeared that he was rather enjoying the whole thing. In his mind he was getting attention from someone and they thought enough (or little enough) of him to leave a severed body part for him to find. Roger was completely intrigued. He wanted to know the reason why he had been chosen, how it had been done and for what deliciously twisted purpose. He was planning on doing some kind of detective work, or more likely, he was planning on doing very little other than waiting to see if anything was going to happen next. I was totally against the idea and I told him so. Unsurprisingly my own personal doubts fell upon deaf ears and ruddy drink coloured cheeks.
“Will you just relax Nathan; I want to wait a few days to see if anything else turns up. If nothing else strange happens then I suppose I’ll go to the police. Is that ok with you?”
He accentuated the ok to make it clear that I had absolutely no influence on the situation whatsoever.
“You’d better. That’s somebody’s finger you know. That used to be attached to a living, breathing human being.”
“Well its not anymore is it? Now it’s attached to the handkerchief in my pocket. Look lets talk about something else. It’s your round by the way.”
At least he knew where his priorities lay.

The next day Roger phoned me at work sounding breathless and excited; he was panting like some kind of dog. I could almost hear the beads of sweat dribbling down his fat face and soaking into his beard that crunched against the mouthpiece of the telephone.
“Nathan you’re not going to believe this. Its incredible. Its- ”
“What is it? You do know I’m at work don’t you Roger? I’m not supposed to take personal calls- ”
“This is important Nathan! It’s the finger. I’m telling you man…it’s…its not just a finger anymore.”
“What do you bloody well mean it’s not just a finger? Of course it is! I don’t have time for this at the moment you know, I’ve told you to just give the damn thing to the police. You never think do you, you can’t just call me up at work whenever you feel like it with some stupid -”
“Its not just a finger anymore, it’s a hand alright! It’s grown into a fucking hand!” He shouted down the phone desperately before continuing; babbling and laughing excitedly all at the same time.
“Unbelievable! It literally grew overnight Nathan. I knew there was something about this! It was a finger yesterday and now it’s a hand. Can you believe that?”
“Well no actually…”
“My house. After work. Come round and see for yourself if you don’t believe me. It’ll blow you away.”
He hung up. Massaging my temples irritably I remember how I couldn’t get on with my work for the rest of that day. I kept thinking about it. No longer a finger but a hand. It had grown overnight into a whole woman’s hand. If it was true my friend had something remarkable at home with him. This was simply no time for work.

So I arrived at Roger’s house out of breath and dripping wet from the relentless rain. I chained my bike up around the back of his garage in its usual place like I always did and strode purposely in through the back door into his kitchen. He was sat with his back to me at his dining table peering into a shoebox with a magnifying glass, he was whistling happily to himself and seemed not to notice me come in. I remember noticing how he had an absolutely huge sweat patch spread right across his back like a continent on a globe or a map. It looked a bit like Africa does.
I sat opposite him and looked into his eyes; they were dilated, sparkling and alive. He held the magnifying glass in one hand and a melting ice cream in the other. He pointed down into the box with his ice cream before taking a huge dirty lick.
“Look.”
There nestled amidst a mountain of tissue paper was a fully formed female hand. It was perfectly still and serene yet I felt as if it should be breathing heavily. It had a strange aura about it that although invisible was almost tangible; it felt as if the air around it was thick with something that I had no name for. It was so strange seeing it there, I’d seen that finger only yesterday yet here it was right before my vary eyes and attached to a real hand. It really had grown overnight. It was incredible.
There was blood and bone visible at its wrist but there was nothing jagged and gory about it. It looked perfectly cauterised; almost flat and smooth like a stick of rock. I was reminded most though, of a tree stump; ringed and ancient.
It was a youthful hand, slender and pale in the white light of Rogers kitchen and was quite lovely to look at, but I found myself inherently repelled by it. Its the only thing I have ever seen that I have found both captivatingly beautiful and despicably repugnant at the same time.
Even now I can picture it there in my mind all still like a spider that’s readying itself to strike. A coiled tensed spring. A measured living force of nature. A hand that was no longer a finger.
“Cool Nathan.”
Roger had seen me staring at it. He had seen the look in my eyes. I find that thought unsettling even now.
“What are you going to do? Does your mum know about this?”
“No way. She’s out cold in the front room. I slipped a couple of valium in with her tea.”
“Jesus. Was that really necessary?”
“She’d freak out if she knew man. Besides its nothing she’s not used to..”
“You do this often?”
“Relax alright. She is sixty you know, she can take it. Besides I only do it when I need some fucking peace and quiet - special occasions you know.”
He looked at me in such a matter of fact way that I remember feeling for a moment that what he had done was actually ok and that I was being the uptight one. Roger was a strange one alright but we’d been friends for a while. You just learn to tolerate the inconsistencies of friends don’t you?

We spent the rest of that evening talking about what to do with the hand. Eventually Roger bulldozed me into agreement that we should wait another night, just to see if it did anything else. After that we could maybe think about calling some kind of local authority, or better yet a newspaper. It was my idea to take photographs and to think about filming its progress. I was pretty impressed with myself I have to say. Later on when I rose to leave, Roger told me to come back the next day with some clothes.
“Just in case she needs covering up.”
“What exactly are you expecting out of this?”
“I just don’t want her to get cold.”
“It is a hand Roger.”
“At the moment Nathan, it’s a hand at the moment.”
He had a look in his eye that I didn’t like.

