Strangers at Midnight

The platform was abandoned. I don't know which sound I heard first, the high-pitched rapid beeping that indicated the doors were closing or the shouting. But as I looked up to see him, fists clenched, shouting at the girl, it was too late. The doors were shut and the train had begun to pull out of the station. There was nothing I could do to stop it except watch them slowly disappear into the night. He was spitting fury at her. The girl was cowering in fear, with tears in her eyes, but she looked ready to fight if she needed to. She was desperate and nobody cared to help her. I could see other passengers through the window as the train passed, just sitting there doing nothing. They were pretending they couldn't hear them arguing and were trying to ignore them; just hoping they would go away. I hoped he would stop shouting. I hoped he wouldn't hit the girl.

It was cold and it was wet and I had missed the last bus for the final leg of my journey home. I would have to wait for the first night bus and try to forget about the girl, frightened and crying. I didn't know what to do, or where to go, so I did what I always do. I looked for a bar. That image was going to haunt me all night.

Walking out of the station I soon realised my chances of finding a drink were slim. Everywhere was either closed or completely boarded up. Every shop sign was turned off and there wasn't another soul out on the street except for me. The bright lights of the big city aren't so pretty on a lonely Sunday night. I stared at my feet as I walked down the road, trying to forget the girl. The rain began to fall again, rippling in the puddles and breaking up the reflections of the lampposts and the moon. Turning the corner I could see a solitary light coming from a window and there were people inside, drinking. Finally things looked promising.

Inside the smell of stale booze hung in the air and the hard floor was sticky. The manager approached me.
"Are you still open?"
"Yes, yes, come in. But we're closing shortly."
It was music to my ears and with it I waltzed to the bar where the barman was wiping down surfaces. With no beer on tap I focussed on the fridge full of bottled beers at the back. My vision was hazy and I started to realise quite how drunk I actually was. I picked out the only bottle I recognised, a bottle of Desperados. I knew it would be a good beer, strong too. I liked the sound of its name as it fell from my lips. I paid, collected my change and sat down at the nearest table to drink.

Taking mouthful after mouthful of beer, I kept seeing the girl calling to me for help. Tears streamed from her blackened eyes and her bleeding lip trembled. I was lost in my own imagination when the manager came to ask me if I was okay. He startled me. We talked for a while about where I'd spent the rest of my evening and about late night bars. He told me business was slow and so he couldn't afford to turn away late arrivals. Soon the only other customers that were left had joined in the conversation and asked me to sit with them. I got to talking to one guy who played saxophone for a wedding band and he told me all about his weekend. He told me about the wedding he'd played the day before and how it had been a beautiful ceremony. He also told me about his Sunday afternoon spent fishing on his friend's boat. His friend, sitting next to him, beamed when he heard this. It had rained hard and they had caught nothing, but the beer on board was cold and plentiful, which is all they really cared for. They invited me to join them sometime just as the manager returned to the table to offer us more drinks. Apparently he should've shut an hour ago, but business is business and he needed the money. He told us we were good people and the conversation and the beer continued to flow. Before I knew it I had forgotten about the bus home I was supposed to be waiting for. Before I knew it I had forgotten all about the girl.

A Letter to Chrystal

Dear Chrystal,

I've been meaning to write you back for a while and I hope you can forgive me. I kept meaning to get some words down on paper for you but things kept coming up and I just wasn't able to get it done. Please don't hate me for that, I never meant to leave it so long.

  

I've been doing okay. I've taken some work at a bar called the Bucket of Blood. Yeah I know, the name sucks but the pay is alright. As you'd expect the place is a dive but the rest of the staff are cool and the manager pays on time. I work as hard as I can but I never suspect it's enough. I met a girl there and she liked my hair. We started seeing each other for a while but I got scared and stopped calling her back. I don't know why I do these things, but it happens. Well I messed up. I shouldn't go into details but I don't have anyone else to tell. I found out later she'd been fucking some other guy. He lived across the road from her and so I went round there and beat him up pretty bad. I left him in a mess. I'm not proud. I had to take up smoking again for a while just to get over it. I wonder if I should go back to find out if he died, but I haven't heard anything or read about him in the local papers, so I suspect he is fine. I'm a bad person, Chryst, but you know that. You were always right. I shoulda turned myself in that time when we were on the coast. Fuck. Let's forget those times. The guy'll be alright. Let God be my judge and let's move on.

