Every man for himself

Some days are easier to ignore than others. Some days he would just cover his head with the duvet and sleep until either hunger or a bursting bladder forced him out of bed. This action was made so much easier if the weather played along. Rain, hail or even better, snow, was the best thing to keep him in bed. Today, however, the sun managed to break through the seemingly perpetual cloud covering London and started to heat his room until he could bear it no longer.

Swearing, he got out of bed and slumped off to his en-suite to relieve himself. He shivered as his foot felt the cold tiled bathroom floor. After finishing, he stood for some time in front of the toilet: reading for the umpteenth time the headlines of the previous week’s Time, which lay next to the bath. He knew returning to bed would be futile, for once he was out of bed, sleep would evade him for at least a few hours.

The man closed his front door and took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. While this would fill your average person with a sense of well being, he frowned, coughed and lit up a cigarette, his fourth of the day. He had not left his bed-sit for three days, as he could find no reason to. Today, though in a dreadful mood, he felt he could face society.

Entering the bus, he saw that a single person occupied every double seat in the bus. He smiled for a moment as he realised the significance of this. He took a seat next to an old lady who promptly moved closer to the window. Her perfume reminded him of his mother, as did her body language towards him. He turned on his mp3 player and shut out the world for a few precious minutes as the bus headed for the town centre.

The town centre was already quite busy with people eager to spend money. The man went to an ATM and withdrew some of the benefit money he had earned during the previous week. He was not proud of his unemployed status; in fact, he wanted to work. The imbalances in his brain, however, made that an impossible proposition.

He wandered aimlessly through the High Street and studied the people. He tried to find their eyes - to establish some sort of connection. He wanted to speak to someone; he wanted to be close to someone. He wanted what everyone had. People just rushed past him without noticing his desperation.

He sat down on a bench and enjoyed the early summer sun on his very pale skin. For a moment, he imagined himself lying on a Mediterranean beach with his lovely wife next to him. He saw his two young children building a sandcastle in the soft sand. That was normality, he thought, something he would never taste.

An old beggar took a seat next to the man. The smell of tobacco and alcohol was intense and repulsive. Suddenly he was a child again, sitting on the sofa with his dad, craving his attention. He looked up and saw a stern expression on his father’s face, just staring at the television with a beer in his hand. Again he snapped out of his fantasy and stood up angrily.

The man went to a corner shop and bought some milk and bread- the only real reason for leaving his bed-sit. He rushed through the people as if he had an important engagement. He knew many people were waiting for him in the chat room.

As he closed his front door, he wondered whether the excursion had been a success. He had the milk and bread as well as some fresh air, but was that what he was really after? He clicked is tongue and decided not to think too much and walked to his old computer and his friends.