Wednesday was another lost day at work. Unable to concentrate on cold calling people, I didn’t even manage to sell one damned package. I was distracted. I kept on thinking about the wrist of that hand and how it looked so smooth and how its flesh looked so strange. My mind returned to it over and over again, to the way that the rings of its bone, muscle and tissue were shaped like the rings of age rippling through the core of a tree trunk. I drank several coffees throughout the day as I resisted the urge to call Roger. My fingers on my own hand spent their time drumming on my desk and dancing across my keyboard impatiently. The clock on my wall was as slow as anything I can think of.

Finally it was time.

Arriving at Rogers house I forgot to lock my bike up outside. The lights were all off inside the house and I remember the curtains twitching impatiently as the door swung open to meet me, Roger pulling me inside.
My heart beat quickly as he showed me up to his bedroom, leading me past his mother asleep face down on the couch, a pot of tea lying beside her on its side open mouthed and inviting.
Roger locked the door behind us once we were inside his room.
“Last night I stuck it under the tanning light on my mums’ sun bed.”
He was anxious and unshaven.
“Nathan it grew again.”
“Let me see.”

Rogers Finger (part two)

This time it was no longer just a hand, it was a whole arm. Yet I was now overwhelmed to see that this was attached to a shoulder which in turn dipped down into a fully formed female breast.
The top corner of a torso and a complete arm now rested in front of us like some kind of macabre prosthetic sculpture. My breath was short and the hairs on my neck and arms were standing erect and to attention. Neither of us spoke but the silence between us was as dense and heavy as a cloud of thick gas. I walked out of the room and made my way down to the kitchen where I sat at the table numb all over. I had no idea how this was happening but my friend was somehow growing a woman in his house. A miracle, it had to be a miracle. Not of the religious kind because I don't believe in that shit but, you know maybe a miracle like the big bang was a miracle - of science. Look, I'm no expert, I don’t know about those things, I just know about my instincts. I knew it was bigger than me though, it was as big as life itself and I didn’t like it.

I didn’t go back to Roger’s house for the rest of that week, I didn’t phone him and he didn’t make any attempt to contact me. I was a little disconcerted with the whole thing to tell you the truth, I was glad to be away from it. Roger didn’t seem to want to know how that finger, that thing had arrived in his life. It didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest that he didn’t know where it came from or why it had grown. He didn’t seem to care about keeping his elderly mother in a state of drug induced ignorance either. I ignored him and he ignored me, I think it was more convenient for the both of us that way.
I was a lousy employee that week too. I was ignoring everything. It was really surprising though, it really took a lot of effort to actually block everything out. you know when you make a conscious decision to avoid thinking about something and you push it to the back of your mind? Well that’s basically what I did. If you’ve got any kind of experience in something like that then you’ll know that sometimes you just end up mentally straying too close to that locked door in your head. You know what’s behind it but you become afraid to open it again in case you realise you made a mistake in shutting it away in the first place and now it’s gotten bigger and worse whilst you were away.
That’s what happened with me, I did it with this. It wasn’t the first time and unfortunately it probably won’t be the last either. It just makes things easier to deal with in the short term. I’m all about short term you know?

So after about two weeks I finally snapped and rode my bike all the way across my neighbourhood to Rogers place. Like most days its raining and I end up completely soaked through; it doesn’t bother me though, I dry fast; that’s why I keep my head shaved, speedy recovery.
Anyway I knocked on his door and waited for much longer than normal. There was the sound of lots of locks (more than I remember) clicking and turning as the door opened a fraction to reveal Rogers mother peering out at me through the crack.
“Hello Mrs Dearly.”
“Nathan. I haven’t seen you in such a long time! How are ya?”
The door opened up fully and Mrs Dearly was standing there, totally resplendent in the grizzled autumnal light of day. She looked healthy and fit for once and it even looked like she was wearing a little make-up. Christ I could say she looked around ten-fifteen years younger. She was still a little wrinkled but seriously she was nothing compared to before, she no longer looked like a ghostly corpse.
“You look well. Listen is Roger in?”
She scratched her nose slowly and methodically and peered at me like a fucking owl or something. “Who’s Roger dear?”
“Roger Mrs Dearly. Your son.”
“Oh Nathan I’m afraid I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
I could tell by her eyes that she knew alright; something was wrong. I could make out a thin layer of sweat across her forehead soaking into the hair near her temples and inching its way down along the cracked wrinkled trenches that furrowed unmistakeably across her brow.
“Could I come in?”
“Well alright then Nathan, seeing as it’s you.”
I stepped into the threshold of the kitchen from the path that I had trod down so often into the room where only two weeks ago I’d looked into that shoebox and seen that hand.
“I see you’ve had a new sink installed Mrs Dearly.”
“Oh call me Madge. Boy, you’ve been delivering papers here for years now; surely we’re on first name terms!”
Had she lost it or something? Why this elaborate cover up? I hadn’t delivered a fucking newspaper here in over ten years!
“Yes there was a problem with the old sink. Can I get you anything Nathan? Tea perhaps?
“Coffee please. Black.”
The kitchen had a clinical smell to it like disinfectant. The new sink glowered at me from the corner, ominous and menacing; I could see something wedged in the pipe underneath and at the back. I didn’t know what it was but I began to get an odd feeling in my stomach.
“Could I use your bathroom please?”
“Certainly dear, up the stairs second on the left.”
“Thanks.”
My heart was beating kind of fast as I climbed up those stairs, my feet felt heavy. Where was Roger? Mrs Dearly was acting weird.