My parents aren't so good, but thanks for asking. My dad hasn't been the same since he found out my mother was cheating on him. He kicked her out the house and I haven't heard from her since. I don't know where she went. I go pay my old man a visit about every fortnight. We just sit there and drink beer and watch the racing. He never says much, but that's okay because I never know what to say to him anymore.

I hear you're engaged now and have a kid on the way. That's fantastic. You've deserved it after all you've been through and I know you'll get that cut of happiness you've always been searching for. "Smiles on rainbows" and all that poetry you spoke of has finally come true. Sometimes I lay awake at night, thinking. It's been easier to sleep since I heard your good news. I love you Chryst, and I always will. Our hearts are the same even when they belong to others. Stay safe and stay true.

I'll try and come visit you some time. I managed to fix my car up at last and now it's running again, so it shouldn't be too hard to travel out to you. Let me know, yeah? Write back soon and tell me everything.

Yours,

Joel

P.S., I finally took your advice and quit eating meat. At last you can take me to that restaurant you’ve always raved about. I’d appreciate it now. My body certainly does; I’ve never felt healthier.

Isolation Up the Walls

“50 years is a long time to be alone. It’s even longer if you’re with somebody. But I don’t really know. I been alone too long to know much of anythin’ anymo’. I like it that way, but I cain’t even tell. Sometimes I think I got comp’ny, but I’m jus' staring at ma reflection in the mirror. Sometimes it’s jus' a spoon. If the spoon’s clean. I cain’t remember the last time I washed ma spoons though. I never have guests to share ‘em with. Except that one guy, who talks at me.  He even talks over me. But I like what he says. I like how he thinks. Sometimes he even smiles, jus' fo’ me. But I cain’t never be too sure if it’s a friend, or if it’s jus' me. I don’t think I care. Caring’s too diff’caught. Most things are, to be 'onest. I’m jus' happy to git things off ma chest. To anyone who’s lis’ning. If anyone’s even lis’ning. When they do, they never say much back. So I git bored, and head to the kitchen. Stick ma head in the fridge and look for food that ain’t even there. It’s never there. But I look anyway. I like it that way. I don’t go hungry and I don’t go lonesome. But nothing’s ever there. 50 years is a long time to be alone. It’s even longer if you’re with somebody. That’s why I killed ma dawg. And I loved that dawg. But it always wanted feeding. Petting. It never said much neither. It’d maybe bark, but it’d run round and cause all kinds of fuss and trouble. I preferred what the other guy had to say and had to do. He gave me no worries at all.  If I turned ma back he gave me peace. Let me go to sleep if I could. I always tried, but the thing you find with sleeping is that it’s always a lot harder to do than you’d think it’d be. You wanna close yo' eyes and go, but that ain’t never the case. I done too little with ma days to sleep anyhow. And I done too much that it keeps me awake thinkin’ of ‘em all. I don’t care anyhow. I git alon’ fine with all the sleep I can manage. I git comp’ny too.  Like that one guy who looks jus' like me. He’s ma fave’rite. Always got good things t’say. And he don’ judge me for killin’ ma dawg. I tells ya. 50 years is a lowng time to be alone. But I wouldn’ have it any other way.”

He just kept on like that for hours on end. He’d do it if I was listening or if I wasn’t. He didn’t really care. I don’t think he noticed. He stunk pretty bad and so did his place, but I kinda liked that about him. He had character. It was alluring. Sometimes he’d get annoyed with me and chase me out, but I’d come back. He often left his door open to me, to anybody. He didn’t have much in the way of things and so he didn’t care about security. He’d just sit, or sometimes he’d stand, and he’d holler all this crap at the walls. He would keep on like that for hours on end. Just hollering anything that came into his head. He had that accent too that made him sound like a dumb hick. A bastard of incest. He sounded like a bad actor who had never been to the south but was never gonna let that stop him from doing his best impression of a cowboy or a Nascar driver. I didn’t think much of him, but his house was warm and he never did me any harm. I liked his dog too. I liked his place and I liked his dog, but he would go on for hours, just rambling. Eventually I’d grow tired of him and when that happened I’d just spread my wings and get outta there. I had better shit to smell. 

