Shot away with misery

When you become numb and realize what a pleasure it was to be a wreck
And loneliness and despair come to eventual depression
Suddenly it was, suddenly I am
Shot away with misery
Damned


Chapter one

“Oh god!”
I woke, sweating and ashamed. The sheets choked. There was not a single intrusion of light into the room. And I was weak. Of course it was fair for me to be ashamed, and indeed sweating. Though don't be surprised if I was tell you I am a good man-and there is also a great deal to say on the subject of whether I could even be called a man (I use the term 'man' in a sort of classical sense. Meaning the 'ideal', something courageous and selfless perhaps). The sheets pulled tight across my Adam's apple, which clucked as I tried to swallow. The sheet sat just loose enough for me to draw air across my damaged throat. Do not think the shame came for me and  I fought it and lost bravely, I did not even get that far. I simply welcomed it as the coward I am. I was in need of the shame to realize my dept as partly payed. To say: “I am suffering for what I have done, and is that not enough?” I suppose. Stupid as it might sound. Of course, I would reason myself to be a good man, for I would compare myself to all those other men; in particular the ones I associated with at the time. And though it is not my place to judge them (and I do judge them when comparing my own exploits against theirs) I have little choice but to do so when wishing to reasoning my own worth. Their exploits being the only means I have to weigh any logical judgment of how a man should act. But really I was in no state to form any conclusions about logic at all and quickly decided to be careful of believing my thoughts. My was head gone, shot away from the abuse of the most expensive-though not necessarily best-wine and champagne from the night before. Upon opening my eyes, and gaining a better perspective of my surroundings, I realized the culprit of the murderous bed sheet circumstance. It was, of course, myself; the dead weight protruding from my right side, working as some kind of lever to bind the sheet tight around me. I decided to leave it choking me for the time being and think more of my shame.

It had taken until now, that is; for the last few members of my family to die, for me to realize that I was a terribly selfish individual. Up to the moment of waking that night to curse, I did believe, wholeheartedly believe, I was a good man, or at least a neutral man. I heard of the deaths of these family members a few days before and it occurred to me (and by occurred I mean a suffocating anxiety) that I'd almost definitely neglected them more than was reasonable for a son to do so. What also occurred to me was the stupidity and irony, in that; It took me until now to realize they would one day die, that is; once they were already dead. Managing to free myself from the sheets, I leaned over and picked up the phone (against my will but driven by a sick desperate hope) to phone home, only for it to be unanswered and ring indefinitely the other end. And I knew: death is a concept not perceivable in theory. It can only accepted in tangibly terms; absolute means absolute and when they are gone, damn, they're gone. And thats when you understand what it means. It was a worry I'd never see them again, except as partial likenesses in my depleting memory and absurd dreams. In my dreams I would often envision dead relatives, happy and well. They would tell me fantastic things and in the morning I would feel that loss again. But given the choice, I would choose the feeling of loss over any ignorance from simply forgetting them. Just the evening before in a dream, Samantha came by to say: “Please tell me the point of it all, I'm dying to know. The anticipation is kiiillllling me you might say. Ha ha ha ha ha.”
And strait after I woke with a start to think: “How did that get in my head? Maybe Samantha really did manage to visit me to tell me something important.” But moments later, my brain was able to construct boundaries to distinguish any lucid state that may be overlapping into what is commonly known as true reality. I said out loud: “Oh...no, that doesn't happen. Dreams are just a complex mix of random exposure to random events that my conscious suffers for. Now I remember.” Having been agitated by the experience for several nights, I thought-with an attempt at regarding the matter with humor to soften its despair: “better late than never. The son will return,” deciding I would go the next day to the solicitors to find out the details of their death and find closure to the matter. I'd only seen them two years prior, it was a depressing meeting. They imagined themselves of some particularly high breed, though I knew money had only been in the family several generations back. Still, they pretended to be of importance during the difficulties of war...

I opened the door into a heated discussion. The government was distributing supplies evenly to families and this upset mother greatly. It was always a topic when supplies came in. Father tried his best to console mother: “Supply is limited dear, they have to feed the front.”
“Oh, I know that. Old fool. But our class should be receiving the good we deserve. We are an important family.” Father walked off and mother flailed her arms and walked into the kitchen to open jars, seemingly just to close them again.
“What are you looking for?” I asked her. Partly to inform of my presence (I was unnoticed, maybe deliberately, to emphasis mothers irritation) and partly to reveal to her-through the shock of embarrassment-her madness (Her behavior had always frustrated me and made me uncomfortable. I found it hard not to use this spiteful method to make her see sense).
“Oh Nicolas” she cried, embracing me, “you wouldn't believe the horrors of war, oh! What we have to endure on a daily basis. And your father, the so-called manager of that food, what-you-call-it, well, he's too proud to assert our rights.”
“Hows the front,” father asked me.
“Better.”
This seemed to please him and he put a hand on my shoulder as if it were all me, single handed. Mother stepped back; her tolerance for me would always waver when she thought I was coping. She preferred me in a consistent state of difficulty. She began a new rant of her troubles and suffering for having to look after her daughter who had been ill ever since she was a baby. I knew such a rant was a subtle attempt to swell my guilt into a kind of torture (although in her defense, I think she was always unaware of her motives, too confused by the emotions swinging her left to right). This petty torture had stemmed from my being adopted, and more importantly: a healthy child. I was sure they loved me, but they were constantly plagued by this 'superior' bastard child. And their line (which I may remind you, they considered  a good breed), was soon to be cut short.