From the toilet window in Roger’s house you can see out into their modest looking back garden. By the looks of it there was a hell of a lot of rubbish out back that day; there had been some kind of bonfire. I could see the charred remains of a sun bed out there as well; it was nothing more than a blackened skeleton now, out there in the driving rain with nothing more to it than ash and ruin.
I eased open the door as softly as I could and sneaked a peak into Roger’s bedroom. It was completely empty. It was naked, stripped bare; its walls painted black and the carpets torn away to reveal harsh planks of decked pale wood. This didn’t make sense.
When I came back downstairs to the kitchen Mrs Dearly had laid out two mugs of coffee for us. I sat down uneasily. I remember drumming my fingers on the table top one after the other, one, two, three, four, and five. Each finger drumming in sequence.
I stopped when Mrs Dearly placed her hand on top of mine and gently started to rub her fingers over my knuckles in small circular motions.
With her other hand she slowly placed a damp sock onto the table that had something stuffed inside it. My eyes were fixed on that sock like laser beams and my body was hard all over. I could feel her looking at me, looking in me.
She emptied the socks contents onto the table top, all the while softly stroking my hand. I knew she hadn’t taken her eyes off me for a single second.
I looked down to the table and saw that she had revealed two severed fingers that were holding onto each other for dear life. They were both horribly familiar looking, lying there coiled unnaturally around each other like snakes or like Christmas tinsel when you pull it out of its box and it’s all tangled together. One of them was slender and feminine and the other was fat and pudgy.
There was no mistaking it, it was Rogers finger entwined with the original.

I remember then looking up into Mrs Dearly’s face to see that she was looking me right in my fucking eye and I swear to God she just burst out laughing. She started gnashing her teeth at me like she was chewing something and her tongue curled up and she slowly licked her lips, running her tongue all along that thin red O shape that she calls a mouth. All the while her eyes blazed at me like nothing I’ve ever seen before or since, I’ll never forget the colour of them, more than fire and less than white. I don’t like to think of the way her mouth chewed at me, it puts all kinds of ideas into my head.

I knocked over my coffee as I bolted for the door, out of that kitchen and away from that house. I haven’t gone back yet. Now I keep everything to do with Roger and Mrs Dearly locked away behind a door in my head, away from rationality and away from me. I daren’t open it again because I know that if I do it will have grown so big that it’ll just plain swallow me whole.

Oh Shit.