Housemaids Won't Sing the Blues

She was short and she was wide and she wore a perm in her hair. She looked Spanish, but that was often expected of her because she was a maid. Her mother was from Norway and her father somewhere else. She always suspected he was Irish, but she never knew for sure and she never asked. She’d move around the house she cleaned, whistling every song she ever heard played on the radio. She didn’t get to listen to music often, but she picked up melodies quickly. She’d dress in a pastel-coloured blouse and an apron splattered with small flowers. Tulips, roses, whatever. It was cream behind the plants and always covered in a thin film of dirt. She kept whistling and she kept cleaning. Dusting, polishing, whatever. Her mind would wander back to her past but she would never dwell, not for too long. She had killed a man. No court had convicted her. No evidence was ever found. Nobody who knew enough about the situation to form an opinion blamed her, but deep in her heart she knew she killed a man and her conscience would never let it go. She just scrubbed the dried urine off the toilet seat and continued with her life. She had a job and a roof over her head. She had enough to get drunk on a Tuesday afternoon when she was afforded a day off. And she had recently managed to save a little up for a week away by the sea. It was fast approaching and she’d smile at the thought of the sand between her toes. She imagined the waves breaking into foam. And she’d stand there and watch and rejoice the fact that she was free. But forever mourn for her soul. She’d look to her God and pray to his tender side. She was a murderer. A killer. It played on her mind continually, but she fought against it. She could only hope that as the sea caressed the sand beneath her feet, she’d finally forget.

More than once her ability to cope with her thoughts had pushed her to her very limit. The first time it happened, she was crossing the footbridge that she passed over on her way home when she stopped and peered over the edge. She stared longingly at the cars that drove beneath and tried to pick her moment. She was seduced. She wanted to land as the wheels hit her spine. No time to brake. No time for the driver to be blamed. She couldn’t trust the tarmac to finish her off and she didn’t want a car to miss. She had to time it right. Car after car passed on by, but that railing was just too damn difficult to get a leg over with ease. She thought she had it when a collection of school kids, 8-10 year olds, stepped on to the bridge. She let go of the railing and walked home. No kid needed to see this.

The second time around came when she found the cord for his dressing gown sitting loose on the bed.  When she picked it up she was drawn to how soft it felt between her fingertips. The cotton was thick yet silk-like. She raised it to her cheek and closed her eyes tight, breathing deep and letting out a groan. She wanted this feeling on her forever, nothing else mattered. She could escape with it and go in comfort. She wandered from room to room, looking for a location, with the cord trailing on the floor behind her. The bedroom would do. It had a view from the window that she found romantic and so began tying her knots. She looped the cord around her neck and fastened it as best she could to the hook on the back of the door. She had yanked on that hook several times to see if it would hold her weight and it did, it was strong and it would suffice.  She made her peace with her lord and let go. The world turned to black and she was gone. She was crumpled on the floor with her neck free of the cord when she finally reopened her eyes. The hook held. The knot did not.

So she found hope in the beach. She had aimed for it for a long time and knew she’d make it okay. The ocean could cleanse anything and so no doubt it could cleanse her soul. Her pride was withered and her conscience filthy and she needed this trip to make things bearable again. Her boss had treated her alright and now she had this extra time off work, too. She had earned it. She’d worked overtime for him and it had left her apron stained and dried and stiff and her conscience filthier than before, but like her apron her conscience had hardened. It had provided her with the cash that was necessary to escape. She finally had her getaway and she would feel pure again. Her God was forgiving. She flushed the chain and looked for her vacuum cleaner. 

