I AM A WRITER

Around about this time last week I got my first ever job as a freelance writer - 7 x 4.5 minute shows for broadcast.  Despite creating for broadcast in my day job, it felt like validation that I am in fact a real, authentic, genuine writer.  Up until the commission I had reassured myself I was ‘definitely a writer’ by staring at the word count (82,000) of my work in progress novel and the fact I write that on a MacBook.

It’s a miracle I got any writing work at all as there’s no proof of any recent scribings on this here blog, I’ve been so consumed with the novel that keeping this up-to-date just didn’t factor in. 

Having thought about it, I’ve decided it won’t hurt to get away from my page a night of ‘the book’ after work routine now and again.  So expect to see more posts than my usual once a year.  Exciting.

Repetition: Part One

The silence lets Greg know that, for a few moments at least, it is over.

He rests his head in his hands and focuses all of his energy on not throwing up.  The nausea is just beginning to subside when another call beeps through to his headset.  Greg cannot bear the thought of regurgitating his script yet again and so hangs up on whoever it is that waits at the other end of the line - he hopes no-one is listening into his calls right now.

With bleary eyes he stares into the computer screen in front of him, his head is filled with half-remembered glimpses of what happened last night.  His skull aches attempting to retrieve the missing pieces from his evening, the events which led to Ally leaving that message this morning.  'What the fuck did I do?' he thinks to himself, but before he can contemplate the issue further he has to battle the urge to vomit.

Greg had read Ally's text message as he lay in bed, still drunk, this morning.  He groaned in shame before finding it strangely pleasing for the first thing he read in the day to be 'You are not a cunt x'.  It was just a pity such a positive statement could only be delivered to him after drunkenly harassing the man he is in love with.

It had been the strong pulsating vibrations of his mobile - alerting him to the existence of the message - which had roused Greg from his semi-comatose state.  There were still hours before he needed to get up for work but he only managed to doze off for a few more stolen minutes, the alcohol coursing around his body preventing him from gaining any more rest.  And now, the lack of sleep is telling on Greg's face; the stubble, the dark rings around his eyes, the red, boozy flush of his cheeks, all outwardly portray that he is tired and feels like shit.

Another call buzzes through.  Repeating the sales pitch his computer throws up at him, Greg realises several minutes into the conversation that he has not registered a single thing that he has said or done since it began.  Panic hits him and he attempts to zone in on what functions his body has performed whilst his mind has been pondering the many possible forgotten actions preluding Ally’s message being sent.  

After reading and re-reading the words Ally sent to him, Greg threw his mobile to the other side of his double bed filled with a sense of repulsion.  He turned his back on it as if it were a lover he was spurning.  Since then, he has not been in the mood to read the details of the calls he made, the catalogue of messages he sent and received whilst under the influence.  His stomach is not strong enough to deal with the reality of what is contained within the memory chips encased in the plastic box of his phone.  Greg does not want to access what secrets it holds and so it is switched off, in his pocket, burning into his skin - he is constantly aware of its presence.

On Greg's desk, the cup he filled from the water cooler as he entered the office is empty bar a few remaining drops of liquid.  If he had the energy he would go and get some more, but he does not, so he sits staring at his screen and feeling like he is dying.  Someone walks past his cubicle but his gaze does not avert from the computer.  He cannot look anyone in the eye through fear of what he said or did to them last night being mentioned.  The last thing Greg wants is to be reminded of his indiscretions.

With no warning things suddenly flash back to him, he can feel one of many glasses of wine in his hand, he is telling someone not to let him get too drunk - a comment which was clearly ignored, he angrily mutters "bastards" under his breath.

Memories of other nights where he has been the drunkest person at the party roll through his head.  Always unintentionally, Greg finds himself unable to realise when his body is saturated with alcohol and continues to funnel booze into his mouth, he resolves there and then that he is giving up drink for good.

Last night followed the standard routine of a night out for Greg, he had intended to have a few drinks then stick to water to stay fresh for work today.  Instead, as soon as he was standing at the bar all he wanted was to feel a bit out of himself, to distance his mind from his body which had spent the previous eight hours performing the most mundane and soulless of tasks.

From the brief comments thrown at him as he passed through the office on his way to his desk, Greg is certain of which pub they had stayed in for the evening.  Jumping back a few hours he can see himself sitting there, gulping down his third glass of wine, marvelling that he was starting to feel slightly worse for wear and enjoying the sensation.  Not that he tasted what he was drinking, swigging down the rich burgundy liquid it held no taste, he gasped between mouthfuls waiting for its effects to kick in.

Almost every shift at the call centre finishes with a few drinks, they are now an extension of Greg's working hours.  He and his workmates troop off to the pub en masse just as they do on their lunch hour and their speedy fag breaks before they have to log back onto their computers.

Greg hates working here.  During his shifts he can feel his brain slowly rotting as he performs actions which could just as easily be performed by an emotionally stunted robot.  He is the lead singer in a band, he has an Honours degree, he works the odd shift in a cool, arty pub - this was only supposed to be a stop gap until better things arose.  Better things have not appeared, and so Greg is reduced to drinking as much as is needed to help him cope with how let down he feels with life.

Although he does not even like the taste of wine, it is Greg's drink of choice as it gets him inebriated quickest.  At first he cannot stand the taste and takes only very small, measured sips.  Then, after a certain quantity - which he cannot quite pinpoint - he finds himself yearning for more of it and it begins to disappear quickly from his glass.  The warm feeling that it gives him in his belly spreads to his head and his groin.  He becomes emotional, yearning for love and affection - desperate to share his inner-most thoughts with those around him.  He is overly sensitive, beginning to feel rejected by those that he loves, all he desires is human contact.  This combination of sensations leads to one of two things, he either ends up crying that no-one cares about him, or he attempts to hump whoever is close-by.  Knowing this, Greg makes the reasonably safe bet that he cried down the phone to Ally, telling him he loved him and asking why Ally didn't love him back.  That or he invited him round to the flat for a fuck.  It is difficult to determine which scenario is more humiliating.