The thirst. Oh Christ that barren sensation; waking up, cruelly hung-over, is a sensation I’m all too used to. Its ten thirty in the morning this time, it’s six thirty another time, it was noon last weekend. It’s always too early. I always need more sleep; I’m always so fucking thirsty that I have to go and get out of bed.
Eleven o’clock; bloodshot eyes peel open against their will and I feel a clammy yet sandy sensation on my parched tongue. Oh I need water; I wonder just how badly. Maybe I can get back off, try and ignore the thirst, breathe through my nose and let glorious sleep take hold again.
I close my eyes; I try and empty my mind. I do what I always do, think of nothing, think of blackness. Think vast, empty, cool blackness. But what else is black? My mouth. The inside of my mouth. My cursed mouth, the parched crusty disgrace of the hung-over whole beneath my nose. Shit.
The air rushes through my nasal passage and straight onto my tongue, a dried slab of yellow meat resting heavily like a beached whale in my slackened mouth.
But what’s this? My senses are drearily returning to me, beginning to heighten to a still slightly drunken peak. I feel a presence at my side, a sense of some other; I can feel that the bed is weighted behind me. Its clear to me now, I’m not alone here. All of a sudden, the warmth under the covers seems overpowering. Someone else’s body heat is mixing with my own. I think..
Did I? No, I wasn’t that pissed, I’d remember. I look down now and its then, then I spot those hairy toes poking out from under my duvet.
That bastard.
He’s done it again. I realise now that I’m practically falling out onto the floor, I’m literally on the edge of my own bed, a bed that I joyfully embraced last night, a bed that I embraced alone. That fucking arse. I’m hung-over and Gareth is in my bed. Again.
Gareth is my friend; he was rendered homeless and unemployed by as he put it “a series of unfortunate events”. Basically his long suffering “selfish” parents left the country and he’s too lazy to find a job.
“Alright, fine, don’t worry about it mate; its all good. Yeah come stay with me. Don’t thank me man honestly. Mates are mates, I’ll sort you out.”
What a fool I was.
Because I’m a stupid naïve foetus of a friend I even let him stay,
“for as long as you need”
And for free, the only condition being that he’ll have to make do with a couch. I can see the logic now,
“No problem having Gareth here, he’s a laugh.”
I’d forgotten the fundamental truth though: your mates are your mates, but invariably, once you live together, you will grow to hate them. You won’t want to, you just will. Little things like washing up, their habits, and their moroseness all become exaggerated ten fold. You’ll stew things in your mind until the things that annoy you about them take over and your friend becomes a pastiche, a walking stereotype, a testament to pet hates. Eventually you end up sitting alone in your room or pretending to go to bed just so you don’t have to spend another minute in the living room with that boring uptight bastard. As soon as you both move out though, all is well. You’ll slowly start to realise that in actual fact, they’re not that bad. It’s a fact.
Never before though, has a point been so well illustrated, as in the case of my friend Gareth. The “borrowing” of my things, his incessant skin maintenance regime, his ability to just sit doing nothing but watch TV (that I know he doesn’t enjoy) for hours on end all day every day and his extended periods of grumpiness.
Worst though are his drunken antics. He never listens to reason and he reckons that everything is funny; everything is a joke, no matter how offensive or invasive it gets. He’s never wrong about anything and your opinion is always total rubbish, only last week in a drunken conversation about the merits of Jack Nicholson’s performance in the film Wolf he referred to my opinion as “trite, uninformed and downright jingoistic.” Jingoistic? The twat.
Anyway, back to my original point. Recently he’s started to drunkenly ignore the sleeping arrangements that I carefully laid out for him before he arrived, wherein he sleeps on the couch and I enjoy the privacy of my own room.
Five times now I’ve awoken next to him and the first that I know I about his presence is an arm draped lazily over my shoulders. A couple of times I have awoken with my face lying on the wooden top of my bedside table, one leg draped off the edge of my bed. I’m sure that I don’t need to tell you either, his personal hygiene leaves a lot to be desired.
So anyway, I’m lying on the edge of my bed completely still; my body is a ruler, it’s brittle and irritable. I pull at the duvet like a child, I want more sleep. How can I get this man from my bed? This creature of scant regard and ignorant contempt who so befouls my mornings.
I know from past experience that he has a real knack for making me seem like a petty bastard when I push him across the bed as hard as I can, pushing with my toes rather than the balls of my feet so it hurts more. The look in his eyes is too wounding even for me, so that’s out of the question. Maybe I could just shake him?
But oh I need a drink, Jesus Christ I need a glass of water. My bladder is flexing too, I must leave the bed, there’s no chance I can sleep till I’ve gone to the bathroom.
But he’ll still be here when I get back. He knows when the bed gets lighter, as my weight is removed; he knows just when to roll over and consume the entire mattress. Once that happens he’ll be there like a limpet and I’ll have to go on the couch. No I’ll stay here for a while, formulate a plan of action.
I’m lying there and my alcohol hazed mind is holding crisis talks with itself, I’m deciding, debating; plotting. My stomach rumbles as air shifts in the clogged dirtiness of my colon and in my mind germinates a plan, it dances to the rhythm of my stirring body as this seed of an idea blossoms and my stomach churns.
HA! I find myself grinning at the sheer naughtiness of what I think I’m going to do to my friend. Maybe it won’t get rid of him, maybe it will, either way it’ll amuse me on an immature level, my caveman level.
I ease myself off the bed as gently as I can and I drop my pants. He feels the bed grow lighter and his subconscious initiates takeover procedures, rolling over onto his stomach with his face looking right at me over the edge of the bed, blissfully unaware. I bend over so my bare arse is literally centimetres away from his nose.
I’m chuckling boyishly at what I’m about to do, I’m twenty seven years old, I haven’t broken wind in anyone’s face in over a decade. I pull apart my buttocks with either hand, a hand on each sumptuous cheek.
No sound Gareth. No for you my friend, just the sweet, sweet aroma.
“This’ll wake you, you bastard.”
The words are rattling in my brain, I try to suppress snorts and brays of laughter under my breath. I nearly lose my nerve; I had a kebab last night for God’s sake. Fuck it, I decide to do it anyway.
I push; gently trying to coax it out.
Nothing.
I need more power so I push harder, pulling my arse cheeks apart further and tighter. Literally though, the very moment that I do this, my stomach gives an almighty churn and a long thin jet of foul brown excreta explodes out of my arse, directly into Gareth’s face.
His eyes click open and he’s awake. Let’s face it, who wouldn’t be?
“OH SHIT!”
I’ve just accidentally shat in my friends face. I’m looking down incredulously at him and all I can think is that there is nothing I can possibly say to get out of this. Nothing at all.

