RYL Forums - Alone in this desolate world (prose)

The cold, pale light of the January dawn shattered my fitful slumber. At once, obsessions clamoured for my attention. I lay there, wishing the life would drain out of me; end the torment.

I threw off the disgusting blanket which had fought a losing battle against the cold all night. My bones felt they had all the life of the concrete floor beneath me. Stiff, aching muscles strained as I stumbled to my feet. The movement from horizontal to vertical caused a violent coughing fit. Blood, mucus and tar shifted in my damaged lungs. After a few minutes of suffocating retching, I sat hunched over on the warehouse floor, breathing in harsh gasps. The pneumonia was getting worse, stealing my strength and my will to live. I reached for the cola bottle, praying I hadn’t finished the cheap, clear spirit it contained. I had. It was empty. I cried out in desperation, hurling the plastic bottle away from me. The cry triggered another coughing seizure; this time I vomited. I lay on my side on the hard, unrelenting floor, struggling for breath: struggling to stay alive. I stayed like that for a long time. Hours? Days? It could have been minutes; pain warps the concept of time.

Eventually I got to my feet, slowly to avoid another suffocating attack. I walked to the small hole in the warehouse wall where a few cheap, concrete blocks had been removed. I squeezed through; pushing the rusty oil drum, which covered the hole from view, out of the way. I returned it to its former position, stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and set off towards the centre of town: head down, walking quickly.

The wind howled down the alley, tearing the little remaining warmth from my bones. I crouched, my back to the icy blast, fumbling to light the joint just bought with the very last of my earnings. I inhaled the intoxicating fumes almost desperately, anticipating the buzz. By my third toke, the aching muscles which clung to my carcass began to relax. I almost smiled in relief.

But all too soon I was burning my fingertips, frantically trying to inhale more of the drug which poisoned my already polluted lungs. I struggled to stand, wincing as I straightened. Four of my ribs had been broken when the roof of a derelict garage had collapsed while I slept. Shards of bone were lodged in my lungs causing internal bleeding and unbearable agony. But really, I was lucky to be alive: or cursed, as I was beginning to believe.

However, no pain could match the loneliness which plagued me. I despised every person on this cruel, desolate planet. They were chosen to live by some Divine Power, when She had been taken from me. There is no beauty in the world anymore, not compared to Her.

I start to walk back to the warehouse but realise I can’t face being alone. I change course and head for the beach. I walk past the pubs and cafes that line the sea front, watching people laugh and smile in the harsh glow of the artificial lighting. I hate them for being happy, I hate them for being in love, I hate them for not suffering like I have… like I do. You can have your own opinion of me for seeing the population of this wasteland in this way. But I will never care, for you mean nothing to me, nothing at all.

The grey sea and the grey sky were separated only by a thick, clawing blanket of polluted mist. It barely defined the edges of either cold, opaque substance but it was there, this mist. It reminded me of myself, I am the present, the blurred boundary between my devastating past and my fatally lonely future.
“But…” You are thinking. “If you really are so unhappy, why not just die?”
I have no logical answer for that, other than I have already tried and failed. That and, despite my festering hatred for this Divine Power, I am a Catholic and the idea of eternity in Hell due to suicide does not appeal to me. Christianity has no release, there is no freedom in death, just eternal suffering or paradise. And I know which I am destined for.

It’s a cruel system; eternity of torment or bliss. There is no middle ground, which seems very odd to me for every mortal’s life consists of endless decisions; some pure some not. So no one’s soul, in theory, is clear cut; pure or evil. Everyone is a grey area. So why should Fate judge us in a running tally of points for good and evil when the very nature of life distorts the boundaries of right and wrong?

I force my thoughts to turn to more practical matters. Like how am I going to make enough money to eat? Every time I do make money, through odd jobs mostly, I spend it on cheap spirit and drugs almost instantly; forgetting entirely my need for food. I walk away from the ocean, my deathly cold muse, and towards the city centre. Where people swarm like rats, carrying their diseased souls inside their fragile forms. It’s a wonder humans survive at all in this world they have created: in a world where ignorance plagues the masses like a virus. Very few on the earth are aware, truly aware, of their mortality. But I am, and more aware of everyone else’s. For Death walks with us all.