It seems silly now, but there were times-as a child-I would worry they were plotting ways to get shot of me. They were superstitious, god fearing people. They tried to hide their suspicions that I was the reason for Samantha's illness, but mother was terrible at restraining emotion. I recall a time she was tending to Samantha. I walked into the room as Samantha began to cough. An expression, nothing short of horror, trickled to fill mothers bulging eyes. She screeched at me: “Get out! Please! Don't come near her!” This wasn't easy for a young boy to deal with, but I was not superstitious, nor did I believe in god, so reasoned it to be everything else. My rejection of religion no doubt further confirmed their ideas, as though god decided to punish them for bringing a heretic into their home. Why not just punish the heretic? I thought. Did you first have to believe in and love god for him to see you as worthy of punishing. If this was true, the cruel irony would be too much for me to bear. I could never have accepted that it was my existence that perpetuated Samantha's suffering. Even if I wanted to believe in god, I couldn't believe or accept that. So I chose not to believe, I chose random coincidences and chaos. I blamed the blameless randomness of life, believing this alleviated me of any guilty influence. 

Samantha walked in, a broad smile when she saw me. My heart set off, an attack of flutters. Her eyes were bright and morbid and lovely. This might sound a contradictory description, but let me explain: more morbid eyes god had never conceived. Deep and disconcerting they were from the moment of her birth and darker then on from illness. But they were wild and beautiful to the extent that I often found it a discomfort to meet her gaze. To know such perfection could manifest itself in an essence so near to myself was proof for me that god did not exist; for he would never allow it. When I was ten I met Samantha's great grandfather for the first time. It was suggested by my parents he visit Samantha, who at the time, was not expected to make it through the winter. He did not come often since he lived far away and being a big man found traveling a hassle. I enjoyed his company as he knew a great deal about the family history. As he left from that visit, he told me that Samantha's eyes were from some gypsy blood that had worked its way into the family line. I was never able to ask him if it was a definite truth since on his way home, via boat, he suffered a fatal heart attack and died. It was suspected the heart attack was due to the over indulgence of food and drink he partook in that night. Though it could also have been the storm, which he'd been known to suffer panic attacks during. Mother and Father would always pass off the idea of gypsy blood, but I grew up believing the old man and thanking the gypsy intrusion into the family line. For me it served as a link between us; that her eyes, which touched me as the single most physical perfection, were-like myself-an intruder for the family line.

Samantha tried to laugh a little when I didn't speak and just stared at her. She put her arms around me and I was embarrassed of my pounding chest. She took my shoulders, one in each hand, facing me and said: “I hear you've been awarded a medal for your work with the red cross. And a sergeant now.” I changed the subject to act as though I'd not acknowledged that she approved. I was desperate to speak of all my achievements with her. But had she not brought my promotion up, it would not have been mentioned. On one level it wouldn't have been appropriate to gloat about such things, and on another level, I am fearful of feeding my ego anything. I despise ego. The best way to keep it in check is to pretend it does not exist. I would go to great lengths for this. Even to the extent that, when she brought it up, I found myself unable to outwardly accept her praise. Praise  would have to have been accepted with humor to play down its importance. But even playing down the statement with humor, would be to recognize that it needed to be played down. Instead, I immediately asked how she was. She looked pained at my asking this, as though by mentioning her illness I'd revived it. I cursed myself for saying something so thoughtless just to avoid succumbing to ego. It was, after all, true cowardice to pain someone else to protect oneself. And what was I protecting but pride. It was my pride that would not allow ego. Such pathetic pride always seems to bounce from the pride ridden individual to hurt others. I knew I would be regretting the comment for days. That may seem neurotic, but I was, of course, nauseatingly deep in love with her.           
“You look better,” I said, immediately regretting that comment too; it did not come out with any sort of conviction; to forced in its immediacy. At any rate, it pleased Samantha.
mother said: “We're about to eat-do sit down, do sit, Nicholas.” I did. The slaughter began:
“Nicholas, when is this blasted war going to end? When will we get a car back? It's most distressful. I've written the Colonel you know (the Colonel had been a friend of the family for a while),” mother said.
“I'm not sure.”
“Oh. Oh dear,” mother tried her very best to look surprised and disappointed, “I thought you high rank types knew everything about these things.” Then she went strait on to talk of the general and progress Samantha had made. She was of course neither surprised nor disappointed; suspecting-before even muttering the comment-that I wouldn't know the answers. I realized, when I was much younger, that I was accepted with a sympathetic bosom if I played up to being the fool or the weakling. For this reason, even if I had known the answers to the questions, I wouldn't have answered them; it would have been considered acting clever. Now mother sat quiet, quite unsettled by her actions. As I said before, I believe she had little idea how such a nasty attitude could overwhelm her and it would take her by surprise. She would look down at her feet, only speaking to answer questions directed at her. I always forgave her when she acted with such a guilt, imagining a lot of it to be chemicals churning in her head to influence her against her better judgment. I would be left alone from petty attacks for the rest of the night. I avoided looking at Samantha, she was angry when I let mother walk over me.