On the Way to Work

I’m sat staring out of my window, on my seat, on my bus going back to my job on yet another day of my life. This journey that I take so often, lasts around fifteen minutes – I do it nearly every single day of the working week; fifteen minutes going and fifteen minutes coming back. That adds up to half an hour, every day; five days a week.
I work most weeks, minus two weeks holiday and four bank holidays a year. Sometimes I’ll get more than one bank holiday off but that’s rare because there’s only ever more than four bank holidays in a year if Christmas Eve, Day, Boxing Day & New Years Eve & Day all fall on weekends.
That never really happens though.
By my calculations I estimate that that means I spend roughly around seven thousand five hundred minutes a year sitting on this bus alone; usually in this same seat; looking at the same things, out of the same window, every single day.
I’ve worked in my job for five years now. I don’t like it – the only thing that keeps me coming back every day is the money.
Here I am as the bus comes to a laboured shuddering halt right at my stop. I’m standing up and shuffling towards the exit, ready to walk along my route to my job where I’ll perform tasks to make my money to continue my life. I’m running late.

Now I walk along dirty slabs of concrete and glistening blackened tarmac decorated with painted lines and markings that instruct people as to what they can and can’t do on particular pieces of ground. I stop at a street kiosk and buy a beverage which I pour right into my mouth. It burns me as it gurgles down my neck, travelling between my lungs and slipping down into my stomach. I look at the vendor. He has closely knitted brows that bristle and flex like a caterpillar; underlining a low furrowed brow that’s creased with time and impatience. There is a fleeting eye contact between us and an almost imperceptible glimmer of recognition somewhere in his eyes,

I continue walking. It is raining.

My head is wet, my temples are scythed with chilled rivulets of water that course down my shaven cheeks and moisten the starched white stiffness of my shirt, my collar; my boundary. I walk and I briefly look into the eyes of a woman pressed against the glass as she dresses a plastic mannequin in a shop window. It reminds me unsurprisingly of a fish tank or perhaps a pen at a zoo. She’s pretty. Dark waved hair tumbles around and about her shoulders and her tanned skin as she strains, dressing her model in a suit. He looks just like me, only much stiffer and drier.

Thunder booms out. It is rolling across the open plains of the sky at this ungodly hour and I know what it will bring with it - a need to be indoors. My pace has quickened and my head is lowered, I pull the collar of my damp jacket up in an effort to keep my neck dry – it doesn’t work.
The steady beat of the rain seems to increase and the greyness that is all around me seems to be getting thicker with every passing second. A pause for thought and I stop in a doorway of a nearby shop, its eight fifty in the morning and there still isn’t really anybody around on the street that surrounds me. If I was a little more romantic I could say that the deserted street is beautiful in this light and that when I close my eyes the repetitive hum and splash of the rain reminds me of when I was a child and the sprinkler on our lawn back home would splatter water loudly against the driveway, the windows and the leaves of all of our plants. I could say that the sound reminds me of the way the sunlight made a rainbow as it shone through the spray in the correct way. I could say that it reminds me of a carefree and happy youth. I’m not a romantic though and I’m running late so I step back into the gloom and grimly stalk the streets thinking that I’d rather be anywhere right now than here.

Maybe I don’t go in today. Maybe I just go right back home so I can sit in the warmth of my couch pouring drinks down my throat and filling my mouth with food. Maybe I sit reading my newspaper at a leisurely rate, smoking as many cigarettes as I like even though I know they’re bad for me. Maybe I sit around all day not doing a thing and not caring about what those fucking suits back at my office have to say about it.

Now I’m nearly there. My office is only another six minutes away. I’m late but I know that I don’t really care, I’ll take the stairs up and sneak in the back way so that my supervisor won’t see me. Bob Phillips doesn’t approve of tardiness so I need to avoid him. It’s Bob Phillips who is my leader. Bob Phillips is in charge of me.
Working below Bob Phillips means life under a firm but fair boss. Working under Bob Phillips means that no slacking is to be tolerated. Working for Bob Phillips means that I am a cog in a superbly oiled machine, frightening in efficiency and unwavering in superiority.
Working as a minion in the domain of Bob Phillips also means getting used to being taken aside to receive minor rebukes and kind hearted pieces of advice. He calls them chats.

As I journey now, I begin to think. I slowly become aware that if I receive another man to man chat from Bob Phillips then it may well be the end of me. It will be the end of my job for sure and it may well even be the end of my freedom too because if I receive another man to man chat from Bob Phillips then I may well commit murder. I may well just lift my arms so I can put my angry hands around his throat, using my force to snuff out his sounds and his little motivational speeches.
Oh how I hate his speeches.
Bob Phillips is a good man, I just hate his ways and his lousy corporate talk, pummelling my ears until they want to retract themselves inside my skull like a tortoise’s head, deep, deep, safely inside.

I don't care Bob Phillips. I wish you would be quiet. Be silent and leave me alone. Just please leave me alone.

I need to hurry up or I’m going to be late. That will mean I get a dressing down. And that will mean that I will kill him. For the sake of Bob Phillips wife and children (who I know to be lovely people) and the Bobless life that they must never lead I decide to run the final distance all the way to the front door of my employers. I get even more wet as I run and I feel irritated.

The weather diagnosis is always fucking wrong.

My socks are wet and my trousers are sticking to my thin pale legs and my hairy knobbled knees. I know I must look a fool but I also know I mustn’t be late.

