Category: Dark stories

Golden Hair

AJ.Dixon16 Comments

Golden Hair

By Adam Dixon

 

I’ve been sitting here for hours now. The wall has made my back ache and my backside has gone numb from sitting on the floorboards, but I don’t mind. Not while I can sit here with her head in my lap, stroking her beautiful hair. I would happily sit here all day doing this and I’d barely feel the passage of time. I live for these moments, when I can relax, hold her in my arms and run my hands gently through her gorgeous golden locks. It seems that these moments don’t come frequently enough, but when they do…bliss.

I love my Bev. Beverley Watson, to be precise. Beverley Anne Watson, to be even more so. A name which has fallen out of fashion somewhat, but I can’t think of one any more beautiful. She doesn’t think so, my Bev. She thinks it’s a name for an old crone, a spinster. I always laugh and shake my head. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman, I insist. I’ve told her so often, which she loved at first. She seemed to weary of it over time, but I still tell her. She needs reminding, the silly girl. We met two years ago. Two years, two months and seventeen days, to be precise. I like to keep count, but Bev tells me it’s silly. I tell her that that day was the start of our lives together and that nothing on earth would ever make me forget it. I’m a little hurt that she doesn’t see it in the same light, but that’s okay. I can keep count for us, so there is no need to worry.

We met at Kingston University in London during our final academic years there. I was working on my dissertation in the library when a woman’s voice with an American accent nervously asked me a question. I had been absorbed in my work and so had missed the inquiry, and upon glancing up I found myself gazing into a pair of hypnotic blue eyes. My heart skipped a beat and my breath caught in my throat. I stammered lamely, asking the woman to repeat herself. It turned out that the owner of those mesmerising eyes was also a student there and she wanted to borrow the book I was studying once I had finished with it. It was a history book concerning the use of propaganda during the Second World War, and she said it would be very helpful for her dissertation in Film Studies. I had the last copy, it appeared. I had swallowed nervously and told her that of course she could. She had smiled at me, a relieved, grateful smile that was every bit as captivating as her eyes. From that moment I was under her spell.

Bev told me that she was from Miami, and that her family had moved to England roughly five years previously. She was amiable and chatty, and I was hooked on every word. We spent the rest of that afternoon getting to know one another, and we parted on pleasant terms after I had practically begged her for her phone number. She had been embarrassed, but I saw her hidden delight. She had given it to me, and I had floated back to my student flat as if on air, her smiling face filling my thoughts entirely. We instantly struck up a friendship and began to talk every day, via text messages, phone calls and on Facebook. Bev was committed to her studies, and so we often had to cut our conversations short so that she could focus on her work. I found it extremely difficult as my own studies were the furthest things from my mind at that point. I asked her out twice during our final terms, but she politely rejected me both times. She reasoned that she could not afford any distractions, no matter how tempting they might be. She had said it with a smile and a laugh, robbing any sting from her words in my eyes. I decided to be patient; I would wait an eternity to be with Bev. It certainly seemed like I had waited that long when results day came around. I had become less and less focused on my studies once we had met, and so my marks had dropped sharply. I had, however, worked hard enough previously to gain a second-class honours degree, but barely. I could have failed for all I cared. Bev had done fantastically well, with her hard work earning her a first. She was deliriously happy, screeching in my ear with joy and dancing round and round in circles with her friends, all of them whooping with excitement. Later that night, whilst we and hundreds of our fellows were celebrating in the student bar, I asked Bev if she would like to go out with me again. It was exactly four months to the day that we had met. I held my breath as she regarded me, a sly smile on her face and her cheeks reddened with alcohol. Finally, she leaned forwards and whispered to me gently.

“You betcha, handsome.” Then she had slipped her arm around my neck and kissed me. If I had died at that exact moment I would have died the happiest man on the planet.

Ah, what a sweet memory that is. I’d like to voice it aloud, but I don’t want to disturb her. I’ll leave her be, and keep stroking her hair. She’s always liked that and I’ll never tire of it. I’ll simply memorise my thoughts and write them down at a later date, just like Dostoevsky during his imprisonment.

I had lived for Bev from the moment I saw her, and now that we were together I felt like my life belonged to her. Unfortunately, the mundane structure of society had pressured me into finding a new place to live and seeking some form of employment. I hated being away from my angel, but they were necessary distractions. We still saw each other several evenings per week, as well as on the weekends. I took any opportunity to spend time with her, which irked her friends a great deal. I ignored them, whereas Bev good-humouredly laughed their objections away.  So many wonderful things happened during those few months: day trips to history museums, the sharing of our favourite films snuggled under blankets, the first time we made love…Bev was as much caught up in the whirlwind that surrounds new relationships as I was, and it seemed to me that during that time she never stopped smiling.

But things started to go wrong exactly six months into our relationship. I was thrilled that we had made it so far, and the months had flown by in a dizzying dream for me. I was complete with Bev, and wanted to tell her so. I took her out into London for a meal at her favourite Italian restaurant, the one with the garlic bread sticks and the live bands. I even booked it for the night the Elvis impersonator was on, because she loves that silly man. Personally, I’ve always thought that having an Elvis Presley impersonator in an Italian was a bloody stupid idea, but I’ll happily endure it for Bev. We ate well, with creamy carbonara for me and seafood risotto for Bev, her favourite. She even had two helpings of dough balls that night, winking and warning me not to tell a soul because of her diet. I told her that I wouldn’t dream of telling on her, and that she could eat dough balls morning, noon and night for all I cared. She laughed, her beautiful mouth raising up into a dazzling smile and her hair swishing to and fro. I ordered a couple of bottles of the best wine they had; no expenses were spared that night. We were sitting quietly at the end of the evening, comfortably full of good food and more than a little bit tipsy. Bev was sitting slightly forwards with a demure smile, nodding her head to a passable rendition of “Blue Suede Shoes” with her eyes half-closed. Drinking in her beauty, I sat there in silence just watching her. After the song had finished, Bev had noticed me staring and asked me shyly what I was thinking about. It was then that I asked her to move in with me.