I walk back to the warehouse, quickly in an attempt to warm my frozen body. I always anticipate my return to the disused warehouse, my industrial sanctuary.

I am so cold, from the attack of my two enemies; the bitter wind and biting hunger, that when I eventually get back to my concrete haven I crawl back to my makeshift bed. I clutch my only sacrosanct possession in my chilled fingers, a sketch of Her.

I drew it on one cold, grey afternoon in February. She was sitting on Her large white bed, wearing a loose, white silk dressing gown. The fabric of which had slipped down to rest at Her elbows; Her long, slender fingers were entwined, Her hands clasped on Her lap. Her long, lustrously dark hair fell over one shoulder, partially obscuring Her collar bone which had the appearance of fine-bone china. Her skin was almost deathly pale; it had a translucent quality, as if She was made of tissue paper. Her big blue-black eyes gazed forward, unseeing, blank. She looked so delicate, so fragile. I did not draw the gash across Her face, the wound I had inflicted. She was terrified as She sat on that bed, She wasn’t gazing into space, but frantically at the knife at my side; the weapon I had threatened Her with. I had marred Her, but She was about to distort Her perfect image, She was about to leave. I could not lose Her.

How I could do what I did to Her was incomprehensible. But She was beginning to slip away from me. She was scared of me; and She was going to leave. I had to do something. I had to.

So it’s lying here, contemplating the agony of solitude that I shall tell you everything, right from the beginning.

I was as diseased and ignorant as the rest of humanity, once. Poisoned by the false promises of love and understanding that society claims to come from other individuals. And the Individual that I was issued with by the corporate machine of destiny was Hope. Even Her name was an ironic kick in the teeth… by the end.

I first saw Her in a crowded pub called The Elephant’s Head in Camden. It was a muggy day in April and a heavy shower had driven everyone into the small pub. We were both at the bar, ordering for our respective friends, when we first made eye contact. Her eyes were such a dark blue, almost black, like African sapphires. Her pale skin made Her full lips seem a darker, more intense red, and Her jet black hair like midnight.

She was, without doubt, the most captivatingly beautiful woman I had ever seen. So obviously, I offered to buy Her a drink. She declined: saying, with Her oceanic eyes sparkling, that She couldn’t drink on an empty stomach, so I took Her out for lunch. Even I thought this to be forward; being asked out by a woman I had never even spoken to, but I couldn’t let Her go. I had to be with Her, to gaze at Her, to take in every detail and commit it to memory.

We took a taxi to my favourite pub, the Bleeding Heart Tavern in Clerkenwell. We ordered our mains and a bottle of wine and so we began. I stand by the fact that I fell in love with Her in that pub, on that wet afternoon, while She ate treacle sponge and told me about Her favourite books, songs, plays. I didn’t really listen; I was taking Her in, my eyes inhaling Her being.

As we walked back to Her flat, She suddenly stopped and cried;

“I don’t even know your name!”

It was true that She had done all the talking. So I introduced myself to the woman I was in love with and walked Her home to Her cold, white flat.

* * *

It was many months later that I sketched Her portrait… the only part of Her I have left.

We didn’t see each other all that often over the summer and every time we parted I was convinced that would be the last time I saw Her. But after a few weeks of claustrophobic silence there would be Her voice at the end of the phone apologising for the delay in contacting me and asking me to go out for lunch. We never did dinner and I thought that was a sign that I was “just a friend” but one day the phone call out of the blue was an invitation to dinner…

We went to Essence… an upmarket restaurant also in Clerkenwell. I didn’t feel very at home in the stylish leather interior but soon I was lost in Her deep, still pools of eyes and barely noticed my surroundings. After a bottle of wine and dessert, which I had discovered to be Her passion, we hailed a cab to take us back to Her place. So it was the offer of a joint and a glass of good whisky that got me into the mess I find myself in now.