The Only Train Out of Town

The girl sat on the edge of the bench, leaning forward, with her elbows on her knees. Dressed in blue jeans, trainers and a green overcoat buttoned up, she sucked on a cigarette and looked pensive, slightly nervous, as her eyes flickered up to the timetable above the platform. 36 minutes remained. She exhaled, with the cigarette perched between her first two fingers whilst her thumb picked at the nail of her third finger. Between her feet sat shopping bags of clothes she didn’t really want and certainly didn’t need or could afford, but buying them made her feel warm, made her feel like things were okay for a short while. She wasn’t alone, either. Next to her sat a young boy. He looked about 6 or 7, with mousey brown hair and grey eyes. He hummed aeroplane noises as he waved a small toy car in front of his face. His lip was quivering and occasionally his entire body would shudder from the cold, but he was content. He was totally absorbed in his plastic plaything.  His right cheek bore a fresh scar from colliding with the edge of a radiator having been pushed down a flight of stairs. He had been told that it had knocked him out for ten minutes, but he was still unsure what had actually happened. He couldn’t really remember. It was fuzzy to him. Curiously running his index finger over the scar, he looked up at the girl. To a stranger she looked no older than 17 or 18, but he knew that wasn’t true, he knew she was much older than that. He looked at her lovingly. He adored the way she would tuck her hair behind her ear, but he remained unconvinced about her choice of earrings today. Satisfied she was paying no attention to him he quickly observed the rest of the platform before slipping the finger from his scar up into his nose and rummaging around. No luck today, he was empty. He wiped his finger on his leg anyway, just to be safe, but also partly out of habit. He continued to wave the car in his left hand, now preferring helicopter noises even though he found them difficult to do. He was proud when he managed to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth just right. He’d be a pilot someday, he just knew it.  He squinted at the timetable, 34 minutes remained.

The kid’s stomach growled. He hoped she didn’t hear it, but guessed she was too absorbed in her own thoughts to have noticed. He wished he could ask her to take him back inside the station to the fast food shop so he could get a cheeseburger. He’d get the kind that came with bacon. Hopefully some chips too. And a drink of lemonade from a paper cup and lots of ice that would make a loud slurping noise when it was getting empty. He could throw the left over ice for the birds or he could play with the plastic lid, pushing the bubbles on it in and out. He always liked doing that. He stayed quiet. He knew it was best not to ask. She’d say something about saving money. He never understood that though; she was always buying clothes for herself but they could never get takeaway food. If she quit smoking maybe they could eat. She lit another cigarette and he let out a sigh.

The girl finished the cigarette and tried to flick it onto the tracks. She failed. It fell lifelessly within a foot of the bench. She pushed her heel into it and ground it along the platform, leaving a trail of broken ash behind it. She stared down at the remains. It reminded her of a slug trail, but powdered and black. It looked like the leftovers of an old, dried lava flow. She continued to look at the mess and pondered it. In truth she didn’t know what it looked like and she didn’t really care. She thought it looked sad and lonely. She took a glance around. Everything looked sad and lonely. She turned back to her left to where the kid was sitting. He had his feet up on the bench and, resting his chin on his knees and hugging his shins, was staring at his shoes. She wanted to reach out and put an arm around him. She wanted to pull him close and place a kiss on the top of his head, tell him that everything would be okay. Tell him that she knew where they were going. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn't lie, not to him. She had no idea what awaited them on the other end of the train journey. She looked back up at the clock. 28 minutes remained.

Hypnagogia

There it goes. Yapping once, twice, three times. Some kind of hellhound serenading tonight's full moon whilst I lay in my bed wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for sleep to drag me into an oblivion of dreams. I consider shutting the window to give myself some peace but know that I am in a stage of sleeplessness between consciousness and the land of nod. I'm in some kind of limbo. I'm paralysed. My senses are too sharp to sleep but I'm too tired to move. I'm trapped. I wait, and listen to the barks, to the growls, to the cries of desperate pain. I have no idea what the noise is, but it is continuously flooding through my window and it is relentless. It's starting to feel like torture.

Beneath my bed something felt unnatural; it creaked, shuddered violently and burst into life. I clung to the sheets, I clung to the mattress, and I clung on to anything that was in arms' reach. I was shitting my pants. The bed was moving uncontrollably and I had no idea why. The legs thumped hard against the cold, wooden floorboards as the thing started to lift into the air. I had no idea what was happening and I was trying not to lose my nerve completely. I exhaled deeply in a vain attempt to extinguish my panic. I couldn’t get a grip – on neither my emotions nor the bed beneath me.  If only I didn't bite my nails I would have something to dig into the mattress. I was scared. I was having reruns of horrible Hollywood horror movies running through my mind and none of them were any good and none of them were supplying any answers. The bed was moving by itself. Nothing else in my room was moving, it was just the bed. I was sober too, so I couldn't blame it on the drink and stretch a leg out, lay it on the floor and stop the world from spinning around me. It was alive and it was moving. I felt it, I heard it. I could even sense its pulse. This couldn't be real. I had to wake up. I had to challenge this nightmare. It erupted. My bed erupted upwards, towards the ceiling and bolted like a frightened colt, fleeing a venom filled cobra, and darted towards the window. My bed, which on so many nights had been my sanctuary was now inexplicably out of control.  The covers would be my only protection. I'd duck beneath them and find safety. I'd revert to a child and pretend to be mining some precious material before the mine would collapse, turning me into a martyr and leave a beautiful girl behind to mourn my loss. If I believed that, then I really was stuck in the world of dreams. I lifted my head above the covers and saw the window explode into fragments of diamonds as the bed hovered in the sky above the street. The moon was bright and full and gloating. The clouds cowered out of sight. The night was beautiful and my sheets were grubby. I inhaled hard on the clear night air and tried to fall back to sleep.

And then it tilted downwards. Like a cold, heartless killer - calm in the act and dangerously patient - the nose of the machine I floated on aimed directly at the ground and, shooting to kill, the thing plummeted. Surely I was done. It was the final chapter. Here'd be the story that might take up an inch or two of the local newspaper if anybody cared or even if it had just been a quiet week. Down, down it went. I expected to snap out of it. To jerk, twist and panic and find myself in between the sheets with my heart tapping on the inside of my chest as though it was begging to be let out and finally set free. It had decided that it could take no more suffering. There'd be sweat, too.  It would be gathered on my forehead and my temples. It would be gathered on my palms and the soles of my feet. Maybe even beneath my arms, too. My eyes would part and absorb the familiarity of my walls, but it never came. Down, down I went instead. Wind in my hair, stomach in my mouth, testicles six feet above me, still in the air from where I was falling. The ground grew and swelled. The pavement was spinning towards my face. I should open my eyes. Where was the jolted jump and return to safety? Down, down, down I continued.

Then it happened. The lights came on. I was safe. I peeled my eyes open prepared for the row of small spotlights of my bedroom ceiling staring back at me, but was fully aware I shut them all off before I crawled into my resting place. It must be morning, with the light coming in through the window. My curtains are thick and always closed tight. Nothing gets through them. I stared ahead and saw nothing but light. My peripheral vision was hazy - grey turning to black. The harder I stared the brighter and more focussed the light became. Soon there'd be nothing but light as it approached me. I had tunnel-vision. Now was the time to wake up. Pinch me, punch me, even fuck me, but this couldn't be it, not like this. A light at the end of the tunnel? Bullshit. I wanted a desperate, eternal emptiness. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to wake up.

$10 Funeral

My brother is in jail for public indecency and statutory rape, my sister is now dead and I am drunk. I'm staring at my suit, spread out lifelessly on my bed and I am trying my hardest to think straight. It's the only suit I own and it's stained, it's torn and it doesn't fit. At least it's black; it does have that going for it. I cannot afford to go out and buy a new one but there is a chance I might be able to get enough money together for it to be dry-cleaned. The rips I can deal with myself, somehow. Maybe I should go visit my Grandparents. It's been a while and now seems like as good a time as any. After all, there is the impending funeral and my Grandmother is a deft hand at sewing.

I knock four times before I get a response. They're expecting me but they can't hear me. I know because from the front porch I can hear the vacuum cleaner. The piece of shit. It sounds worse than a screaming child in a supermarket, but my Grandmother swears by it. She's a loyal creature and she hates change. She hates a lot of things. She's a hard creature to impress and if you do, she'll stand by you forever. Regardless. Stepping into the living-room, I look at the piece of shit, asleep on the floor. It's held together by a tangled, knotted tape-measure. I've got to give it to her, my Grandmother is creative; she can find a use for anything in her sewing basket and she adamantly refuses to give up on that piece of shit vacuum cleaner. Such a stubborn creature, if she wasn't such a hard-nosed bitch at times, she would be quite beautiful. She's old, I should be more respectful towards her, but she does make it hard. I thought highly of her handiwork, that'll have to do. She sits me down in a dusty old rocking chair and insists on getting me some coffee. Black, no sugar.

The coffee is vile. It tastes like hot water with a hint of coffee. So I secretly add a nip when they're not looking. It's not hard to pick my moment. My Grandmother is constantly pottering about in the kitchen and my Grandfather refuses to take his eyes off the television set. He barely acknowledged my entrance. Not that I really care; since my mother died we have had very little to say to each other. For some reason I think he blames me for her demise. He doesn't want me in his house. My Grandmother doesn't mind me being here and what she says, goes. Tough shit, Grandpa. In truth, my Grandmother only tolerates me because she respects how long I did stick around for my mother; I think she sympathises because she knew about a lot that went on in that house. Also, I'm family; she won't turn her back on family, irrespective of the intensity of hatred she harbours. Most importantly, I’m paying for the funeral. (Please don’t ask me how). I take another sip from my cup. With my beautiful addition, it now tastes like hot, watered-down bourbon with a hint of coffee. Even with the whiskey it didn't taste any good, but it was definitely an improvement. I could happily have another.

I look over at my Grandfather, who is deeply absorbed into a shamanic, trance-like fixation upon the flickering lights and rumbling sounds of the television screen. He’s skinny and fragile. He looks weak. I’m not sure his legs will be strong enough to carry him upstairs and I’m fairly confident that he wouldn’t want them to take him that far away from his precious television set. I wonder if he actually sleeps downstairs, in the armchair with the T.V. on. I hate to think where he pisses. He scowls at the screen and changes the channel. It’s a rerun of some kind of old detective show. He turns the volume up.

My Grandmother shuffled back into the room. She had a plate of stale biscuits set out neatly on her best crockery and her finest smile spread across her face. I felt terrible.
"It's lovely to see you, it's been too long. Can I get you a biscuit?"
She put on such a brave face. She was stoic. I was stoic. It was as though my sister's death and her funeral meant nothing to either of us. There was nothing left between us, so we pushed that behind us and got onto the reason for my visit.
"Gram, can I ask you a favour?"
"Of course"
She was too sweet.
"My onl...The sui...You see..."
I didn't know where or how to begin. I felt lousy. This woman hated my guts, but would clearly do anything for me and I had turned up out of nowhere just to ask her a favour and then disappear again. I had to ignore the guilt. Families are fucked up beasts; there's just too much politics involved. I was here so that I could look good for my sister and I had to remember that.
"It's to do with the funeral. It's not a big thing; it's just the suit I was hoping to wear for it. I have a bit of a hole in it and I wanted to get it fixed and it turns out I don't have anything at home that I can use to fix it. I was wondering if you ha..."
"Oh, sure honey, just bring it round and I'll see what I can do. I'll fix it up a treat. Make you look perfect for our..."
She choked back a tear. I needed to get out of there, it was proving too much for me and the supply of bad coffee had run dry. I didn't feel bold enough to drink straight from my concealed hit flask and so I decided it was best to get out of there before I disappointed my family further. I couldn't handle giving them another reason for hating me by openly drinking in front of them at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday.
"Thanks, Gram! I'll give you a call and bring it round soon. Thanks. I really appreciate this."
With that I made my excuses, thanked her for the coffee and made my departure. I doubt my Grandfather even noticed I had left.

*             *             *

I wish I could say it was a freak accident, but it wasn't; she had it coming. She decided to fuck a horse and it split her open. Well that's a lie. But she did get kicked in the chest by an over-excited horse and it destroyed her. Goodbye Kathy Slim. It was nice to know you. A real delight. Who would've guessed the clean-cut, tea-total veterinarian-in-training would kick the bucket before her unemployed, degenerate, alcoholic, older brother? Life is a fucked up beast and just like politics, it's never fair. Good things just aren't meant to happen to anyone in our family and the worst things happen to those who are good people, trying to do the right thing. Maybe the bottom of the bottle is the safest place for me to be. Maybe I should kill a hooker tonight then maybe I'd live forever. Shit, I haven't eaten anything in days. I guess that's the only upside of this tragedy, I'm too sad to care that my fridge is empty. One last can of beer and half a bottle of gin will have to do me for tonight. That orange juice is probably out of date, but it'll work as a mixer. One thing's for sure, I can't feel any worse tomorrow than I do now.