Her reaction was not pleasing to me.
“Oh, sweetie…I don’t know what to say…” She looked shocked and perplexed, not in control of herself as she almost always was. “I mean it’s a great idea but…isn’t it a little bit soon for that? It’s quite a big step to take…”
I was confused and hurt. I told her that it didn’t seem like a big step at all to me, but the logical progression of our devotion to one another. Again, she seemed bewildered and extremely uncomfortable.
“Yes, I suppose, but still…have we reached that point yet?”
It was as if she had slapped me across the face with her words. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Of course we had reached that point, we had reached it months before! We were made for each other, and this was the correct step, a way to properly begin the forging of our life together. Romeo and Juliet had only needed one evening to come to the realisation that they were destined for one another, and she adored that story. Therefore I was at a loss as to why she would balk at my suggestion. I mean, six months was positively aeons in comparison!
Needless to say, the pleasant mood was utterly ruined. I made some bumbling comment about rushing into things in a half-arsed attempt to appease her before asking for the bill. We sat in a painful silence as we waited, with me struggling to come to terms with my injury.

Whoops, I’m gripping her hair a bit tightly now! That memory does that to me, unfortunately. The pain still feels fresh when I recall that night. I haven’t hurt her, thankfully. There, I’ve smoothed her hair back and resumed stroking it gently. She still seems quite content to just let me be. Bless her, I love her so.

Then what? Ah yes, things had become quite awkward for us after that. I was wracked with doubt and deeply hurt, but I couldn’t stay away from her. She meant so much to me. After a couple of agonising days we met up once again and laughed the whole thing off. Well, Bev laughed anyway. I smiled and held her hand, determined more than ever to never let her go. I had come to the conclusion that she had not progressed to the same emotional level as I had, which whilst unfortunate, was not a major cause for concern. I was certain that she would catch up before too long, and meanwhile I would patiently dote upon her and let our love cleanse away any doubts.

Only, that didn’t quite happen. I blame her friends, personally. Those shit-stirring, envious parasites she calls friends, anyway. They were constantly whispering amongst themselves about me, I know it. They disliked how much time Bev spent with me, which was somewhat understandable. Friends of new couples often tend to react to their changing time commitments with jealousy, it’s almost a rite of passage. However, these “friends” took it beyond mere jealousy. They despised me, and I know that they were trying to turn Bev against me in order to get her back. I’d often come back from using the toilet or buying drinks at the bar to see Bev laughing uproariously with two or three of them surrounding her, whispering. When I’d ask what they had been talking about, one of them would interrupt Bev and palm me off with some half-thought drivel. They were like vultures, bloated with lies and guarding their next meal.

They were no good for her, and I tried to tell her that various times. Bev brushed it off at first, then she grew defensive and finally angry with me for suggesting it. So I stopped saying anything to her about it, and instead began to check up on her whilst she was out with them. I’d arrive unannounced and uninvited to coffee dates, lunches and even cinema screenings, much to the chagrin of the friends in question. At first Bev was pleasantly surprised to see me, and was happy to have me tag along. However, she began to become visibly disheartened by my sudden appearances and grew frustrated with me. It led to heated rows, during which I insisted that her jealous friends were getting to her, and that by causing arguments between us they were getting what they wanted.

Damn it! I’m gripping her hair again and my fingers are tangled in it. It’s those bloody friends of hers, it still infuriates me to think about what they did to us. OK, I’m untangled now. Slow, gentle strokes…

I continued checking up on Bev, especially when she started becoming evasive. I was angry when she got like that, and knew her friends were behind it. A couple of times I called in sick or swapped shifts at work in order to sneak out and follow her. It was often simply a matter of touring her usual haunts, as I could usually locate her that way within a couple of hours. If she had gone out of town, I found out where she would be by contacting her cousins or her siblings and convincing them that I had something urgent to tell her. That worked like a charm, but eventually they became maddeningly unhelpful. Her brother even threatened me once, and told me to stay away from Bev. I had never heard such a ludicrous suggestion, and angrily told him so. She didn’t need her family anymore anyway, she had me. All they would do is get in the way. Presently, whenever I appeared to rescue Bev from her parasites I was pleased to see that they were becoming visibly shaken by it, even frightened. I would have revelled in my victory if Bev had not started exhibiting the same reactions towards me. As I watched from afar and out of sight, I could see her casting her head to and fro, restless and fearful. She started stammering when we were together, and she was reluctant to let me touch her at times. The smiles I craved became fewer and further between, and the laughter was strained if it was even there at all. I couldn’t understand it; I was trying to protect her from her “friends”, for her sake. For our sake.