Now I’m inside my building climbing up my stairs two, sometimes three at a time. I’m wet all over and now I’m sweating thanks to a change in my temperature. I look bad so I steal into the toilets to clean myself up. This is no real change from my usual routine because even when I’m on time I usually sit in one of the toilet cubicles for a while, killing a few precious minutes before I go back inside to work and clock watch. I don’t like it in these toilets but I like it more than my office with its neon post-it notes and beloved photographs pasted and placed all around the desk spots. The notes introduce elements of “fun” to the workplace and the photographs discreetly remind my fellow drones why they are here and what awaits them when they leave.
This time though I’m not sitting in a cubicle glumly, I’m stood looking at myself in the mirror as I hold my shirt underneath the electric dryer which keeps turning itself off for absolutely no fucking reason whatsoever. My teeth are yellowed and my eyes are red, I look hung-over but I’m not. I don’t feel well but I don’t know why, maybe it’s this place with its white light and its myopic pale blue colouration. I’m sniffing as my nose runs uncontrollably and I think I might just be sick. I don’t know why I feel sick now when I felt fine before, the sporadic droning of the drier seems way off in the distance; a mere rumble like the thunder I heard only minutes before; it makes me nauseous.
This job, I hate it. I do it for the money.

I am soaked to my skin.

Now here in these toilets, Bob Phillips has entered. He sees me standing here all wet with a faraway look in the holes of my eyes. I am pale and moist; I’m almost an entire puddle in a suit. I know he’s going to give me a talking to. I know it when he gives me that condescending look of pity, the one that is married to his white smile, the one he delivers with empathy and compassion.

I like you Bob Phillips but I hate your words and I hate your ways. In many respects I think that I actually hate you. Yes. I hate what you stand for Bob Phillips. I think I hate you…

Now I feel horribly nauseous and as I turn to look at him I know exactly what I’m about to do. I know he’s not going to like it one bit but I don’t care. We make eye contact as my stomach contracts and there is a moment of understanding between us that could be described as profound. I grip him by the lapels and I’m looking at him full in the face as my mouth opens.

I’m sorry Bob.

Its five minutes later and I’m running down the stairs. I slip a little bit with every step on the linoleum floor as my desire to leave overwhelms me. I’m smiling and I’m a little embarrassed but I don’t stop for a second. I don’t feel sick anymore. Bob Phillips needs cleaning up but I don’t really care. I run outside again into the rain which falls hard all around me and now I pull my tie loose. The rain refreshes me.
I walk homeward bound through the streets at my own pace and I decide not to get back on my bus.

Now I’m looking all around me as I stroll. I raise my face up to look at the sky and the rain tumbles down upon me like thousands and thousands of the tiniest shards of clear painless glass. Its grey everywhere but I know that I just don’t care anymore.

A Bench on a Hot Summers Day in London

It’s one of those days where it’s absolutely boiling hot and the clouds are hanging all too low in the sky. Muggy and thick, the air seems heavier and moister than I’ve ever known it. My forehead is damp and sticky with sweat and vines of hair flop loosely from my fringe, plastering themselves to my skin.
The bench I’m sitting on cuts into my flabby arse cheeks cruelly but I don’t bother to move. I merely shift my weight lazily and take another pull on my cigarette. Some of the sweat expunged from in between my pudgy little fingers has soaked into the lower base of the cigarette that I’m smoking; darkening the white where it touches the orange filter, I can barely make out the “Mond” on the “Richmond” logo.
She’s kicking again. My distended stomach bumps and groans like the hull of a great fat ship as I flick a finger against my belly button churlishly. It won’t be long now I suppose. I’ve been counting down the days till the end of August; her birthday. That’ll be the day that this curious little thing will burst out from inside me, out of my womb and into the hands of some stranger and then again promptly into the hands of another. I don’t care to know their names, not anymore.
I like to come for walks. Strolls really, I never go too far. It’s usually when I get bored of watching the telly or listening to the radio that I come out. Usually round here to the park. I’ve started watching these two body builder types on here. There’s a man and a woman, the man’s the trainer and she’s the pupil. They’re both built like houses.
I like to imagine that I know them. I’ve named him Linus. He reminds me of a footballer that Howard always used to chat on about. It took me a while to think of one for her but I eventually decided on Sarah – seemed appropriate, she’s got the same kind of look as my sister so she may as well have the same name. Not that I talk to my sister anymore, she called me immoral and said that she no longer knew who I was. I don’t blame her; once I’d told her about it she could have gone one way or the other and would still have been right whichever reaction she chose.

... punch, duck! Left pad punch, duck! Right pad punch, duck!...

I dunno if I’m reading a bit too much into things or if it’s the heat of the day here on this flat green expanse but I always sense a chemistry between them. Sexy little sparks alright. Take now as she jogs up and down up and down on the spot and he stands watching her. He steps over to her and puts his hand on her hips from behind, steering her with his own pelvis. He’s whispering into her ear. It seems sexual.

...Lunge! Then stand up quick! jog on the spot and then lunge back!...