*             *             *

The silence in the room was burning my eyes and tearing at my gut. In my spot on the pew, I could feel my hands beginning to tremble. I thought my entire body was going to collapse in on itself in a series of violent convulsions. I kept my head bowed and found solace in my feet. I withdrew into my own little world where only my toes and I existed and I was safe. Best of all, I was finally starting to feel numb. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

The heat was getting too much. The room was dimly lit and only a few beams of sunlight seemed to pass through, showing the dust dance in the air. I could feel the beads of sweat starting to gather at my temples by my hair line. Every now and then one would slip down my spine and even a few rolled across my cheeks. But, for all my sadness and immeasurable misery, my eyes remained dry. I lifted my chin to get a view that wasn't of my toes in my shoes and stared to the front, at the minister. Behind him lay Kathy. The centre of attention. Nothing but love for her today. She lay there peacefully. We were all burning in this heat and she couldn't feel a thing. I envied her for that.

Lifting my eyes up out of my stupor and scanning the glum faces I searched longingly for that of my brother's. I couldn't seem to see him anywhere. I had made all the necessary arrangements with the prison and he was expected. Where are you Joe? Where are you? Kathy was the best thing to happen to us; c'mon Joe, you should be here by now.

Our Grandmother showed. I was unsurprised to see her dressed elegantly in black, standing alone at the back. She didn't acknowledge me, and left as soon as she could. I knew my Grandfather was still seated in front of his television set. I imagine he would be watching the horses. He always did. He was the man responsible for introducing my father to it. That's how they bonded. That's how he got my Grandfather's consent when asking for my mother's hand in marriage and I guess it's where Kathy got her - eventually fatal - love for equestrianism from.

The rain was starting to fall outside. It reminded me of a line of a book I once borrowed off of Kathy. "Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on". My sister lent me a lot of books when we were younger and a lot of them now blur into one. I'm pretty sure it was the Great Gatsby. Or it could've been The Grapes of Wrath but I can't say for certain. I doubt it matters. I'm not entirely convinced I understand the relevance of remembering that quote at this exact moment, or if it is any consolation. I'd tell myself I should start to read more, like I used to. Maybe go through Kathy's collection and pick out my favourites to read over and over again, and donate the rest to charity. It's a nice thought, but I know it'll never happen. I remember reading one that used to belong to an old drunk. There were crazy scribblings in the margin. "We agree" or "We disagree, how disappointing" made regular appearances. I finally gave up when I saw the word 'SATAN' etched in large, bright red capital letters. I erased it as best I could and, with it, the legacy of another drunk was gone forever. Thinking about those old, dog-eared second-hand books did make me realise one thing for certain. I was going to miss that little sister of mine. I will never have another. Not that I'd want to. She was irreplaceable.

*             *             *

I still remember the day I moved out. She cried her eyes out. She begged me to stay. She was still too young to understand the reasons for me leaving and I felt bad that I couldn't sit down and tell her. I couldn't tell anyone. She had it all right. She wasn't treated the same way I was and my mother didn't need me around, so I could get out. I'd taken to the drink to dull my memories and didn't want them to be around that. Above all, I really didn't want to be around my step-father. If I stayed under the same roof as him any longer I would've killed the bastard. I couldn't put my mother through that. I couldn't put Kathy through it either. It would have destroyed them. So I just slipped out the front door and into the world. Sixteen and struggling at school. I had £58 in my pocket and no place to go. Kathy gave me an extra 12 that she had been saving and I was on my way. I placed a kiss on her forehead, hugged her tight and left. I promised myself I'd send her something in the post. Six months passed before I sent my first letter. It was two years before I saw her face again. Our mother's funeral.

Then there was the evening she decided she wanted to be a veterinarian. Our step-father decided that it would be a good idea to lay down some poison to rid the mice that had made a home in our house, and on one of the nights he was out drinking, or gambling or screwing whatever piece of cheap trash that peaked his sexual interest, Kathy found the little one that slept beneath her bed that she had befriended, crawling across the kitchen floor and desperately struggling for air. The poison had taken its toll and the tiny creature no longer stood a chance. It was suffering. I was left with no choice and with a heavy heart I took the scurrying fiend out into the garden and ended it with a shovel. I buried it beneath the apple tree as Kathy read him his rites and we went inside. I held her for an hour as she sobbed violently into my shoulder, swearing to never allow another bad thing happen to any living being ever again. That little girl was ten and remained true to her word until her last day. What a fucking angel.