After dinner, Samantha and I cleaned the plates away. We talked of our plans to move to a large city when the war had finished. We wanted to meet exciting people in a new place. The dream of all youth I suppose. I desperately wanted to take Samantha with me, but knew I was no replacement in caring for her. In all honesty, I did not want such a responsibility. I was scared of such responsibility. Samantha doubled over coughing. She said: “Oh damn this body,” and laughed. Without knowing what I was doing, I said: “It'll be worse in the city, more pollution, terrible pollution.” I seemed to be trying to say it as something humorous since directly after saying it I laughed with a sort of huff, expelling the air from my lungs. Samantha looked at me, shocked and confused. She was as suspicious of the comment as I was. I gripped the cupboard door as hard as I could, I wanted to break it in two and dig it deep in the back of my neck. That would probably save me from such a foolish thing. Father walked in and there was no time for Samantha or myself to try and understand. He asked me if I'd given myself to god yet.
“No.”
“But why, don't you want whats good for the family, you must give yourself to him.”
“I will not. I am a free man. I choose who I am. Damn you” I stormed out, like a stupid child who looks for any fight to vent his frustration. I left the next day, bright and early. It seemed the right thing to do-to avoid all the confusion. To avoid hurting anyone. The next couple of years went quickly, I only visited home twice; too heavily engaged abroad to get back. I regretted the comment, my relationship with Samantha didn't seem the same after. With such a comment, the words are not important, so much more is implied. We both knew it what it meant. It meant: “Samantha, you can't come.” I'd never intended on telling her it would be difficult for us in another city, and certainly not that she shouldn't come. I knew it wouldn't work, but supposed I'd just suppressed that until that last moment. The more logical parts of mind knew better. And by their very nature, the logical parts are the cruel parts, the parts that will just blurt out a comment to get the job done.

Chapter two

The war finished and I became distracted with my new life. Everything took off a year later, when a friend of mine, Louis, told me of a game of poker for big stakes. Apparently, the big shots (several generals and the field marshal), had snuck out some of the enemy assets and wanted to get rid of it before it was found to be missing. They considered the most practical means for its disappearance, pissing it away on gambling. We would have probably had some kind of moral disagreement with the issue if we weren't so hard up, in need of money to live. So I suppose all moral actions have their price. Louis wanted to get in but needed help with money. He'd scraped together five hundred pounds but needed another five hundred. I told him I'd get the money, if he could give me a day or so. Louis had some strange talent for poker. Our chances were good. I left strait for the bank. I had only two hundred in the bank, saved up from before the war and the odd job every now and then. I knew the only way to get the rest of the money would be to ask the Colonel for it. He was kind, but he was a tight old bastard. Luckily he was also sweet on young Sergeants and especially me.

I arrived at the Colonels a little after four in the afternoon. He answered the door in his dressing gown, unshaven.
“Ah, Nicholas, my boy, what a pleasure.”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well... do come in, I'm not dressed I'm afraid.”
“No matter, no matter, please pretend I'm not here.”
The Colonel smiled at me and opened the door fully, outwardly pleased that I should feel comfortable to accept him in such a state. We sat and he pored us both a drink.
“Tell me Nicholas,” he said, “do you judge a man that drinks at just past four in the afternoon?”
“No sir, I don't,” I said, giving him my most lovely smile.
“Well then,” he said, raising his glass and then taking a good gulp. We chatted a while about nothing and then mother, father and Sam, and her worsening condition. He suggested I return home to see them.
“Yes, yes. I believe I will,” I said, and for a second I think I believed I actually would and such belief shone through in my face and he believed it too. And in that moment I saw the opportunity that had presented itself so conveniently. I told him that I'd been wanting to go back for some time but didn't have the money to get there. And even if I did have such money it would have to go to the dept collectors, who I owe much more, or else, if I left the city without paying them, I would surely bring shame upon the family name. And that is the last thing I would want, even if it isn't my original name. More so in fact because it isn't my name, and that I've been given such a generous opportunity to use it. The Colonel stared at me a while, ruffling his brows and I wondered if I was putting on too much of a show with it all. Then he said: “how much is it? This dept.”
“About three hundred. Silly I know, and not a lot really, but it's no small amount for a man like me, when a good paying job is certainty hard to find.”
The colonel walked out of the room and when he returned he brought the three hundred in an envelope. He came close to slip it into my jacket pocket as I sipped my whiskey.
“Now, Nicholas,” he said, a stern composure-that of a general-taking him over, “I expect the money back of course, with,of course, any inflation, that is, if the money is not repaid before a substantial amount of time.”
“Of course Colonel, thank you.”
He looked me up and down, sweating a powerful lust and I was certain he would ask me some diabolically awkward question-not being able to help himself.
“And now Nicholas, I believe you were just leaving.” He stood up and opened the door. I said: “yes general and thanks again,” all but running down the long drive so he could not reconsider either transaction. Louis waited for me at the steps of my building. When I gave him the money he asked: “so do you want to flip to see who plays or what?”
“I can't play, I don't know anything about poker or gambling.”
“Well your gambling right now giving me this money.” I looked at the money in my hand and he stepped up quick to take it off me and said: “OK, I'll play.”