Nine months and fourteen days into our relationship, something terrible happened. Bev told me that we needed to talk, and sounded very much on edge. When I met with her, she blurted out that it was all over and that she didn’t want to see me again. She said I frightened her, and that I needed professional help. As I think back on it, I must say that I was surprisingly calm about the situation. It’s because I knew that she wasn’t serious; this was merely another setback which we would get past and be stronger for. It would hurt me being away from her, but if she needed space then I could forgive her for it. I could also forgive her for her harsh choice of words, as they were uttered in a moment of passion. I love how passionate Bev is, and I could never fault her for it. No, I would just be patient and everything would be fine. Bev would come back to me and I would welcome her with open arms and a full heart.

After about a month, I had seen on Facebook that she had been writing statuses about losing weight for the summer time. She had blocked me by this point, and I had seen this by hacking into her mother’s account. Although Bev is rightly considered by all to be beautiful, charming woman, she has always been troubled by her size.  She has come from a society where beach-ready models with glorious sun-kissed skin and toned bodies were abundant and held up as the American standard, and she never really has been able to ignore that particular form of indoctrination. Her wonderfully curved hips, ample thighs and plump rear are anathema to her, and she has convinced herself that she is fat. No amount of argument on my side has budged that opinion, but I have been pleased to note that our relationship has inspired a certain confidence within her. Anyway, upon reading her status, I had bought her some fairly expensive summer dresses which would complement her figure delightfully and sent them to her address. I reasoned that even though she hadn’t come to her senses just yet it was still part of my duties as her boyfriend to make sure that she felt and looked good regardless of the season. It was a sweet, loving gesture. However, I received several furious messages on my own Facebook account, all from her friends and all insisting that Bev was uncomfortable with my gifts. Not a single message from Bev was sent to confirm their ramblings, though, so I knew that this was untrue.

All of a sudden, our first anniversary as a couple loomed overhead. After days of trying, I finally managed to contact Bev directly and arrange to meet for a meal. I told her that I needed to see her and that I loved her dearly, and that if she felt any compassion for me she would agree to see me that evening. She relented, and I eagerly booked a table at her favourite Italian in London once again. This time it would be a happy occasion from start to finish, with no awkwardness or disappointment. I was even looking forward to hearing that mediocre Elvis-wannabe again! I was a bundle of nerves as I waited for her. We had not seen each other properly for nearly three months, an excruciatingly painful length of time for me. But I was certain that once we started talking again Bev would come to her senses and stop playing her silly game. We would laugh and forget that anything ever happened. Imagine, then, my shock when Bev finally arrived, looking resplendent in a blue dress, flanked by her brother and her cousin. I was speechless with indignation; how dare they intrude on our celebration! I’d met her brother, Harvey, a few times but her cousin was nearly a stranger to me. Bev smiled at me weakly and mumbled something about us needing to talk, when her lout of a brother sharply interrupted her.

“Bev’s only here to give you some closure, creep, so don’t get any ideas.” He barked, folding his arms. “We’re watching you.” Her cousin stood next to him in much the same manner. To me, that had more than a passing resemblance to a pair of burly guards escorting a dejected prisoner to her cell.

For a few seconds I couldn’t respond, I merely sat at the table trembling with suppressed rage. I then managed to quietly ask Bev if she had planned for those two idiots to join us for the evening.

“No, sweetie, I had planned to come alone,” She began nervously. “But Harvey and Bob insisted that they-“. That was as far as she got. I don’t remember much about what followed. The red mist had descended and I had launched myself out of my seat and attacked Harvey. I vaguely remember knocking him off of his feet, and I think a woman nearby had screamed. Cousin Bob must have hit me because I ended up with a black eye. I was roughly seized by a hulking chef at some point and tossed unceremoniously out of the restaurant whilst someone called the police. I remember seeing Bev crying as I was taken away. Harvey was mopping at a gash on his eyebrow, trying to stop the blood trickling into his eyes and Bob had a broken wrist. As it turned out, neither of them decided to press charges, which I suppose was lucky for me. Lucky for them, too. I should have killed them.

I didn’t see Bev for a while after that incident. Her family and friends were on high alert which made it difficult for me to follow her, much less try to talk to her. I was forced to back off by those cretins. None of them seemed to realise that their actions would be hurting Bev just as much as they were hurting me. I had tried to warn her but she hadn’t listened! Just like Romeo and Juliet we were hindered in our love by the unreasonable zealotry of family. But also like Romeo and Juliet I knew that we would find a way around their oppression, a way to be together forever.

Blimey, look at me getting all romantic about it! That was almost thespian of me! Bev does that, her presence unlocks deep wells of emotion within, wells I didn’t even realise I had. She is my muse given exquisite physical form.

A little over four months later, I discovered through my various sources that Bev was planning on travelling down to Brighton to visit her aunt. My head was filled with fantasies of a tearful reunion on Brighton Pier and romantic walks along the beach as we inevitably reconciled. My heart ached for it, and I knew that it would be possible whilst she was away from her loathsome self-appointed guardians. I hacked into her email account and saw that she was getting a coach from London Victoria. I eagerly bought a ticket on the same coach and waited for the day with an impatience born of deep longing. The day finally came, and I excitedly boarded the coach a few stops out of Victoria. The overweight, bored-looking driver waved me on with little more than a grunt, hardly glancing at me. I was wearing my sunglasses and had my hood up so that Bev wouldn’t recognise me as I walked past her down the aisle, my heart leaping as I saw her reclining peacefully in her seat and gazing out of the window. I sat on an empty seat just behind her but on the opposite side of the coach, so that I could see her easily and day-dream about running my fingers through her beautiful golden hair once again.