*             *             *

Stepping out of the little church hall and into the fresh air, I couldn't help but be hit by the smell of the damp left by the rain that was cutting through the heat of the day. It left the air cool and it was more than welcome. I was in a place of overbearing humidity. Physically comfortable and, now, emotionally melancholy, I walked out into the light and back to my hole.

I was nearly there and nearly home. There it stood, the dilapidated building that housed the apartment which was the corner of this world in which I habituated and fended for survival within. Looking sadder than I currently felt, the building was two-storeys high and L-shaped. Walking into the courtyard that rested in the heart of the triangle that the building formed, my flat sat on the upper floor of the wing on the right. The grass out front was patchy and the hedges were long dead and resembled skeletons - made of twigs - guarding a depressed palace. The brickwork was once a bright red but now dirtied from pollution and cracked, whilst the paint around the window-frames was white and chipped and peeling away. My front door was last in the line and although it had no door number attached, you could still see the outline of the ‘12’ embedded into the blue paintwork from where it used to hang before it was unjustly stolen. It had hardly been a crime worth reporting, but one of many in the area. The door had its own private set of black iron stairs leading up to it. Or maybe they were steel. Who knew? It was the only thing the flat had going for it. It was nice to have a balcony, but so did everyone else. So that was no big deal. That private staircase was the clincher when I moved in all those years ago.

There was a time when I would casually hurdle these steps two at a time. Not today. I couldn't face them. I could barely lift my feet high enough to take the first one, but I needed to get home and so I dragged my heels behind me as high as I could to get me to my bed. The metal clunked and echoed as my boot heels hit the floor of each step. It was a familiar sound. It was the sound that I was nearly home. It was a noise that had often terrorised my bladder. It was a sound that had too frequently triggered an uncontrollable desire to urinate before I would have any chance of making it inside. It would come out of nowhere. I'd rush to the door and fumble in my pockets and desperately try to find my keys, only to pull them out to see a bundle in front of me that is too large for words - so many keys left that I no longer use - but I'd try to separate them anyway and panic further as I'd get the ones I needed but by this point I'd be shaking as I'd aim them at the door knowing I'm not there yet but so close and struggling to hold on, and I'd scratch the precious key across the lock in desperation without being quite able to get them inside. I never failed to make it. I guess lady luck was always on my side. Fortunately she was back and this evening my bladder had enough respect not to play such games and allowed me to enter my home with ease.

Closing my apartment door behind me, I noticed the red light of my answering machine flashing a solitary "1". That was uncommon. Nobody ever rang me. It was rare enough that I often wondered why I even had the contraption attached to my telephone. Then I remembered. It was a gift from an old girlfriend who became tired and pissed at me never answering the phone. She had a point. Not that I ever returned the messages. It was no wonder why we didn't stay together long. I should throw that thing out. Bad memories. The phone could go with it. I hated them both and just wanted to be left alone. I'd listen to the message first.

"Hello, Mr Slim? It's Duncan Barnaby here. We spoke the other day about your brother, Joe, being given a day release to attend a funeral." I couldn't help but wonder why he was being so informal. It seemed strange, but I let the message play on. "Well, Mr. Slim, I'm reluctant to tell you that Joe will be unable to attend the funeral. There was an incident. We recommend you contacting us immediately. I expect to hear from you soon." The line went dead before being followed by the usual dull tone of the answering machine that always came at the end of messages.

I didn't need to contact them to know what happened. I knew Joe all too well. It'd all got too much for him. There was no doubt he had done himself in, it was just a matter of how. At least I was now prepared for a funeral. I had everything I needed. I could say goodbye and mourn his end properly. I cracked open a bottle and slumped into my chair. I noticed a large candle was burning. God knows how long it had been going for and God knows how it hadn't somehow managed to burn the house down. I blew it out and watched the trail of smoke rise and dance before my eyes and allowed the scent to fill my nose. I closed my eyes and wished that I knew how to cry. There was only supposed to be one funeral; it's been a bad, bad day.