short stories · thoughts

~ Wandering the Darkness ~

~ Wandering the Darkness ~

At times I knew I was falling too far into the pits of depravity and insanity. My drinking became heavier and my behaviour more outrageous. I wanted to come back to some sort of peace and tranquillity. I always thought it was there, like a bridge I could cross whenever I got tired, but one day I considered that maybe that bridge had collapsed and I wouldn’t be able to easily return to that steady state I was once in. I was stuck in the lands of madness, where the crooked tree branches surrounded me, where wild-eyed vultures picked at carcasses, and dark spaces held hidden terrors. There was no clear way of going back so onward I kept walking into the dense foliage toward whatever fate awaited me. 

On that path I thought of all the others who had gone crazy and lost themselves completely on similar journeys. I didn’t want to be like them and I knew I still had the light inside of me – the light that could lead me to the lands of peace once more. But at that moment a great doubt settled in my head and I couldn’t help but wonder whether destruction and disaster was my inevitable destination. My drinking continued to become heavier as I felt more and more distant from the people who stood in front of me. I was losing touch with reality at times, drifting away in a room of crowded people, fading out from my surroundings, losing my mind while wandering in the darkness.

I wouldn’t be the first in my family to have wandered down such a path. I thought of my uncle who died alone in a room of sadness and alcoholism. They found him amid the empty bottles, unresponsive and not even fifty years old. He had been living in that apartment for some years, separated from his ex, rarely seeing his son and drinking heavily. I remember my father first telling me about his problem. “You have to understand that he can’t stop himself when drinking. Most people can have a few and then stop themselves, but he can’t. When he drinks just one, he carries on drinking until he passes out. That’s why he can’t drink any alcohol at all.” 

At his funeral I looked around at the forlorn faces of my relatives. Funerals were always sad occasions, but when they were for someone who had passed before their time, then there was an extra bleakness in the air. My other uncle got up and told stories of his life before breaking down in tears. Listening to his words, I reflected on the last times I had seen him, usually in passing in the city centre while he was on his way to his job serving meat on a deli counter in the market. As a teenager, I had failed to spot the pain in his eyes, but now I was older and the sadness of the world had made itself home in my heart too, I looked back at those occasions and understood things a bit more clearly. I think about the situation he was in, barely surviving off a cash-in-hand job at the local market, living alone in a small flat, failed relationships and rarely seeing his only child. Like many hurting people, he turned to the bottle to numb the pain of his reality. And now I see his face in my memory; the bloated face, the red cheeks, the lost look in those eyes. The reality was always there in front of me if only I had the awareness to see it.

As a child, I didn’t understand how someone couldn’t stop themselves from drinking. But now I have reached a time in my life where I start to see the darkness in which my uncle lost himself within. The demons lure you in, and it becomes so easy to spiral off into a storm of self-destruction. There had been too many times that I had gone on reckless benders, drinking myself into oblivion, sedating and medicating through the bottle. When your world feels a bit empty, it’s a quick fix to migrate to a different land – a hazy land that may feel like heaven in moments, but is really hell. You make a trade to distort and suppress your senses, but life loses its shine until the darkness is all you know. Slowly you become comfortable in it as it surrounds and engulfs you. You don’t even struggle against it; you like the feeling of seeing yourself slip away in the distortion. That blur of new faces, the hedonistic excess, the reckless and wild behaviour – the brutal hangovers only cured by picking up the bottle again. It’s madness. Pure madness. And you get sucked into the vortex ever more rapidly until that chaos is all you know and understand.

Despite currently drinking heavily and being out of control, a part of me believed that I was able to put the bottle down if I absolutely had to. I had a period every year where I stopped drinking for two or three months in the autumn. I also knew the happiest I’ve ever been were those stages at the age of 26 and 28 when I went sober for a few months. I exercised often, ate reasonably okay, slept well, meditated and didn’t go near the bottle. Even just staring at a drink made me feel nothing at that point. There was zero attraction. I knew it was poison to the state of consciousness I’d acheived – that all the gains of happiness I’d made would be dragged back and taken away from me. But despite those periods, I still find myself here I am a few years on drinking more heavily than ever before. There are reasons for this I suppose. The loss of time and frustration that came from the covid lockdowns; the fact I’ve just turned 30 and want to make the most of this very last bit of my youth. I’d had fun in some ways, I suppose, but these latest benders fill me with almost a fear that perhaps I really have lost my mind; that I have lost control; that I will never return from these woods of madness and find my way back to the lands of peaceful light. It fills me with a fear that I will not be able to stop and they’ll find me one day in that room of isolation, unresponsive on some beer-stained sofa, amid the bottles and beer caps – another soul taken by the need to try and find some shelter and escape from life’s unrelenting storm.