Disaster struck on the way to Brighton. Firstly, the heavens had opened and deluge of rain had poured down on us as we cruised along the motorway. Secondly, we all overheard the driver panting heavily and attempting to discreetly contact his management back in London. He seemed to be in some distress, and some of the passengers started to become uneasy. I barely noticed any of this, I was too focused on my Bev. Suddenly, the driver lurched to the side, clutching his chest and dragging the steering wheel with him. The coach lumbered crazily across the road and into the fast lane. The screeching of brakes and the urgent blasting of horns filled our ears. Several passengers screamed in terror. The driver attempted to wrestle the wheel back, his ashen face and wide eyes visible in the rear-view mirror. Bev sat bolt upright, gripping her seat in panic. The coach swerved. A van collided with it at speed. The coach was spun around slightly on the wet asphalt, tyres squealing in alarm. Another vehicle hit the coach on the other side. Windows shattered. More people screamed. Another collision. I saw a section of the cabin burst inwards in front of me, and everything went black.

I came to in a hospital bed. My first thoughts were of Bev. My head was full of fog and I couldn’t think straight. I had vague memories of being pinned down under a cage of jagged metal and broken glass, soaked to the skin with rainwater and blood. I remember managing to look up and seeing another decimated coach seat in front of me, and a mangled body with golden hair streaked with red…I had been in a coma for almost a month with severe head injuries. When I asked about Bev, they tried to tell me that she was dead, and that her funeral had come and gone whilst I was unconscious. I refused to accept this information. She couldn’t have died. She simply couldn’t have. It was another heartless scheme conceived in jealousy by Bev’s family and friends. They were all in on it, every last muck-scraping one of them. They must have bribed the hospital staff to spin me that story, too. I was filled with disgust and contempt for them. They had taken advantage of a horrific accident and had faked Bev’s death, and all because they didn’t like me! All because Bev didn’t need them anymore! It was, and still is, unbelievable. The strength of some people’s vindictiveness is quite literally breath-taking.

I have since been searching for Bev. She was no doubt forced away from me whilst I was laid up in hospital, coerced or threatened to do so by her monstrous relatives. She is an exiled princess, and I am her lonely prince, tenaciously seeking her trail. She had previously discussed a desire to travel around the country in order to “get the full English experience”. The thought still makes me smile. So, I have been travelling from place to place, trying my utmost to catch sight of my beloved.

Which brings me, unfortunately, back to my present situation. I was so sure that I had found her this time. Those bright blue eyes, the welcoming smile, the gorgeous blond hair…But no, she is not Bev, and no amount of pretending will change that. I thought that perhaps she’d gotten amnesia from the crash and therefore needed some coaxing to awaken her memories, but I was wrong. I had realised my mistake eventually, but by then she was dead. My anger and frustration had gotten the better of me and I’d lost control. Still, she looked so much like my Bev that I was quite content to sit here on the floor, stroking her hair as the day grew darker and her body grew colder. It is nearly dark now, which is good; I can get rid of her more effectively in the dark, and then I can get back to finding Bev.

This young girl is the third almost-Bev I have stumbled across in the last six months, but I know that the real Bev, my Bev, is out there.

I will find her. We will have been together for two years very soon, and I must tell her once again how much I love her. Bev loves me too, I know it.

We’ll be so happy once we’re together again.

Reminder

AJ.Dixon3 Comments

Reminder

By Adam Dixon

Ken opened his eyes slowly. His attempts to retreat back into the safe oblivion of sleep were denied by the sunlight filtering in through his bedroom window. What greeted him that morning was what always greeted him: feelings of self-loathing and despair. He groaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut from the glare of the new day and from the punishments it promised. He fidgeted in his bed, trying to find some source of comfort within his duvet beyond the warmth of his body. There was none to be found and Ken glanced miserably at his digital clock on his bedside table. The neon-green digits declared proudly that the time was 07:11 A.M. Ken groaned again, noting how pathetic it made him sound even to his own ears. You are pathetic, whispered the malicious voice in the back of his head. That voice was often one of the first things he heard during the day, as well as one of the last. It was his own voice, but with a sneering, hateful edge to it. ‘Fantastic,’ thought Ken sarcastically, ‘this is going to be another brilliant day’.

Ken’s mind began to drift as he lay there, drifting to dark places. He felt increasingly as if he was merely a passive bag of meat and bones that was directed according to the whims of his brain. He thought about the torment that a new day could bring him, and a familiar feeling of crippling inadequacy and incompetence began to settle on him like a lead blanket. Why bother waking up at all? The voice seemed amused, as always, and faintly triumphant. He stared miserably at the ceiling, noting dispassionately the cracks in the paint and the stains from a recent leak. Another day with the empty hours extending endlessly before him like a barren stretch of motorway. Could he manage to endure another day like that? Ken didn’t know.