After the promised joint and several glasses of, very good, whisky I found myself on Her pristine white sheets with Her mess of black hair falling over Her sapphire eyes as I ****ed Her... and my obsession began. From the first time I saw Her perfect form I was addicted.

I went home the next morning, before She awoke. Leaving Her a note, under a packet of Her favourite French cigarettes, promising to call Her. But for some reason I didn’t.

I always had the intention of calling Her but the dial tone suddenly seemed like the warning of the imminent apocalypse and I slammed down the phone before I even dialled Her number. This happened countless time and not once did I even come close to understanding why I was suddenly so terrified of this siren of a woman.

It had been a week since our “date”, when She turned up at my door and then there was no where to run. She was subdued and hurt and trying to hide it from me, but I have always been good at reading people, even the things they think no one can see. So She asked why I hadn’t called and I said I had been busy (a lie) and that I really had been meaning to ask Her out again (a false truth). She softened a little then but was still guarded, as if I was a wild animal with an incomprehensible thought process and could rip Her throat out at any second. She didn’t understand my erratic behaviour; but nor did I. I was frustrated with myself, with my fear of being with Her, or even talking to her. My obsession held Her image captive in my mind, when She was actually with me, She could distort her perfect image. She could say damaging things, She could leave me. I would not let that happen; I would not let Her taint my view of Her, my love for Her.

I know this means that I was not in love with Her, I was in love with the idea of Her, Her perfect image that existed only in my mind. But I don’t care; I never have.

The frustration with myself quickly became a frustration with Her. Why must She insist on crying? Why must She plead with me to let Her leave; when I just wanted to look at Her? She couldn’t read me, nobody can, but it scared Her. I scared Her. I wasn’t planning on hurting Her, not in the beginning: She just wouldn’t stop crying.

It’s getting dark by now, the street light outside barely illuminates the warehouse, the filthy windows keep out the orange glow; just like my isolation keeps out the light of sanity. I know my mind rots, diseased in my fragile, mortal skull. As I am further dragged into the downward spiral of illness, delirium takes hold. Making my memories come alive before me, making Her come back to me.

I must have drifted off, or been claimed by unconsciousness because when I awoke it was dark; my breath was seen before me in big clouds of desperation as I fought to breathe. Hunger pains rip at my insides and my vision blurs before me. I must eat, now. I pull myself out of the heap of blankets and cardboard, the filth clings to me. I find myself outside, wandering the streets; it must be around ten o’clock. Restaurants are emptying, people smiling and laughing, tipsy on good company and happiness. The smell of cooking and exhaust fumes fills the air; I slip into an alley behind a row of curry houses, picking through the banquet served on green metal platters at the back doors. The garbage bags rip easily, offering their contents, some still warm from the plates of paying vermin.

A young man smoking a cigarette kicks the door open, throwing another bag of kitchen waste into the bins. He looks at me, stuffing myself with filthy leftovers out a bin, he shouts abuse, swearing and lashing out at me. I limp away into the darkness, away from the lights, away from humanity.

I wait in the alley, waiting for the muscular, young man. He comes out eventually, lighting up another cigarette. He takes a deep drag and exhales; satisfied. He wraps his thick coat tighter around himself and walks briskly down the street; I wait a few seconds then follow him at a safe distance. He has the confident, self assured stride of a man doing well. He probably has a girlfriend, a wife even. He doesn’t look gay, and I can usually tell the poofs apart. He throws his cigarette butt into the gutter and shoves his hands into his pockets, he hasn’t noticed me, he still looks confident, not edgy or suspicious. He has broad shoulders, he looks strong and healthy. I envy him.