A week later, at midnight, in an abandoned church, naked light bulbs hanging from twenty foot cables, the game began. Spectators could watch, but only tucked safely away behind a metal railing two meters back. The church had caught a few stray bombs at some time and the light bulbs, swinging from gusts of wind to shift the shadows, did little to calm my nerves. And then, in the first two rounds of the first hand, Louis bet one hundred. I found myself whimpering, only just holding back from shouting: “what the hell are you doing?” I guessed it was a bluff on his part, some trick to start with the psychological upper hand. But by the end of the first hand he'd lost that one hundred along with another two hundred. I was shaking and worried I might intervene if I stayed. I stepped outside and smoked several cigarettes. After half an hour, one of the players from the table stepped outside with a sigh and asked for a light. I struck a match for him and asked (with painful anticipation) how Louis was holding up.
“The one with the mustache and glasses? Cleaned me out.”
I threw away my half smoked cigarette and rushed inside. Louis was up by three thousand. It was almost more unbearable than before. He won a few more hands until we were up four and a half thousand. I was dry mouthed and sweating. The lady to the left of me-who I took to be the girlfriend of one of the gamblers; from all her jewelry-scrutinized my face with disgust for each little whimper I made as the chips pilled on in. However, It didn't take her too long to realize I knew the mustached lunatic who was cleaning up, and when she did, she looked at me with respectful, friendly, almost passionate eyes. She was about to make her move to talk to me when Louis began to loose it. He wiped his brow and his bluff didn't work and we went down five hundred, then five hundred more. I knew if I stayed in that room I'd probably vomit all over the money chasing skirt next to me an spoil her red dress (there was a good chance I wouldn't be able to afford to have it cleaned), so it was strait back outside again to smoke. I asked the doorman if he could light a match for me as my shaking saw me incapable of holding the box of matches or the match still enough to get them near each other. He obliged. After an hour I'd calmed down and without thinking about the stress of it, managed to trick myself back inside. As I lent on the railing, Louis caught my eye and shouted: “twenty thousand,” almost laughing as he did. For which he recovered very well back into his poker face. The red dress brushed up against me and I thought it very inappropriate timing on her part, with all I had to worry about going on on that table. It was then I realized that I must have been bringing Louis a great deal of bad luck (or at least distracting him somehow, maybe increasing the stress), as he lost the next two hands quite easily. I wondered if he meant to, another psychological attack on the opposition maybe, but his right eye seemed to be twitching and he lit a cigarette and he rarely smoked. I worried I may have upset his balance with my presence, and wondered if I should go. I desperately wanted to watch. The red dress continued to make her presence known and from some unknown part of my character I said, loudly: “Do you mind!” And decided to storm out, more so out of embarrassment than annoyance, but hoping it would look like conviction. When outside, I decided I would stay out for the remainder of the game. Slowly, one by one, each player stepped out, head down. Every time the door opened I was dreading it to be Louis and praying for it to be him just for the anxiety of it all to be over. And such moments are so stupid, to want two things at once, but really it wasn't wanting him to come out as soon as possible, as that would mean he would have lost, but more wanting to skip forward in time and be in the very moment that he would walk out-whether in that moment he had the money or not. And there would be no use wishing to only skip to section of time when he would emerge with the money because only fate and Louis could decide such things.

Sometime the next morning around nine a boot woke me with a kick to the thigh. It was Louis, he was staring down at me, a lot of white teeth under that thick mustache. I perked up, excited, buzzing as he closed the door behind him. We took the first fancy hotel we came across, walked into our luxury sweet and Louis dived to the bed to open the case he'd been holding tight. Suddenly it had happened, it was all in front of me; piles and piles of cash, mounted up folding on top of itself like a great green and brown city. At first there was a great temptation to just spend it all, it had come so easily and I thought: “why not?” Louis seemed to realize that I might be getting just this idea and grabbed my arm. “Now don't think about going crazy with this money, because after you'll never forgive yourself.” It took a few seconds for me to drag me eyes from the money city to his face and register what he was saying. And then I felt as though all I wanted to do was bury the money safe somewhere so it would never be depleted. And I knew how stupid such a thing was and that I may as well just bury a box and pretend it were filled with money. And I worried, maybe I wouldn't be able to spend the money, since it had come with such a large amount of luck, that to spend it would be an insult to such luck. Such luck would surely only come once in a lifetime. However, in a moment the worry passed. I sent three hundred to the Colonel by post, knowing he would be chasing me up on it, given the opportunity. After that we took a train to our new city.

Chapter three

The city was a mess, a zoo. What a terrible abomination of living it was. And it was probably not to dissimilar form any other city. It had a feeling-if a city can have one-of a feigned suppression of despair. Suppressed despair could probably be considered the complete approach to life, wanted or not. I takes a certain city however, to make this apparent to such an extent. I say 'feigned' because it was neither suppressing any despair or even in a state of despair. It merely appeared to be suppressing despair because that is what excessive consumption seems to be. But really the town had always known and accepted its limitations. The simplicity of this acceptance left no room for despair. It could be considered and enlightened city, often mistaken for a dumb one. Enlightened because it didn't squander time on culture or history. It made no attempts at pretense. It was not under the misapprehension that it was worth or possible to find any tangible meaning in its existence. It had little desire for better social reform. It wished to work hard during the day. It did not bother the cities occupants that they rarely enjoyed the actual tasks their work involved. For they would not completely give themselves to it. They would not work the job with the intention of finding contentment in it. They seemed to know, perhaps by some subconscious preprogrammed reasoning, that contentment could not be found in achievement of job. But that it came from the simple pleasures they indulged in: the drink, the foolish behavior, the debauchery. The short but beautiful evenings and weekends, which worked like a reset button; suppressing any growing concern they may be missing something from their lives. I could respect this attitude for simple pleasures, and tried hard to adopt the attitude myself.