His eyes slid slowly from the ceiling and across his room. He was in the attic of the house, so his room was small and slightly cramped, with exposed beams jutting out from above. His belongings were scattered around without any particular order or thought. His jeans were tangled around the back of his desk chair, one leg drooping sadly a few inches from the floor. His t-shirt was crumpled on the carpet, the creased face of the Darth Vader print gazing forlornly up at him. Various unopened letters lay in a stack on his desk, on top of which sat a half-finished bottle of whiskey. Two more empty ones lay in the waste-paper bin beside the desk. Upon seeing these last objects, Ken’s self-loathing deepened. ‘Great,’ he thought, ‘become an alcoholic while you’re at it too. Why the hell not?’ His untouched medication was still in the white and green pharmacy bag. One box of finest citalopram, courtesy of the NHS. God bless ‘em, eh, Kenny-boy? Oh yes, the voice was definitely amused this morning. Ken had been told that he should to take them, but so far he had ignored that piece of advice. He knew he should trust the drugs, but he still refused to admit that he needed them. Even in his misery he was stubborn.

Looking again at his desk and saw that his mobile phone was flashing. He had set it to silent so that he wouldn’t be disturbed when he eventually managed to sleep. He had seen the screen light up a few times during the night as he lay awake, but he couldn’t summon the motivation to get up and retrieve it. He stared at it for several long minutes. You won’t find anything, the voice mocked, nobody cares enough to contact you. Ken tended to agree, but he decided to check his phone just in case. Sitting up required a herculean effort as Ken felt like his limbs were made of stone, but he managed it and reached over to snatch up his mobile. He instantly slumped back down in bed and held the phone up in front of his bleary eyes. He swiped his screen and saw the tally from the previous afternoon to that morning. Five missed calls and three text messages. So it seemed that some people cared after all. Big deal, the voice scoffed, they tried to call you, so what? None of them understand. Ken sighed, deflated. It was true, nobody who knew him understood what he was going through. They were sympathetic to a point, but Ken could almost hear the doubts forming in their heads and the things they would be saying if they had the nerve speak up. Things like “come on now, Ken, pull yourself together”, or “you’re twenty-one, what have you got to be depressed about?” or his personal favourite “lighten up, mate”. Lighten up? Lighten up?! As if it were so simple! Like the thoughts and feelings in his head could be changed from melancholic to cheerful like flicking a bloody light switch! Some people were so patronising in their ignorance that Ken wanted to scream at them. They didn’t understand, so what was the point of trying?

Unbidden, another voice echoed in his head. This was a woman’s voice, civil if not quite friendly, and authoritative. Remember, Ken, not everyone will be able to understand your feelings. But any who try will be worth having around. Ken grunted, but his contempt was only half-hearted. That had been the voice of Dr Matthews, his counsellor. He had been visiting her sporadically over the last six months, after his friends had begged him to see someone. Ken had expected to come face to face with an old crone when he turned up for his first meeting with her, and he fully expected it to be a waste of time. He had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Dr Matthews was in fact a red-haired beauty in a suit, probably closer to thirty than forty, but that didn’t change the prospects of the meetings in his mind. It had been difficult enough to drag himself out of bed for the damn thing, and he fully believed that he wouldn’t be returning. Strangely, however, he had returned. Dr Matthews had been irritatingly emotionless and almost condescending in her manner, but she had managed to coax a semblance of conversation out of him more than once. Just talking for a few minutes about his pains seemed to alleviate them somewhat, much to his astonishment. Dr Matthews seemed full of those obvious motivational phrases which seemed to come straight from syrupy self-help books, revealing such gems as “it’s okay not being perfect”, or “stars can’t shine without darkness”. The latter almost made him laugh out loud when she said it, except that he could not bring himself to laugh. What kind of watered-down psycho-babble was that? It merely served to cement his notion that Dr Matthews knew absolutely nothing and wouldn’t be able to help him. The stupid bitch would just keep spewing out this drivel in order to earn her salary. As if she really cared about him. Nobody else did, and she was a complete stranger.

Except…she wasn’t a stranger anymore. Not really. After seven or eight sessions with her, Ken had revealed as much information about himself and his struggle with his mind as he could, and that was a damn sight more than most people knew. He had begun to enjoy talking to her, even if he didn’t completely believe she was helping him. Perhaps that was a start. It got him out of the house at least. Just take each day one step at a time, Ken. That’s really all you can do. That was another pearl of wisdom from the good doctor. But that that one made some sense, at least. Sometimes Ken tried to act on that advice, and sometimes it worked and he would get up and actually do something. Nothing earth-shattering, of course, usually just getting out of bed, showering and tidying his room. Sometimes he would even read or talk to his friends online, although never for very long. He found their good spirits hard to bear. He had nearly applied for a part-time job online a few days before, but had backed down at the last moment, his cursor hovering over the ‘APPLY’ button for a tense few minutes. He had even made some progress with his university studies, even though he was still behind. He felt slightly more useful those days, more whole. Perhaps he had Dr Matthews to thank for that. Maybe she wasn’t completely useless.

Something else Dr Matthews had said rattled around in his head whilst he stared at his phone screen. Real friends will listen because they care. Instead of lying around wallowing every day, try calling someone. You may find that they can help you just by starting a conversation. Ken desperately wanted to call back everyone who had left him a message, but his thumb simply hung in the air in front of his phone screen; it was a mute, dumb appendage which failed him this morning. That’s what Ken tried to tell himself, that it was his thumb’s fault this time. He put his phone down in disgust and rolled on to his side to resume gazing around his room without interest. His stomach growled softly. Ken ignored it. Leaving his room to get something to eat was beyond the realm of possibility if he couldn’t even will himself to make a phone call. Just lie here and feel sorry for yourself, the voice sneered from inside Ken’s head, that’s all your good for.