I fan my breasts a little. They both look very athletic in those spandex things they like to wear. It’s almost like I can stick my big red tongue right out and taste the thick sweaty air around them and me.
The kid rummages around inside my belly again. Not like she really particularly means anything to me but she can be a comfort. Generally these periods of pregnancy that I go through every other year are full of discomfort and irritation, however, one of the few pleasures derived, (apart from the money obviously), is the strange sensation of having a life inside of me. This is our private time that we can both share before I permit her entrance into the world. I feel like an oven must feel when it’s got a little cake inside of it. Toasty warm.
So I just sit here watching those two people keeping fit and rubbing my belly. Whenever I look down at it when I’m stood in front of the mirror at home all I can do is marvel at its sheer size. So fat and round, like those unfortunate little youngsters you see who have rickets – the stomach just doesn’t seem to fit. Other times, I like to imagine that there’s nothing really inside and I’ve just eaten fourteen bowls of rice pudding or something, swelling up like some cartoon woman and chuckling away jollily at my strange calamitous radius.

Oh, yes now they’re getting to my favourite part! Linus sets up a harness from the boughs of the tree under which they train (nearest the fence by the main road). Framed by the white houses beyond it, he rigs up the gymnastic rings and demonstrates to us exactly what is supposed to be done. Upside down first and then steadily twisting and rising up, he ends there, solely using those big black arms, pulling himself up and up until he holds himself in the air horizontally and does press ups; his arms taking all of the weight and held up by that sheer muscle. Gosh.
I peer trying to catch Sarah’s face and now I’m really really grinning as I’m thinking about what her thoughts are probably thinking and I’m imagining how her face is probably looking. I rub my belly and think about the baby inside of me and how it’s not quite the career I had in mind when I was in school. I rub and rub my stomach in smooth circular motions, not stopping for a single second. Sarah stands with her legs akimbo stretching down and she’s rubbing and rubbing her ankles up and down massaging the balls on the sides as she looks up and watches Linus. The air is close and heavy and the grass is green but drying out yellow. Both of them seem captured in the moment, watching each other as I’m watching them...those stretches.
Suddenly a dog pounds over to me and snaps me right back to life. Looking at me with those dull thoughtless eyes it rudely interrupts my reverie. My womb remains calm but by now I have stopped the incessant rubbing. The dog drops a stick on the floor by my swollen ankles just to the left of me. I pick it up and throw it over the fence.
“Fuck off!” I tell him matter of factly – I mean it.

...Sarah squat, Linus lower. Squat and up squat and up squat and up. Stretch arms out, out and up...

The dog stands there regardless, looking at me all dozy and thick. It simply has no idea about anything. It has Howard’s eyes; that dull cow brown colour accompanied by long drooping eyelashes and a sense of placid, docile optimism. Attractive - for about ten minutes.
“Go away.” I kick my ankle out at it and hiss like a bed of snakes, but just like Howard it doesn’t get the bloody message. It cocks its shaggy head at me quizzically and watches me, waiting for something.
“He bothering you love?”
“Oh no he’s fine! He’s a sweet little thing isn’t he?”
“Yeah they’re no bother at all at this age. You got one of your own?”
I don’t answer, I just keep looking at Sarah’s perfect figure as she squats and stands and jogs and manoeuvres. The man and his stupid animal are soon on their way.

...Squat thrust squat thrust squat thrust squat thrust...

Finally the sun comes out from behind the grey canopy above. It’s a relief really as my sallow white skin needs the sunlight. Relief from the muggy enveloping air of the park and of London itself is really something, even if it is replaced with the overbearing heat.

I light another fag and open the book I’ve brought with me but I’m still never more than two sentences away from a sly glance up at Sarah and Linus, drinking in their all too short session. I think delicious thoughts to myself. Strange ones too, mainly revolving around various hypothetical conversations I might have with people and the things I might say. In my mind I am consistently succinct and witty and I always justify my actions to anyone who asks.
All of a sudden Linus and Sarah are finished. They stand opposite each other, trainer and pupil. They breathe heavily in that skin tight training gear, hands on hips and chests pumping hard in this suddenly hot glorious August afternoon. I kind of wish they’d do something other than just stand there.
My wish is granted as Sarah hands him some money and then just jogs away like she usually does. Linus stands watching her as she delves into her bag and starts to chat on her mobile phone. Even from this distance of say, 200 yards, I can make out the outline of the muscles on his thick legs and the solid instep of his trainers.
He takes hold of the harness and the rings dangling from the tree behind him and swings on it and for a second I wish that I was right there with him. I wish I was swinging there like it was five years ago with his arms holding me about my waist ensuring that I won’t fall to the ground; holding my thin un-pregnant waist as I turn upside down not really caring if I fall or anything because it’s August and nothing matters except exactly what I want to happen and the worst that can ever happen right here is a bump on my head.
Soon though he’s packing his things away and I smile to myself because I know that all I’ve done is sit here on this bench and lose myself for a while. Linus or whatever his bloody name is, is smiling as he walks away. I’m sure that we’re both smiling for completely different reasons.