thoughts

Piercing Reflections

‘One morning I awoke in a strange room with a foul taste in my mouth. My date from the previous night was still fast asleep and I figured it was easier for both of us if I just left before she stirred. I had no battery on my phone and wasn’t sure exactly where I was. I walked out of the house which was on the top of a hill. From the doorstep, I saw the city centre in the distance and realised I was on the opposite side of the city. I then started making my long way home through unknown streets and neighbourhoods. I could have gotten a bus, but I had always resented paying for public transport, so I kept on walking – tired, hungover and even more of a daze than usual. I looked at the people walking past me, wondering which of them was also doing a walk of shame. My stumbling continued until I had made it back into the city centre when I caught my reflection in a shop window. For a minute I stood there staring at it. It seemed that on every street a window reflection was there to show you to yourself and suddenly make you question what the hell it was you were doing on that street, in that city, in that life. Did your path have purpose? Were you a good person anymore? Were you even a sane person anymore? Looking into my tired eyes, I could see I was just another messed-up young man, entertaining myself and keeping life interesting in whatever way I could. I was no different than the drunks and druggies; than the addicts and adrenaline junkies. I found my solace in the thrill of casual sex; my shelter in the tangled limbs of a stranger. It was a depressing reality and my reflection continued to stare back at me almost in disgust. There was only so much of it I could take before I had to look away and carry on along the avenue. This is what life could do to a man. He enters it with wide eyes ready to discover and explore, and then thirty years later he stands staring at his reflection in confusion and consternation. The only thing to do was carry on walking and try to avoid that reflection for a little while longer.’

how to kill time while waiting to die

How To Kill Time While Waiting to Die (an extract)

All these brief loveless liaisons continued until one girl came along who managed to stick in my life longer than a one-night stand. Her name was Carola – an Italian who had recently moved to this country with her boyfriend. That relationship was now over after he had just walked out the door one day and she never heard from him again. Stranded in a foreign country on her own, she had also resorted to dating apps to find some sort of human companionship. Things weren’t going too well for her and I almost felt apologetic about the fact that I had now stumbled into her life. Our first few dates we didn’t really do anything other than stroll around the city centre, sit on park benches, drink coffee in cafes, and eat her home-cooked food by the river. Straight away I could tell she was someone like me – another confused drifter wandering around aimlessly looking for something to do to keep life interesting. In the last few years she had been a fire dancer in the Cook Islands, had built mud houses in Morocco, and was now training in martial arts and saving to go to China to study in a karate school. The desperation to wring some meaning into her life screamed out of her, and she was only one step away from becoming a life coach or climate change activist.

     She didn’t have much money and I wasn’t doing particularly great on that front too after the shameful amount of dates I had been on. As a result, our meetings became more lowkey until we just spent all our time around each other’s places. We cooked food and watched movies; we drank wine and played games; we lay in beds for whole days sleeping and having sex. It wasn’t long until the whole thing developed into something a little more serious. Out of the blue, it appeared I had become another tangled in the web of something that resembled a relationship.

     Neither of us wanted to call it that, but that’s what it was beginning to feel like with all the time we spent together. And with us now being something of an item, I soon got to see what was really under the surface. Typically this included her dark side – in particular, a violent temper that was the cause of many arguments. I’m not even sure how many of them started; one moment we’d be talking about our day and then the next verbal missiles would be launching towards me.     

     “You’re lost!” she shouts at me. “You’re thirty years old and you have no purpose. You just cycle around town, complaining about the world, and writing your shitty stories that no one reads. Why don’t you try to find some meaning to your life hey?” 

     “And what exactly is your purpose?” I asked. “To kick people in the head?”

     “Oh yeah really hmm.. That’s all I do yeah. Fuck you. You’re so fucking ignorant. You know nothing about what I do. Get a life.”

     “But that is what you do right? Kick people in the head?”

     “You know, I meet people like you all the time. You think you’re cool because you’re not participating in anything. You look down on everyone else, thinking you’re enlightened or something for not doing the things that everyone else does. You only live for yourself and only think about yourself. Your life is a joke and do you really think anyone cares about you, or what’s going on inside your head?”

      “Probably not. I guess we’ll see one day.”