Ken lay in miserable silence for a long time afterwards. He realised after a while that he was caressing his phone screen with his thumb, swiping the menu backwards and forwards and pressing random applications. He stopped, and after a moment’s pause opened his text messages. Two messages were from James, his best friend, and the other was from Chloe, another friend. Ken’s heart fluttered a little as he saw Chloe’s name. That often happened, because Ken fancied the pants off of her. He thought she may have liked him back, but he hadn’t allowed it to progress. After all, why would she want to be with a useless lay-about like him? But still, he liked that she had texted him. Her message was from 20:15 P.M. the previous evening. He opened it. It was short and sweet.

”Hi, Ken! Hope you’re doing alright. Pub some time? Gimme a call when you’re free x”

So, she wanted to meet up. A nice thought, but Ken didn’t see it happening any time soon. He sighed sadly, and opened the messages from James. The first one was predictably lively, sent at 19:25 P.M.

“Alright, mate? Me and a bunch of the guys are heading over to The World’s End in about an hour, so get your head out of your arse and join us, you old hermit! We’ve not seen you in days, and we’re starting to forget just how ugly you are. Come out and remind us!”

At another time Ken would have smiled at this kind of message from James, and more than likely would have sent a witty rejoinder advising him to ask his mother for the reason he hasn’t been seen for days. Following that he would have left the house and joined his friends. Perhaps he would have invited Chloe along too. But now it simply made Ken feel worse, as if he didn’t deserve to intrude on other people enjoying themselves. He saw that the next message from James had been sent at 23:15 P.M. Most likely James had been drunk by this point, and quick check confirmed that three of his five missed calls had been from James, at 21:23, 22:30 and 23:12. This message had come after his third failed attempt to reach Ken. It was not as lively as the earlier text.

“Ken, I know you’re having some trouble. Don’t lock yourself away, mate, it can’t be good for you. Call me if you need someone to talk to, I’ll make the time for you. See you soon, you hermit.”

Ken could have wept. He was slowly losing his ties to his friends through his apathy, and it was soul-destroying. Maybe he should try to contact them, at least to check in with them. He wouldn’t be able to explain his absence, as he could not find words with the depth to do so adequately. He checked his phone again. The two other missed calls were from his mother, at 20:45 P.M and 21:00 P.M. That made Ken feel slightly uplifted, bizarrely, even though he didn’t speak to his mother as often as he used to. He supposed she was worried about him, just like James was. Chloe didn’t really know about Ken’s difficulties, so her contact was just a friendly invitation. Maybe he should call them back. James said he’d make the time…

Ken sat up and dialled James’ number. It was early, but he was clinging to the hope his friend had given him. His heart leapt up as he heard James’ cheerful bass rumble, but sank immediately as he realised his call had gone straight to voicemail.

“Hello! This is James, sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, if you’d like to leave a message I’ll-“. Ken ended the call in disgust. So, James hadn’t really meant it when he had said that he’d make the time talk to him. Part of him knew that this was a little unfair, as James was likely sleeping off his night of carefree drinking, but another part of him didn’t care. This was the stronger side of him, his cynical, pessimistic side. I told you they don’t care, the voice said. Ken gritted his teeth in frustration. It was a moment or two before he realised that the dial tone was sounding from his phone’s speakers, and he saw with dumb horror that he had unconsciously called Chloe. He was about to cancel the call, when he thought better of it. Maybe she would pick up…

No. Her phone rang four times and then went to voicemail. Hers wasn’t even personalised. She had rejected the call. Again, the ever-shrinking voice of reason within him suggested that it was still early and perhaps he had woken her up…But the spiteful voice drowned it out completely. See! She doesn’t care either! Ken wondered why he had been cursed with a psyche which was so thrilled by his own pain. It was enjoying this! He whimpered and swung his bare legs out and over the edge of his bed. Surely someone would talk to him? It seemed so unfair, to be foiled right when he had finally summoned the courage to speak for the first time in days!

Dr Matthews! He could call Dr Matthews’ office and see if she was at work already. He knew it was a slim chance, but she was a professional, wasn’t she? Surely someone would be able to direct his call to her? He dialled the number for her office and listened with bated breath as it rang. It rang, and rang, and rang. Ken groaned with impotent anger as the precise, business-like voice of his counsellor’s secretary answered:

“Hello, this is Dr Matthews’ office. I’m sorry, but there is currently no-one available to take your call. Please call back during our opening hours, which are-“. Ken spat out a vulgar curse as he cut off the automated message. So, even the good doctor was unreachable? Fat lot of good she was to him! Just when he had begun to like her too…

Ken got out of bed and stood still, holding out his phone with a shaking hand. There was one more person he could call, who surely, surely, would want to talk to him. She was always up early, always. He breathed deeply with his eyes closed, composing himself and forcing down his rising dread and panic. You’ll regret this…the voice jeered at him.

“Shut up!” Ken cried, realising how ludicrous it was to be answering his imagination. He glared at the phone again, and then he called his mother. His free hand found his mouth, and he began gnawing on his fingernails anxiously. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine…

Ken stood very still as fresh waves of despair began to creep into his body like a virus. Calling his mother had been supremely difficult, even more so than calling his friends or Dr Matthews’ office, and so to be ignored by her as well was so much worse. He let his phone drop to the floor as his grip loosened, the thud as it hit the carpet sounding far away. Hurt, angry tears followed it, spilling unbidden from Ken’s eyes. Dr Matthews had been wrong. Nobody cared enough to answer his calls, not even the red-haired bitch herself. He hated her deeply as he realised this, and he was once again hopelessly devoid of direction. He was alone, adrift in a sea of misery with no land in sight.