After about ten minutes, he turns down a smaller street. There are large Victorian houses, most converted into flats. He takes out a key from his pocket, he must be going home to an empty house; exactly what I was hoping. He walks up the steps to a dark house, it needs repainted. The white paint peels off the woodwork like flesh from bone. I continue to walk past the house, I always do this, it puts their mind at ease if they are getting suspicious. They forget all about you in a few seconds, until you want them to know you are there. I wait round the corner, out of sight. I see an empty bottle in the gutter, it’s a Stella bottle. I smile as I remember one of my friends calling it “The Woman Beater’s Beer”, he didn’t know that I had Hope tied up and gagged in my bathroom, covered in slashes and bruises. I smash off the neck of the bottle on the kerb and walk back to the house. I hope he has left the door unlocked, I don’t want him to know I am there by smashing the window.

I go up the steps, trying the handle of the big wooden door. The paint is chipping off this too. It opens easily and I walk silently into the hall. I can hear the shower running from behind a door a few feet away. I creep up to it and look through the key hole, there is figure in the shower, with his back to the door. I open the door, as quietly as possible and shut it behind me; he doesn’t hear it above the noise of the water. I flick off the light off and walk towards him. I have developed extremely good night vision from living in the warehouse so I can still see his silhouette. He swears and mutters something about a faulty fuse box but doesn’t make an attempt to move from the hot jet of water. It was a cubical shower and he had the clear plastic door shut, I slide it open, it makes a rattling noise but before he can react I lunge at him with the broken bottle. I slash and gouge at the screaming figure before me, striking his outstretched hands and arms, his exposed chest and legs. I am frenzied; blood and water from the still running shower spray my face and clothes. I can taste the blood, smell urine from the terrified young man as he collapses and I stab with all my might again and again at him. His screams become more and more agonized as the glass tears through the flesh of his back, jarring against his spine and ribs. The screaming stops suddenly as the bottle breaks through a rib and punctures first his lung then his heart. I eventually cease; gasping and exhausted. Sitting back on the wet, tiled floor, drenched in blood, I drop the bottle.

As my breathing slows and my heart grows calmer, I stand and walk to the door; I flick on the light and take in the chaos I have created. The corpse of the beautiful young man lays broken, his unseeing eyes no longer hold the arrogance they once did. I smile, wondering who he was, who loved him, who hated him. It is while contemplating the life I have just taken that I hear a noise that makes my blood run cold. The front door opens, a voice calls out; a voice I recognise, the voice of a woman once lost to me. The voice of Her. She awaits an answer, not receiving one she walks down the hall. Hearing Her footsteps I hurriedly lock the bathroom door. She tries the handle, finding it locked she calls out again.
Panic consuming me, the sound of blood pumping fills my ears. I can’t think. I stare at the seemingly impossible volume of blood which crawls across the floor tiles in all directions, seeking escape – like me. I gaze at the ripped flesh, it clings to shards of bone, his dark, unseeing eyes fixate me.
Her voice is calling out again, sounding confused. She tries the handle again,
“James? Are you alright?” a pause as She waits for the answer.
“James? Honey? You’re scaring me, open the door.” She is beginning to sound panicked. She cares for this man... She cares for this man!
I walk over to his corpse, as she continues to call out, now banging on the door. The dead eyes are no longer blank, they taunt me, jeering “she loves me, she never loved you.” But he never loved Her like I did. Never. I suddenly notice the left hand, I grab it. There is a gold wedding band on his finger. His fingers which he probably ran through Her hair, caressed Her body, held Her. Rage consumes me. I take the finger between my teeth, just above the ring, the object that stands for Her disloyalty, and bite down hard. The flesh tears, the tendons sever, the bone resists my wrath for a second before giving way with a crack. Blood fills my mouth, his blood, his filthy traitorous blood. The image of him ****ing Her assaults my mind. I take up the bottle again, hacking and gouging the mutilated body, severing his member.
The red mist of rage clears; I become horribly aware of Her screaming, hysterical bloodcurdling cries that shred my nerves as I did Her husband’s. I am trapped in the scene of my accidental revenge; Fate has given me the chance I lusted after. I had imagined killing the faceless man that loved Her again and again. I am now satisfied.
There is no window, just four claustrophobic walls, seeming to close in around me. I slide down the wall, clutching my head in my hands, pulling at my hair, trying to block out the horrific noise of Her screaming for the man She loved; the man that was not me, the man that did not love Her like I did. I can’t take it any longer, I cannot tolerate her cries. I flick off the light, stand behind the door and unlock it. She bursts into the scene of my desire, I grab Her by a handful of Her gorgeous midnight hair; I slam Her face into the tiled wall, then the edge of the old Victorian sink. A sickening crunch sounds and I let Her fall to the floor, unconscious and disfigured, but alive. I sink to my knees, leaning over Her beautiful form. I kiss her blood-soaked lips then the still red band of scar tissue on the neck, and bolt out of the house.
I don’t stop running; my sides ache with the strain, my damaged lungs causing agony to rip through me as I strive to escape: to escape from the scene seared into my mind, branded on my eyelids to appear every time I close my streaming eyes. I think back to the image of Her lying on the cold tiles, blood oozing from the wound on Her forehead, the white of Her skull showing through Her perfect flesh, gleaming in the artificial light. Blood trickling down Her neck, over the scar. The red, raised ribbon of scar tissue, the constant reminder of the final straw; the time I lost control, and the last time I saw Her.