Even Louis's house wasn't much, just a cheap place. Cheap so he could spend his money on drink and women for as long as possible. I liked the place except for the rats. Pet rats. I found it hard to be around them; they were trapped in a strange unnatural world. Louis would let them out their cage and they would be searching for something, searching for anything. It seemed brainless because they had enough food, water shelter right where they were. But it wasn't enough for them. Maybe nowhere was enough.
“Probably a primal thing, a twenty four seven search for a mate,”  Louis always said.
“God bless evolution,” someone would add. I mean, I didn't mind them. I liked them if anything. Just found it hard because...it was sad; they believed they were doing something worthwhile. Believed they could eventually escape somewhere. That a door leading to salvation existed. But it didn't. It was just a door leading to another room like the one they were in. I admired the rats in a way. Admired the simplicity to their strategy; they would walk until they hit an edge and then follow that edge all the way round. Maybe forever. I could have happily followed a wall if I had the courage. Courage seemed inconsequential to them. I didn't need to work around that time and spent a lot of time hanging round with Louis and going out with other people with money. I'd invested a large amount of capital in a struggling construction company. With that investment, they had expanded and taken on government contracts for rebuilding, replacing partially destroyed small dwellings with high rise. They took off in the millions.

After a few months in that new city, my family managed to catch up with me. I received a phone call from one of my fathers friends. The phone call informed me of the death of my adopted father, mother and Samantha. That night I didn't sleep too well, and didn't sleep to well the next night either. Eventually I decided I'd take a train to the solicitors (as I told you earlier). When I arrived my fathers solicitor was just leaving. He made a little time for me when I told him who I was. He told me: Samantha had been in a critical condition. My mother called an ambulance, but my father probably insisted on driving (Believing it to be quicker), as they had already left when the ambulance arrived. On the way fathers car veered off the road. They broke though a barrier, off a bridge, and into the river below. No one had managed to escape the car. It sat on the riverbed for two days. Most of their wealth and possessions had been sorted, specified in the will to be donated to charity, after my disappearance. The solicitor had a letter for me, delivered to him personally by Samantha, a few days before her death. I slipped into my tightly tucked hotel bed and opened the letter in a hurry. It read:

“Dearest Nicholas

You rat, You bastard. And I say bastard in the most hurtful term and mean it. I know thats what will hurt the most, and thats what I want for you now, for leaving me here to rot. And I have been rotting, not just from this blasted illness, but your damn selfishness. How could you leave me behind? All I wanted was to see the city for a while.

I do hope you made it in our city Nick. Come back.  All I hear of is my condition. Apparently I haven't much left.

Always yours

Sam”

I couldn't help but laugh at her formal introduction, but there was no time for the laugh to last, as I broke down and sobbed into the envelope, again the stupid child. I wondered if I'd ever realize what it meant to take responsibility like a man. I turned the gold plated tap to full, let the cold tap run and cupped my hands for a bowl to splash my face. I looked up into the mirror and said: “So selfish Nicholas. So selfish. No son should neglect his family in such a way.” I shivered after this comment; uncomfortable talking to myself but not able to help it. I wiped my face with a  perfectly white towel. A real man wouldn't abandon his family for any small difficulties, but forgive them. Forgive! What a ridiculous word. What a selfish word in itself. As if I ever had any right to forgive anyone. I would invite everyone to look down on me and ask what sort of right I have to forgive anyone of anything. This made me laugh a while and left me wondering if there was any greater joke than the idea that I had any sort of integrity to pass judgment on those around me. I jumped up from the bed and said: “Who is it that is lower than me that I can forgive them.” So then I decided; I would never forgive anyone, and maybe I would never even judge them so I could never come to the problematic conclusion of needing to forgive them. Never put them in a position lower than myself, where I could forgive them.