As he cast his eyes around his prison-like room once again, his gaze fell upon something near his window. There, on top of his wardrobe, with one end draped over its edge and hanging seductively, was a black tie. Ken stared at the tie, vaguely recalling that it was part of a suit set he had bought recently to wear for job interviews.  The last time Ken had used it had been a week or so beforehand; he had given up on the idea of going out one evening whilst he was half-way through dressing himself. He had slung the tie vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe and there it had remained, forgotten. Until now.

With his tears glistening on his cheeks, Ken took a step towards the wardrobe. He was still staring at the tie, marvelling at how much it resembled a thin snake lounging casually in its domain. He took another step, his legs seeming to move by themselves. He passed his desk and his left hand found the back of his office chair. He gripped the edge of it and pulled it along with him, its wheels squeaking in protest. Or perhaps in alarm. It didn’t matter, Ken was oblivious to it. The only thing he was focused on was the black tie. The long, serpentine, seductive tie. As he drew nearer to the wardrobe he reached out his right hand slowly and pulled the tie from its resting place. It slithered off of the wood with a sound like a silken whisper, or a sigh of relief.

As Ken looked at the tie now safely in his grasp, he became aware of how fast his heart was beating. It was hammering against his chest like a lunatic throwing himself against the door of a padded cell. He could almost feel the blood rushing through his veins, accelerated cells vibrating with anticipation. Do it, whispered the voice in his head, you’re worthless anyway, and no-one will miss you. Ken whimpered slightly, blinking through his tears as he approached his window. He dragged his chair, which was still squealing its protest, directly in front of it and stepped up on to the seat. The chair groaned slightly under his weight and leaned to the left, but Ken kept his balance. With oddly steady hands Ken pulled his curtains shut, blocking out the morning sunshine and his small view of the world beyond. He cast one end of the tie upwards, watching it rise lazily into the air and over the wooden beam above his head. It came back down and hung limply in front of his face. He felt that it was almost expectant.

In his dazed mind-set, Ken briefly wondered if he should leave a note, but dismissed it instantly. That would mean delaying his chance to escape his torment for the benefit of those who didn’t care enough to help him when he needed it most. No, they would just have to deal with the outcome of their neglect. It was their fault anyway. Grimly, Ken slipped one end of the snake-like tie over the other and knotted it tightly. He then slid the knot upwards with a sharp tug so that it settled against the wooden beam. At least the Scouts wasn’t a complete waste of time, the voice scoffed gleefully, but Ken was unable to appreciate the dark humour in its words. He took a deep breath and carefully turned around on the unsteady chair so that he faced away from the window. He closed his eyes and tied the other end of the tie around his throat.

“I wanna be the very best, like no-one ever was…”

Ken’s eyes snapped open. The theme from ‘Pokémon’ filled his ears, with the low murmur of vibration accompanying the music. It was his mobile; someone was calling him. He didn’t even realise that he had turned the sound back on. He must have done it whilst he was fiddling with his mobile earlier on. Too late, sneered the voice in his head, but Ken cast his eyes down on to the carpet regardless. He couldn’t read the text from the caller I.D., but the picture on-screen was clear enough. It was his mother. She was calling him back. She’s too late! The voice screamed at Ken, you can’t back out now, it can all be over!

But Ken ignored it. With a plaintive cry, he tore the half-knotted tie from his throat and leaped from the chair, his sudden motion sending it crashing to the floor. He landed awkwardly and twisted his ankle. He swore loudly in pain and crawled on his knees towards his phone. He snatched it up desperately, swallowing a sob before slamming his thumb down on the ‘answer’ button with feverish strength. With shaking hands he lifted the phone to his ear.

“H-hello?” his voice quavered as he spoke. He hardly dared to hope.

“Ken! Hello, darling!” His mother’s chirpy, high-pitched voice assaulted his ears like honey-filled water balloons, shocking him intensely but oozing sweetness and life afterwards. It occurred to Ken that hers was the first real voice he had heard that day aside from his own, voicemail messages and malicious imaginings notwithstanding. It felt so good that Ken almost wept with gratitude.

“I’m sorry I missed your call, my love, but I was helping your father in the garden. Well, by ‘help’ I mean bringing him a cup of tea and telling him off for starting so early. I mean, honestly, who in their right mind starts weeding at half-past seven in the morning? But you know what he’s like, never one to waste the sunshine!” She broke off with an affectionate chuckle. To Ken it was like a damp cloth gently mopping his fevered brow.

“Anyway, love, how are you?” his mother continued. “I tried your mobile last night but I imagine you were out and enjoying yourself!” Ken looked guiltily over at the whiskey bottles decorating his desk. He cleared his throat carefully. His mother was mostly in the dark about how bad things were for him, and so he spoke cautiously.

“Yeah, I know you did,” his voice only cracked slightly this time. He hoped it just sounded as if he had recently woken up. “Sorry I missed it, I was…busy. I’m fine though, thanks.” The lie was an easy one to tell; it was well-rehearsed and barely required thought anymore.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Ken could almost sense his mother’s doubts. It was true what they said: a mother knows.