The fog in Greg's head is cleared by someone leaning over the side of his cubicle and attempting to discuss last night.  "...That was some good time we had, eh?  You ever get eating your chips, you were holding them while you spoke on the phone outside the club for fucking ages..." Greg does not look up, from the voice he deduces it is Dave but he has no interest in contributing to a conversation, he begins to talk on an imaginary call and only stops the pretence once he is sure Dave has wandered back to his own desk.

Greg's headache becomes more intense, aggravated by the chatter of people around about him and Dave's words ringing in his ears.  The smell of chips jumps to the forefront of his mind, he feels the gentle swaying of his body as he attempted to eat them.  Speech slowly filters through his brain, Greg hears himself speaking in a whiney voice as he tells Ally, "I am so sorry I'm calling you so late, I'm sorry I'm telling you all this but I really love you, I really do.  I am such a cunt I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry.  I'm such a cunt."  Greg squirms from utter, desperate embarrassment in his seat, he slams his head down on the desk and shuts his eyes as tight as he can, hoping somehow this will enable the memories to disappear back into the depths of his brain.

Smog

It floats above us, clinging to the air - heavy and thick.

We move tentatively, unsure how to manoeuvre around what looms over us.

Eyes meet, transmitting silent signals, testing to see if we should continue the pretence of there being nothing wrong. Our bodies shift our weight as we squirm to find comfort where we sit together but there is none to be found.

We exchange words, uttered in the knowledge that they are loaded with meanings we dare not confront. We continue in this manner for some time, our eyes distracted by the moving images on the television screen whilst our minds take note of every movement, every potential thought of the other.

Above us the smog grows thicker, too dense to penetrate. To attempt to dispel it now seems impossible. Instead, we sit uneasy in the knowledge that - for the moment at least - it shall remain undisturbed, it will not be discussed. We allow it to fester until we are unable to move due to its presence.

Our bodies drift slowly towards one another. The distance we allowed to stay between us diminished as if we are trying to huddle together for protection against that which hovers above us. We can feel it close-in around about us, we are seeking shelter from each other.

Arms so close that the hairs protecting either skin intertwines with the others, they stand on end as if electricity has been passed through our bodies. Hearts racing, breathing becoming a little shallower, our eyes focus on the screen, attempting to propel ourselves away from this awkwardness.

The Empty Vessel

I stare down from the bridge into the water watching it shine in the darkness below me. The street lights cast enough of a glow that I can see my reflection. I look at myself looking into the water and I do not appear any different to how I have always done. It is just my insides that have altered.

I had not suspected the evening would have so much of an impact on me. There were many things I was expecting to feel, but this was not it. For instance I knew that it would be awkward to see him again after all of this time - and it had been. I weirdly enjoy the strangeness we share when we are together. Even now that I do not love him I still adore being in his company, the odd moments when we touched thrilled me, the conversations we had will be replayed in my head for days.

I did not mean to come down to the river so late on my own. It wasn't until I had left him that I thought of visiting this spot. He will never know it but this place is very important to us.

A car drives over the bridge, its headlights bring me harshly into view for a few seconds. I feel exposed. I do not want to be alone in the spotlight, I want to be embraced by the night, I want to stay hidden.

There is nowhere but the riverbank to go if I do not want to be seen. Once I am down next to the water the only thing I can hear is my heart beating. I forget how loud it gets these days now that my chest is empty, my body a hollow cave where once it was filled with love for him.

It is not that I do not still have those feelings, it is just that I no longer carry them with me constantly. It was too painful to have that burden with me wherever I went, it is much easier to know that they still exist but are stored elsewhere.

I cannot remember the exact date that I chose to be this empty vessel. Which is strange as every other moment connected to him, no matter how insignificant, remains clear in my thoughts.

Whenever it was, that day was the same as all of the others days had been since I met him, I thought of him and nothing else from the moment I woke. The pain that I did not have some concrete sign that he loved me too was too much to bear. I could not have him in my life and feel this way anymore.

And so I stored my feelings neatly away in a box. I could not trust myself to be able to access them and so I tied a chain around it and locking it into position before throwing away the key. Within hours I would have been picking that lock and so I had to get rid of it completely. I came down to the bridge and flung it into the murky water. Instead of floating away and eventually finding itself at sea, the box splashed and sunk to the depths of the river.

I wanted the feelings to vanish yet I know that they remain on the riverbed, they are not as far out of reach as I need them to be. If I took off my clothes and dived to the bottom of the river I could touch the box, rescue it from lying there. Its chain will have rusted in the months that have passed but what is inside will not have rotted.

My heart races quicker in anticipation of being so close to what I want back so badly. I move closer to the water's edge, in the darkness I cannot tell how deep the water is. I sit on the cold ground and take off my boots and socks before plunging my feet into the water. It is chilly but not unbearable. I think I could manage to submerge myself in the water for the few minutes it would take to do what I have to do. If it were light I would not be able to do this, the daytime would show how dirty and dank the water is. But I cannot see anything except refracted light and waves.

I am suddenly aware of someone lurking behind me, I scramble to get out of the water and have just finished gathering my things when the tramp emerges from the shadows. He mutters something, he is still several feet away from me but I can smell the booze he reeks of, I mumble words in response and walk quickly back into the light.

Crossing the bridge to make my way home I look down onto the water but do not let my eyes linger at the spot where the box lies.

The chain will rust, moss will grow over the box and I shall remain hollow.