I slunk to the window to rest my elbows on the windowsill and look out at the hotel opposite and the people in the windows there. One window stood out to me. A group people sat drinking and laughing. They were a few years younger than me and not dressed in the typical hotel clientèle dress. I imagined they didn't often stay in hotels, enjoying the wonder of being waited on, perhaps just got lucky and came across some money. I thought how wonderful it would be have friends with an innocent attitude, unmarred by money and what money brings. I wished they would invite me over and I could regain some of the naive attitude they most likely shared and perhaps find a new string of life to the city. You can pull people around you with money. And they will love you in a way. But they bring no relief of loneliness. Only a feeling that loneliness is a norm that can only be accepted. I began to think of my family again. Maybe I should have left home sooner, while I was still a young boy, or else not at all. Maybe either attempt would have inspired a positive attitude in my family. Mother all but convinced Samantha she wouldn't get better while I was around. And yet I know that when I left, to have nothing but mothers anxiety and madness, Samantha must have simply given up. I thought of father driving speeding the car down those thin winding roads. He never usually drove fast or reckless. Maybe if I'd been there to calm them...I realized that one of the girls from the window was waving at me and that I had been staring at them. She signaled for me to come over. I turned and moved away from the window, pretending to not have noticed. Then not wanting to go back to the window where she would see me again, and not wanting to close the blind, as this would probably suggest I had seen her and would have to act on it or be thought of irrespectively, I felt a sudden urge that I would just have to leave the hotel room. And this way, she would think I had important business elsewhere. There was a fire escape leading to an outside set of stairs the other side of the building. I took it; not wanting to have to face the sparkling hotel foyer and prestigious people, with their personalities that mirrored mine so perfectly. And it was the reflection of myself in their grim personalities that bothered me so much. I fell off the bottom few steps of the fire escape into a puddle. It didn't seem to matter. Then I ran, ran, ran until I reached the docks and there was no more road to run down, it was a wall. I took a left and walked to the bar that Louis, myself and acquaintances often hung around. They were all there, Louis and the rest, for some party. I remembered I'd been invited, but didn't feel like it at the time. I stayed however, as It felt calmer with the atmosphere of the bar. It distracted me from my thoughts, there was no space for them among the shouting and animated joy of drunken people. We raised our glasses and barked toasts to some unknown birthday. I decided then that I hated politeness, which seemed to only to stop me from doing what I desired. and what was worse, I could think of no real reason to be polite, to be stuck in another corner in another grim bar with people I hardly knew or liked. The chances were, after tonight I would never see a lot of them again, and what of it if I did, what if I was rude and walked out but then saw them again, perhaps caught in an elevator or some place similar. And we would say hello and we would feel awkward and maybe even embarrassed. But so what? Was I polite to avoid embarrassment or confrontation? Surely there is no honor or dignity in doing so. I had fallen in with the wrong crowd, I knew that. They were all gamblers and womanizers. Funny because I admired them in a way; admired their confidence to do as they pleased and not think of the consequences. I thought: “How great it would be to live life in such a way.” But I couldn't let myself go so easily and consequently I missed the fun of it all, sat bored in a corner.  Now I was here, I decided I may as well drink the bad away. So I drank and drank. Every night I'd been drinking more and more for the boredom and the nights grew longer.  After the third beer and several shots I began to think about Samantha. A grin spread over my face. I had imagined one day I would go waltzing in, them barely recognizing me in my expensive clothes. I would pay off all their dept to show forgiveness and I would have the resources to help Samantha in any way, take her to wherever she wanted to go. And if I wished I would even of asked her to marry me and how could she of turned me down? With all I had become, all I had done.
“Ah, Nicholas,” One of the girls that liked to hang around the big spenders sat on my lap, “I can get you a drink?”
I looked down at my drink and sighed.
“Ah, not to happy eh? So definitely a drink. Hey Martin!” She signaled to the barman and he sent some drinks over. How had I let this situation go on for months. She took a drink and sat properly beside me.
“Come on, Nicholas, you've been moping around for weeks, tell me whats wrong.”
“Silly really. Maybe nothing. I seem to be teaching myself to be some sad wreck. Everyday I become more accomplished at it. I could probably be the greatest sad wreck. I feel so sad all the time and I'm not sure why.”
“Oh, Nicholas, I've met your type before. It's this lifestyle, It's just not for you, dear.”
She took my hand, Jenny, I think her name was, and led me outside. We walked through the crowded, dimly lit but lively streets. Large men in suits crashed out of doors, drunk, fighting or chasing some girl, who skipped along puckering her lips and blowing kisses at them all. Huge smiles and a careless attitude to everything. I envied them. Jenny lit a cigarette and said: “You know, when I first came to this town, I had no job, no friends. Everything seemed to slow down so much after the war there seemed nothing to do. Nothing else, no purpose, no one to fight. I felt sick, all the time, from no direction. It was complete emotional overload. Eventually it worked its way into my dreams to choke me there too. It worked its way into the times that I drank. Before, my dreams, and the times I drank were my safe havens. I didn't feel connected to anyone.” Jenny trailed off looking out over the docks.
“And?” I asked.
“The whole thing was so stupid. What was I fighting? Eventually I got a job at a bar, had Sally-thats my daughter-and things seemed better.”
We walked along the dock a little further. I waited for her to ask me something-what I was so sad about. She didn't. I knew it would be better to say nothing, rather than embarrassing myself, unloading all my troubles. Eventually I couldn't stand it, and if nothing but to break the silence I blurted out: “I've become a burden to this world,” realizing after how stupid it sounded. Luckily their was no laughter; Jenny was kind enough to humor me with this.
“You'll probably think me melodramatic,” I continued, with a short, forced laugh, “and I wouldn't blame you for rolling your eyes and looking for a reason to leave. But there in my point lies!” I made another scuff like laugh, aware I was sounding like an anxious fool.
“You see, this sadness, the moping around, it does come as a burden for those around, who feel they have to entertain me, or try and boost my spirit.” I stopped, expecting her to say something, to tell me I was being silly, that It was a pleasure to have me around, or something. But she just looked at me and nodded slightly. I felt compelled to continue.
“I know I have certain personality traits to offer, but feel these have been dampened recently by this artificial depression. And it is artificial you see; with no plausible cause. I make every attempt, take every moment to understand this sadness, in hope that I will realize some solution to it. However, such introspection only contaminates the mind further, emphasizing the problem as it is realized more and more.” We were well out of the center of town now and any gentleman would have turned around, it being so late. But I was a little drunk and getting carried away with myself. Jenny no longer seemed interested. She was no doubt just humoring me more, but I didn't care. “Let her humor me,” I thought, “she takes so damn much of my money, all I ask for is a little of her time.”
“My problem-and of course I know what it is,” I said, starting to feel I was bringing the whole situation to a head and maybe making some breakthrough, for which I was certainly impressing myself, “is that I'm experiencing life-much like you said-on an overloaded level. It is an abundance of life, and it weighs heavily on me. “Is is a great pity,” you would say,” I laughed anticipating my thoughts, “if you were to read about it in some cheap, half ass attempt at a novel. You would probably even cry and curse the world. But if you were there, in my presence, while I talked-or let me be honest-as I ranted-such as I am now-about such things, you would wish to cast me off and find some reason to shrug me into the gutter.” This was an aggressive comment, almost completely for Jenny's account. I was sure her thoughts would be just that, but she would feel guilty now for thinking it. And guilt was what I wanted from her for her getting me into such a fluster, and then wishing only to ditch me as I remarked on the very concept of people wanting to do so. Jenny lit two cigarettes and passed one to me. We sat on the bank and the smoke rushed out to sea, running away with the breeze. We walked for a bit and I gathered my thoughts, desperate to pick up where I left before the conversation could be changed.
“Ah yes,” I said, remembering. Jenny laughed.
“...Well what's funny?” I asked, angry that she would belittle me with a laugh when I was in the lowly state of bearing my soul.
“I just like to listen to you talk,” she said, “you have a strange passion for misery.”
I felt bad then for having forgotten to be a gentleman, making a silly boyish spectacle of myself. I continued; to give the appearance that her comment had not affected me. But I could not help relaxing my tone.
“Yes, well, I do not blame anyone for such a nature that would consider me mad or thoughtless and leave me to deal with it alone. I mean, it is this nature that is ignorant and happy and therefore unwilling or frightened to give up it's ignorance. And it would have to give up this ignorance if it were to realize any suffering I might endure. Such a recognition, that is, one of my suffering, would be a recognition that there was a problem,” My thoughts were getting carried in circles and Jenny stared at me puzzled, “and if such a problem is recognized, then all such wonderful ignorance-and it is wonderful-would cease to exist. As one cannot be ignorant of the problem while simultaneously recognizing it.” Jenny took my arm and we continued to walk and I thought I could probably talk forever, like I was some great poet, and each word a pleasure for all to listen too.
“I know that if I were in their position...”
“Whose position,” jenny asked.
“The men at the club. If I were in their position, I too would not wish to forsake ignorance, for there is no gain in it, just desperation and despair.” Jenny laughed again, but I didn't mind, I was the poet.
“So I forgive everyone, you see, and pray for their ignorance as I pray that some day I might be struck dumb and enjoy the colours of the trees or the sky, without an after thought for them, just a simple connection and passion of tantalized senses.” I said all this in one of those manners that you do when you get wound up and you feel like you don't care. This is no break down or insanity or drug induced state I am talking about. It can happen over a short period of time, weeks, even days. It is the solitude that causes it and I have often heard it called cabin fever. Sometimes it can be experienced for months at a time (and such was the case of my current situation), and it is particularly hard to bear over a long period, to the extent where you begin to question if it is a break down or some form of insanity. And such thoughts only push the problem further and it becomes a sort of depression. It's almost impossible to be happy in such states. There is no let up from the mind. It catches you at every turn. It becomes this...overload, yes, Jenny coined that perfectly. It works on you cumulatively, increasing with each successive addition of each depressing day. I myself believe the cause is a simple matter of loneliness. But I wouldn't tell Jenny this. Of course I told her of the symptoms, the side effects of my loneliness. But not that I was in any state of loneliness. Then she would have a great deal of pity for me. She would maybe even think me pathetic, probably useless, a loser. She wouldn't be wrong to think it, it is only a logical chain of thought; anyone with use is rarely lonely. And I am pathetic. Ha! What a great relief to say it. Yes I am pathetic. Sometimes I despise myself for being so pathetic. I wish I was stupid. Oh what a foolish thing to say you might think. But really it's not, or else I wouldn't be saying it. I wish I was stupid to the point of not feeling loneliness. How wonderful such an existence would be. But I am too positive to really wish such a thing, or otherwise I would probably hit myself on the head with a hammer (a sure and quick way to be struck dumb). And so, perhaps with this positive rejection of hammer technique I am strong enough. And I feel all serious now for saying that. I wouldn't tell Jenny of loneliness because I was too much of a coward. Of course it is customary to leave signs; a cry for help. But I was to proud or too pathetic to even dare too. I realized that I had been in my own head for quite a while, and Jenny was more than uncomfortable. She made an excuse about her  daughter and left me alone on the dock. I didn't really care any more. I felt I'd got what I needed from her. However, I had no idea where I was. I walked for a while in the opposite direction from which Jenny went, but I wasn't recognizing anything. I decided to go back and find Jenny. I ran and ran and the dock just kept going with no Jenny.