“I just thought I’d check up on you anyway. You know that I like to know what you’re getting up to. So does your father, of course, but he’ll never bother to pick up the phone to talk to you himself. I swear that it must be some kind of male pride rubbish. None of you ever call one another directly, and you only know that you’re all still alive through your mothers and partners!” Ken swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. She had skated dangerously close with that one. A mother knows, indeed.

“I must admit, I was surprised that you called me so early,” his mother wittered on. “You never were one to wake up early after a night out! Not that I’m complaining, mind you, it’s lovely to hear from you at any time. Have you got any news to share? You have been a bit quiet recently.”

Ken closed his eyes and wiped the moisture from his cheeks before answering.

“Erm, no, mum. I don’t really have any news. I’ve not really been up to much recently. I’ve been a bit…distracted, you know?” He finished lamely.

“Well, you shouldn’t let yourself get distracted, Kenneth,” his mother chided. Her use of his full name brought back childhood memories of being scolded. It almost made him smile. “You’re going to end up owing a lot of money once you get your degree, so you may as well study hard and get a good one!”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Ken found himself smiling after all, a weak bubble of a smile rising tenaciously to the top of his torrent of emotions. Relief, self-loathing, happiness, anger and exasperation all fought for his immediate attention. However, it was disgust which prevailed; Ken was disgusted and full of revulsion at what he had almost done less than two minutes beforehand. If he had left his phone on silent… He prayed that his voice did not betray his feelings as he spoke again.

“Listen, mum, would you like to meet up? Today, I mean. I don’t have any lectures today, and I could use an excuse to get out.” The former part of that statement was a lie, but it had been a full fortnight since Ken had actually managed to attend one of his lectures. The latter, however, was all too true. Ken knew that he needed to get out of his bedroom as soon as possible. He couldn’t cope anymore. He held his breath as he waited for his mother to answer him. If she said no…

“Oh, that would be lovely!” His mother crowed, her delight full and genuine. “Where would you like to meet, and when?” Ken released his breath, emptying his lungs with a sense of relief which approached ecstasy.

“Let’s meet in the park,” he said quickly, excitedly. “This morning, preferably. Maybe in an hour? I’ll buy you some breakfast if you like. My treat. Ask dad as well. Please?” Ken didn’t like the pleading tone his voice took towards the end of his sentence, but it seemed to have some effect. His mother was silent for a few moments, and Ken knew that she was weighing something in her head.

“I don’t see why not, seeing as you’re awake,” she said slowly, her earlier chirpiness replaced with concern. “I’ll have a word with your dad, I’m sure the weeds can wait until later.”

“Great!” Ken’s reply was a bit louder than he had intended. “So, I’ll see you both in an hour then? In the park? By the fountain?”

“Yes, darling, that sounds lovely.” Again, his mother was silent for a few seconds. “Ken…” she said quietly. “Are you sure everything is alright? You sound a bit…off. You can talk to me if you need to, you know.” Ken squirmed as he fought down more tears. ‘I know I can,’ he thought, ‘but where can I start? What can I possibly say to make you understand?’ He took a deep breath and answered her.

“Yes, I know, mum. I haven’t been great recently, but I’m alright now. Let’s just meet up, okay? I’ll tell you more then.”

“Alright, my love,” his mother replied. “See you in an hour then”.

“Yep,” Ken said. He hesitated. “Thanks, mum. I love you”.

“I love you too, darling.” His mother sounded surprised and touched. “See you soon. Bye bye!”

“Bye.” Ken remained on his knees for several minutes after the line went dead. He then slowly got to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his twisted ankle. He’d have to come up with an excuse for that one, as he knew his parents would notice it. That, however, was unimportant. What was important was that he was getting out of his room! He was about to leave and spend time with people who genuinely cared about him. His mother had literally saved his life, albeit unwittingly. She would never find out either, Ken determined. Never. He thought again about his incredible luck concerning his phone volume. He shuddered as a chill ran down his spine.

Ken started moving about his room with a fresh purpose. As he dressed himself, he realised that his plan for the morning had made him feel better than he had in days, in weeks even. Life had had some of its colour restored. Not all of it, of course, but the bleak drabness of his recent existence was no longer so apparent. He pulled on a pair of faded blue jeans, a clean white shirt and slipped into his scuffed black trainers. He peered in the mirror long enough to run a comb through his unruly brown hair and to wipe away any trace of tears from his face. Feeling nervous with excitement Ken moved towards the door and opened it.

As he passed through the threshold and on to the landing, Ken stopped. He glanced back over his shoulder towards his bedroom window. He looked at the fallen office chair lying abandoned on its side. He looked at the black tie hanging from its knot on the solid beam. A new thought crept into Ken’s mind, spontaneous and unnerving. He turned around and walked back into his room, back to the window. He lifted the chair and set it back down on its wheels so that he could climb on to the seat and reached for the tie once again. A few seconds of fumbling saw the tie slide free of the beam and rest in Ken’s hands. Carefully, Ken climbed back down, gingerly putting weight on his injured ankle. With slow, precise movements he lifted the collar on his shirt and slipped the tie into place. He folded the collar back down and tied the tie neatly. As a final touch he pulled the tie tightly around his neck. A nice, snug fit. He hesitated for a moment before he pulled on it once again. It was now a little too tight, constricting his throat in a somewhat feeble chokehold. That was good. It would serve as a reminder of that terrible morning and how it had almost ended. The voice in his head said nothing.

Ken smiled to himself, and walked out of his bedroom.