Christmas at the Beach

Implacable sunlight smashes down all around him. Tendrils and sunbeams penetrate his spokes; he casts an inhuman, almost monstrous shadow along the wooden slats of the pier at this time in the evening.
Looking out across the coastline and the pebbled beach below, he sits lost in thought. I stand, watching him. He spreads an arm wide in an all encompassing gesture.
“It’s been a while.”
“It has.”
“Last time we were here, you cried for hours. Like a girl.”
I don’t answer.
“I’m hungry, go and get me a stick of rock will you. Here’s a quid.”
An upwards facing palm promptly sticks out. It contains a single pound coin. I leave it there reflecting the suns light and I walk off to buy him a fucking stick of rock with my own money.
Even from this height on the pier, the spray from the hungry white squall below sprinkles down over the sparse crowd of people standing here. It drops in a festive mist; cold, wet, white. Thankfully it’ll be time to leave soon.
I stand, waiting my turn at the kiosk watching him ponderously sitting in that chair, in that prison. Is this the future you envisioned for yourself? Is this how you planned your return to Brighton when we left all those years ago? He shifts about a bit, adjusts the brakes and edges ever closer to the barrier so he can peer over the edge like a little boy. I stand watching, my breath slowing; the plumes of icy spray dappling us both.
In my mind’s eye I suddenly see myself walking; walking with purpose and pace. I see myself striding up to him and grabbing those handles, pushing, rolling; forcing him away. Out and over the edge.
In my mind I watch him finally leave that contraption as he falls, I see it dashed to pieces on the rocks below and I see him fall free into the ocean. As free as a stone.
“Hurry up will you!”
The stick of rock is in my hand as I walk up to him. I look at his pale face, those murky eyes all expectant and brown. I pass him the stick of rock.
“Merry Christmas Dad.”
He doesn’t look up; he attacks the sweet sugary cane, saliva gurgling down his pink chin. Through the disgusting snuffling sounds and crunching of his teeth beneath those rotten crimson lips he mumbles.
“Thanks.”
I take him by the handles and wheel him away.

Tantrum

Suddenly she turned and hurled herself at him. Not knowing what action to take she stopped for a moment and looked frantically from side to side. Spying a glass of water on the bedside cabinet, she ran to it and raised it above her head like some kind of holy grail. It was thrown wildly at the photo on the wall, the clear liquid running down his monochrome face and the broken glass. His fixed smile however, remained intact, as did the photo's position on the wall.

"Amy!"

She grabbed the mirror and pulled it from the dresser. It weighed heavily in her hands but she didn't care, she smashed it onto the wooden floorboards. Pieces of reflections bounced aimlessly, scattering all around.

"Please Amy that’s seven years bad-"

She flung open the wardrobe doors and tore out armfuls of clothing from their darkened home. These she then began to rip to shreds with a steady unwavering hand. Those she couldn't summon the strength to destroy she proceeded to befoul beneath her pounding, stomping boots, all the while covering them in lashings of saliva and enormous green gobs of spit.

"The Armani!..."

She screamed in a pitched wail of fury and grabbed the unfortunate wooden rocking chair nearest to the window. Through the pane it went, sailing onto the flowerbed below where it cast apart the roses like a plunging boulder in a lake of red and pink.

"Amy could you just listen for a moment-"

Charging like a wild thing she arrived at the other side of the room twixt the bed and fireplace. The ornaments were ungraciously swept from the mantelpiece and the pages were torn from the books they belonged in. The mania was truly abounded now!

The draws of the bedside set were pulled mercilessly out. She kicked and stamped the interminable contents away and laughed at the negligee; enjoying watching it flop unceremoniously to the ground. Then bending with all the grace of a broken ironing board, she gathered the unmentionables and threw them out the window and into the ether.

"Oh Amy."

Beating her hands on the wardrobe doors and clawing at her own sickening ginger hair it seemed as if she had finally run out of ideas.

"Darling?

Revitalised she spat furious curses at the world and its total benign indifference to everything, and moved to the dresser and its trove of makeup. In a moment of unbridled inspiration she grabbed one fat sloppy lipstick after another and daubed the wall in crude phalluses, dirty profanities and hideous absurdities. She then threw the foundations, the applications, the scrubs, the pencils, the cans and the rollers against that poor desecrated wall where they splattered, shattered, scattered and rolled slowly down to the ground. This entire process was done to a laudable soundtrack of moaning burbles and gnashing teeth.

"...."

Breathing heavily she pounded her chest in a primal rage. She rubbed her hands over her body lustily. She then launched herself onto the duvet and draped it around her shoulders. She fell off the bed; baying like a dog whilst swaddled and wrapped within its padded layers. Curled, foetal like, on the floor in the mess of makeup, shards of glass and splinters of wood she panted. She was spent, shattered; expired.

She vomited then, spitting the mess onto the floor and whimpering softly. Her hair trailed into the puddle as she lay breathing heavily, totally unable to continue.

“Feel better now love?

“You know what. I do.”

“Quite the performance.”

“This rage therapy really works.”

“It worked wonders for your Aunt Sonia you know. After the divorce…”

“I just thought I’d give it a go.”

“Well I agree, it just would have been nice if you could have done it, you know, at your house, in your own room.”

“Look I’ve been really stressed at work.”

“Of course.”

“Mum?”

"I know. I'll put the kettle on."

"Ta."