My clothes were sodden with sweat, I could feel I was red faced. I sat on a the floor next to the water to catch my breath and the world moved around me, jerking and jolting from the drink. When I looked up a boy stood in front of me. He didn't look scared and had a presence about him that seemed misplaced. Perhaps because of his naked dirty chest. He did not talk to me or smile, just stared. That boy, seemed look at me with so much anger, for which there was no reason. I couldn't look at his eyes or his frowning brows. I couldn't even look up. What is this boy to posses such a power over me? Over me? I am a winner. I am a man. I am a god. I am that sun that burns to the laughter from the gutters. I am the haze of soul drifting through the streets like Gabriel's song. I am the very heart that beats to charge life back into the withered, brittle streets. With a great effort I peeped up, but was caught by those inquisitive burning eyes so I could only look down again. What? What do you want from me? Why do I have to be scrutinized and judged? What about all those others? They've squandered their lives too. Haven't they? But I tried at least. I tried to be happy, tried to achieve, tried to...am I really so foolish and selfish, I mean, yes I have devoted a lot of my attention to money but what else do you want of me? Isn't that what we're all after? A good time. What else is there? I've been happy with the people around me, maybe I never loved them but...Somehow, I felt under those eyes. Or maybe released is a better word. He'd given me something, a lowness of character, a truth to my soul. I felt dead, but for feeling it I also felt such a low character could be forgiven of anything, as I surely would be if the boy would just utter the words. I looked up and the boy had gone, running off from the direction he came. “Hey kid,” I shouted, but he didn't look back. He ran away and took my forgiveness with him.

