Sorry it has been so long, Bro, but there’s been lots of shit happening down here. I promise I will be in close contact soon.
Do you remember I said that I despised my job? My mind numbing, soul crushing position at the the data analytics firm in the City? Well, I can report that this no longer an issue. One Friday I finished my espresso and made my way with ant colleagues, through the rain, to the office. When I got there I found the the doors bolted. The company had folded, disappeared from existence, along with my job. A group of us hung around outside for a few hours, demanding answers. None came, so we conceded defeat and found a nearby bar. Oh, how we drank; hard and long.
The sun was rising above the rooftops as I forced my key into the door of my house. When I entered the home, Nicole was waiting. Shouting and screaming, telling me how I was a shit husband, and father, and son. Telling me I was a lazy fucker, who didn’t deserve loving children, or a beautiful wife, or a caring mother.
I decided not to tell her I had lost my job. It didn’t feel like the right moment.
Instead I endured and survived a weekend of silence punctuated with harsh glares. On Monday I donned my suit, kissed the kids’ foreheads as they munched on cereal, and left for the office. I hung around in coffee shops, and book stores, and then bars when they opened. A slow burning of the hours until it was time to commute home. I have a theory on elasticity of time when bored, how it stretches and hours become longer. I’ll save that for another time. And yeah, I still commuted to the City. What a dick. I could have just walked to the coffee shop around the corner from our house, then ambled back at dusk.
It was inevitable she would find out about my fake trips to work. It took about about three weeks and one phone call. She discovered my subterfuge, along with my infidelity. Did I ever mention the brunette who worked in my department has the most perfect tits you could imagine. That night confirmed me as shit husband, and father, and son. Fact-based, not emotive opinion – irrefutable when proven by a female data analyst.
My marriage has disintegrated. I am jobless. And homeless. I have moved in with Perfect Tits, not because I want to, but out of necessity. On the surface she’s my perfect woman. She hates sushi takeaway, preferring red meat and red wine, and adores a big cock in her ass. What more could the shallowest of men want? But even amazing breasts get boring after a while. Imagine eating a fillet cut of steak every night, and after a while you want a bit of basic skirt.
At first, the only other option I saw was to return home, to Mum. Well fuck that. Then I saw there is one more possibility, another way out of this mess. I will return home, in a geographical sense. Not to our old house and Mum. Under the light of the new moon, I will walk through the cemetery to the cottages. To your cellar. It makes perfect sense.
Even if I get it wrong and survive the immediate drop, nobody will discover me at the cottages. It will be slow, but I will ultimately die, hanging in the dark. Time will correct my fuck up. Weird that. It is rare that the passage of time makes things right. In my experience the movement of time concentrates the feeling of failure, boils despair down to it’s constituent components.
And as I hang naked, my skin, caressed by the darkness and the cold air, will be barely able to contain my soul.*
My body will lie undisclosed by my loved ones, maybe forever. Strike that, I have no loved ones. I have pushed everyone away. They will forget me quick enough. Will I remember any of those I leave behind? You never answered my question. How, or indeed do, memories work where you are? Where I am coming? You can tell me when I get there.
As an aside, I have found my perfect song to play myself out. You see, I told you I would be in close contact soon.
See you soon J. Missed you, Bro.
* Reproduced with kind permission. 😉
This post is the last in a collection, so you may want to work your way through in sequence if you’re not familiar with the back story: