LIE-F.

Languidly slumped against the wall of his inherited home, head against the cold, damp, tattered wall, cigarette loosely gripped by his teeth, smoke masking his face from the small shed of light from the street lamp that enters through the drawn curtains, casting a silhouette.  John tilts his head back, staring himself directly in the eyes, thrusting smoke above him, slowly dispersing, creating a small portal which sucks him in, taking him back to some of his fondest memories.

Sat upon his father’s shoulders with tired legs from walks in the woods broken up by time spent building dams in the river, building tepees which they would guard from the cowboy invasion, equipped with bow and arrows made from long sticks and shoe-laces forcing the enemy to retreat at sunset when it was time to go home for mother’s home made chicken stew and dumplings in front of the fire.  The rest of the evening spent eating ice cream and giggling from tickles until bedtime; tucked in and read to.

The back of his head now cold reminding him of the times he was comfortable enough to fall asleep in the warm confines of his mothers lap, before the times he was too embarrassed to do so.  Her hand softly stroking the back of his head; comatose, carried up the stairs to bed.

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The times when excitement would conquer his whole body; smiling so sincerely it could warm the coldest of hearts triggered from such insignificant moments – spending pocket money on penny sweets, the newest pack of gaming cards the excitement of Christmas Eve – an emotion he would lose and constantly keep reaching for; like a prisoner of quicksand clutching at the nearest branch being dragged further and further away with the exposures to the worlds darkness and flaws, overwhelmed by compassion and the want to emphasise with those less fortunate.

The awkward teenage years, not really knowing who you are, the comprehension of puberty, trying to use the little foresight you have to take you on the right tracks to a vaguely desired future and the most disturbing new found interest in the opposite sex – compelled by their new found beauty.  Being drawn ever closer to them by this gravitational pull only to be stopped at arms length unable to converse with them, proving his immaturity deterring what little interest may lie at the bottom of their seemingly cold hearts, whilst at the bottom of his own the desire to play with the few action figures hidden beneath his bed muddled in with the ejaculate covered Kleenex.

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Late teens – house parties, the first drops of alcohol, the first realisation that his lack of confidence can be removed, forging relationships with the first set of friends outside his own ‘clique’ circle with whom he would grow and evolve, sharing keen interests.  Genuinely.  The only menacing times to contend with were the minor tactics required to keep vomit in the toilet bowl and off his attire, the spinning head and as to whether the best cure was to sit with his head between his knees, lie down and would it feel more stable with his eyes open or closed.  The biggest of them all being the morning after, when the hangover and headache kicked in; like a blacksmith pounding heated steel.  Unravelling all of the previous evenings happenings – arbitrary comments, barely composed, groping at girls and leaning in for the kiss unwanted by her, leaving him standing like a panting dog gasping for breath.  The conclusion that alcohol isn’t the greatest foundation for confidence but there to aid him next time to get past the current standing embarrassments.  

The early twenties with a sense of who he was.  Both toys and tissues exempt from the underneath of his bed, now a master of seduction, the one night stands would fill the empty space with dirty little secrets.  The few years when freedom and the lack of responsibility coexisted peacefully; part-time job, money, free rein.  Times before marriage and families were expected, spent in pub gardens with his nearest and dearest, holidays with his male friends, two week relationships, days that would soon enough be longed for, presenting themselves in later years in the form of lyrics, smells, melodies, pictures – bouts of nostalgia smashing him in the face.

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Settling down – the choosing of the ring; questioning his motive in the shop, overwhelmed with choice bringing to attention the fact that he may not really know her at all – why so indecisive?  Arrangement of the proposal; the setting – will it be romantic enough?  Does he get on one knee at a restaurant, landmark or place of mutual interest holding sentiments?  Her acceptance; the tear in her eye more precious than the diamond itself.  Weekends spent in front of the TV with cheap takeaways on the sofa followed with Sundays at church saving to give her the best day possible – the ultimate expression of his love for her.  House hunting for the perfect abode to raise the first child.  The birth, finally confirming him as a man, the chance to live his life again as an adult through the eyes of his very own child whom he would offer his life for.

Broken from daydream by the burning of the cigarette against his lips as the smoke above breaks up and disperses, crying, jugular on a knife-edge…

Neighbours opposite notice the door ajar and knock.  No answer.  A foul smell sweeping under their noses feel inclined to walk in, greeted by an empty, capacious apartment; brown walls, smoke stained ceiling, thread-bare carpet, faeces in the corner surrounded by lighters, needles, spoons, foil and a lifeless body holding knife and note:

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To my mother: my dearest friend,

Since your departure it has become apparent that you were the foundation for my existence.  The reason I woke up, the reason I went to bed – tired from a lifetime of devotion to your well-being.  Too late to make friends, or start a relationship for my demise is not far behind yours - I sit and stare in to the abyss being sucked in by addiction; there’s no going back.  Envious of those walking by, holding hands and pushing prams.  I’m coming to meet you, where we both can be safe – unreliant of drugs.  I just hope in my heart of hearts I make it all the way up to you for I have been filled with doubt of such an existence.  Life seems to be a succession of pointless events that lead to nothing.  I need to be proved wrong, and I want your face to be the first I see to say, “I told you so”

Yours Faithfully, always.

 J.

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