Suddenly I was overcome with an awful build up of anxiety. It came when a scornful voice-of my own head-posed the question: what if I never again felt love like that I felt for Samantha
“And what of those eyes,” I shouted at the sky, “what a waste for such eyes to dry and waste with so few realizing their beauty.”
What if the one thing, which now I am willing to admit is probably what I was truly looking for and everything before some foolish means set up by my subconscious to achieve it-what if I never find it, never find any kind of lasting love for another human being as I did for Samantha. I fell against a lamp post, finding it hard to breath. What if, ultimately, it had all been a fantastically, elaborate, waste of time. What was I then if I couldn't achieve the one thing I wanted? I crawled to the edge of the dock to be sick into the water. Is this it? Am I done for as a man? Could I ever call myself a man to not achieve anything, and if I have not achieved love, the only reason I want this life, I have achieved nothing. And then...then can I justify calling myself a worthwhile man, if even a man?
A man and woman walked up, hand in hand. They did not notice me until they were a few meters away and when they did they both jumped with a start and moved around me as if I were a ticking bomb. I said in an obtrusive and loud voice: “Well, yes, lets give the man...the drunken fool, a wide birth,” I put on a posh sort of voice: “He's sat in a puddle darling, what a monster to be sat in the wet so. Give him a wide birth, don't get too close.”
“Well this is certainly one of my lower points,” I said to myself quietly and calmly. The calm surprised me. I looked down into that black water, it didn't look so bad. With the orange light reflecting so delicately, it even looked beautiful. And most inviting. I felt a warmth creep up my limbs, like I was  consumed by and connected with the world. I shuddered. I looked down where my hands gripped the edge; there was grit there, it dug into my palms and fingers. I gripped tighter, felt grounded to that concrete edge, the jabbing of the grit almost euphoric, an overwhelming sensory touch of ecstasy. The grit hurt my hands. It was overwhelming in its pleasure, but I could not let it stop. Did not want it to. I kept as still as I could. I didn't breath. Just concentrated on the feeling and it whipped around me stronger. It certainly didn't matter, any of it: The boats, the buoys, the cranes, the...I knew then I wanted to go into the water, wanted to feel it around me, wholly consumed. The problem was the right time, it changed and changed, slapping, tapping lightly against the wall I gripped. When would it allow me in? Then I realized the tapping was surely a counting down. I had no idea how long until it would no loner allow me but did not want to take a chance. I leaned forward and slid down the wall into the water. It was cold but I didn't mind. The water weaved its way under my tight clothing, caressing me lightly. And then it found the way into my lungs. I accepted. And oh what a glorious feeling of freedom and birth. A great hippo I was, to glide into the depths and fear not anything. And I could hear it all, the beautiful sounds of the strings trembling higher and higher and beat the drums and smash the gongs. I am here. A drop to the low notes. The woodwind hum and they buzz and they vibrate right through me and I spin and I spin an angel in flight for the first time. I was drunk on it and I cared not. And sneak in the horns from somewhere below, so subtle, so utterly subtle, that even the greatest ears could not have conceived it. And bark the strings as high as they can for that great upward spiraling climax and most joyful end break down and I felt I could die as it is too much for any mortal soul to bear. And thank god it ended for I  was at my peak so close to splitting my head into a thousand or more pieces. There is a moment of peace, a silent tranquil ignorance, like a drug hitting my heart to be pumped back to every corner. I relax, but only for a minute..Then! A heavy tap of the sticks and the crash of a beautifully high and slightly detuned piano. It plays and it plays, cycling lower and lower and slower and slower, until the anticipation of each change has me begging for the end, the final end. It is all I want, despite the beauty of it all, I only want it to stop, as such beauty should never be given, for there can be nothing after, nothing will compare. It is sickening and lovely to cramps. I vomited and shook with such violence I couldn't believe I had the muscles or energy to do it. It was all really disgusting I suppose, such an end to the end. But I accepted. And then...

The water pulled away from me, retreating back to the bottom. Did I do something wrong? I thought. Maybe even for this cold water I am not good enough. I felt the lights above and I popped above the watter bobbing up and down.
“Easy now boy”
My lunged burned and crushed to be shot of what was inside. I kept my jaws shut, not wanting to let it go. I'd given myself to it and that was my choice. But against my will, my body would not have it. I spluttered and clamped my jaws harder. But then it burst from me and I thought all my insides, my organs and my soul would follow.
“Thats it thats it, you're alright now.”
I kept my eyes shut, some stupid hope that I would enter that world again, as though it were like trying to sleep after that sudden awakening as the door slams or a fox screeches. Then my eyelids were forced open and gazing up at the penetrating street light above. A man and a boy peered down at me, apparently concerned.
“I'll phone for ambulance,” the man said, standing up so high he seemed to swoop his head just under the clouds, and then running off with great strides. I looked at the boy. He smiled. “Seen you before.” he said. It was the boy from earlier. Now his face looked calm with an almost friendly mock. And there was everything to mock in such stupidity as mine.
“Your going to be alright,” he said, “You're a survivor alright.”
“Yes, a survivor,” I agreed.


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