     “No we won’t. You won’t get your books published. You won’t do anything with your life because you’re a loser – a typical loser who is self-absorbed with no ambition. For god sake, you’re thirty-years-old and you don’t even know how to cook or drive. You have nothing to show for your life other than some words that nobody wants to read.” 

     I guess it was true that most people would get offended by such remarks, but I had to admit I kinda enjoyed it. Perhaps it was the masochist in me, but her fiery personality was a nice change compared to the coldness that I found in English girls. On top of this, her scornful words were thought-provoking to me. They were like the critical part of my consciousness I had suppressed, and I even found myself agreeing with her a lot of the time, although typically I never told her that.

     “Okay,” I responded. “Maybe you will go to China and study martial arts and get really good at kicking people in the head, but I promise you that you’ll still feel empty inside. All you’ve done is wander around from one thing to the next, looking for something to make you happy. Face it: the problem isn’t the thing or the place –  the problem is you. You’re always going to be unhappy and unfulfilled. Just like everyone else.”

     “Oh yeah, because you’re so happy? Why should I listen to you about happiness? I’ve known you for two months now and I don’t think I’ve seen you smile more than once or twice.”

     “I guess my natural expression is one of sadness.”

     “Your face doesn’t lie. I see it in your eyes; you’re bored and lifeless.”
    “I definitely am right now.”

     “Listen, you’re not young anymore. Get some fucking direction in your life. Honestly, go get a real job. Contribute something. Make someone’s life better. Then maybe you’ll have some joy and you won’t always look like you’re at a fucking funeral.” 

     “I accept I may have a resting bitch face,” I started. “But you – you are the most unhappy person I’ve ever met. The slightest thing sets you off into an argument. You’re emotionally unstable and violent. You have so much anger and hatred inside of you trying to get out at any opportunity. No wonder you like kicking people…. psycho.”

     The sound of the word ‘psycho’ set her off. Her eyes filled up with a terrible rage and at that moment I realised I had gone too far. I instantly remembered receiving a piece of advice about never telling a psycho that they’re a psycho – especially if that psycho was trained in some form of martial arts. Well, it was too late now as she lunged forward and started attacking me. In came the merciless assault: a punch to the side of the head, a scratch on my neck, a kick to the legs – her verbal missiles had become physical ones as I got pounded from all angles. She then grabbed my T-shirt tight and pulled me towards her, tearing it at the seams on the shoulder. I barely owned many T-shirts as it was and that was another one now ruined. I thought about the increasingly tragic state of my wardrobe as I fought her off, restraining her, holding her arms up in the air as they vibrated violently like rockets ready to explode. She eventually relaxed and fell into my arms, crying from whatever it was that was really hurting her inside.

     What a situation to end up in, I thought to myself. I was already getting fairly well beat up by life in general, but now I had someone literally attacking me too. In the face of such hostility, I began to understand the sudden disappearance of the ex-boyfriend. I considered myself someone who was perhaps at odds with the world, but Carola made me think perhaps my mental health was almost not as terrible as I imagined. Ultimately that was a terrifying thought – the idea that I was one of the more ‘okay’ people in this world. After all, perhaps it was true; working in customer service had already shown me just how messed up some people were. In particular, I recalled the self-harm scars on the forearms of many people I served at a bar. From the outside they all looked neat – nice clothes and makeup and wide smiles – but as they handed me the money I looked down and saw the knife lines etched into their skin. Those scars reminded me that most people looked smooth and polished on the surface, but under that was a world of pain that people never saw. In Carola’s case however, her pain was clear to see. If it wasn’t from the frequent outbursts, then it was from a forlorn look I could see in her eye. It was the look I saw in many people’s eyes, staring into space, wondering what the hell it was they were doing and if they would ever be happy on this earth. She was only twenty-three and reminded me of myself at that age – even more confused and dismayed with life than I was now. I was still those things, of course, but at least I was comfortable with my total indifference with everything around me. She was still discovering such animosity and I knew the two of us being together was about as unhealthy as a relationship could be. In all honesty, I shouldn’t have let things carry on, but the relationship (or whatever the hell it was) was giving me something that I had been missing. It was exciting, after all. There was a constant tension of unpredictability and I didn’t know whether she was going to fight or fuck me at times – and often it ended up being both. We’d go from shouting and her trying to hit me to screwing in bed as we let our anger out through sex. And I figured that perhaps this war we were in wasn’t too abnormal in the grand scheme of things. All human relationships resulted in frequent arguments; it was just another thing we did to try and make ourselves feel alive.