I had kept Her in my flat for 3 days by that point. I had arranged everything perfectly, flawlessly. I had emailed and text Her boss, Her family, Her friends. N one would miss Her for a week, no suspicion of Her danger. It was 3 days of bliss: I had Her all to myself. She was terrified to begin with, She cried and cried, that ripped through my heart. Why did I repulse Her that much, scare Her so much that she pleaded and begged when I touched Her. Why did She have to cry? I just wanted to look at Her, to touch Her, to make Her mine. But gradually She got angry, She marred Her perfect image with hurtful words and violent actions. I had to tie Her up, to gag Her: She gave me no choice. But on the fourth day, She manipulated me. The bitch was cruel and heartless towards me; but I forgave Her.
It was the fourth night; I had watched Her sleep for an hour when She woke up and found me gazing at Her. I waited for the screaming to begin again, but She did not. So I awaited tears, but they did not come either; so I removed Her gag and let Her speak. She was hesitant, but explained that She had not understood me before, but that She did now. She seduced me with flattery and words of desire, Her manipulation was simple but I bought it. I had longed for Her understanding, lusted after Her love. I untied Her at once, and She kissed me...hard.
Lying on my back, I watched Her perfect form rising and falling, Her long, pale fingers raking my flesh, Her midnight hair falling over Her sapphire eyes, once more. Somehow Her injuries made Her more beautiful, my mark on Her. The brand that claims Her as mine.
My desire for Her had drained me, I was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep… forgetting to tie Her up again.
I awoke as She stole from my bedroom, She didn’t hear me as I took a knife from the table beside me and walked behind Her. I placed the cool metal of the blade against Her beautiful pale neck; She froze, Her breath caught in Her throat. My hand slid round Her waist and pulled Her close to me, I could feel Her heart hammering in Her chest. I whispered into Her ear, calmly, coldly. I was livid, enraged. She had tried to fool me, She thought She could manipulate me. Well now She was going to see just how smart I could be. I would get inside Her head, make Her doubt Herself, Her ability to cope alone. Make Her believe I am all She deserves.
But it was while I was contemplating my plan, my destruction of Her that She made Her bid for freedom. She slammed Her elbow into my stomach, causing me to crumple; but as I fell, I dragged the glittering knife across Her throat. I re-gained my balance, winded, and straightened in time to see Her clutching the wound, black blood pouring between Her fingers. She stumbles towards the door, but She is too weak to unlock it and slides down the wall, letting unconsciousness envelop Her. I run to the bathroom, grabbing a towel to smother the bleeding. I unlock the door as I call for an ambulance; I created a man in my head, blaming the horrific scene before me on him. I describe him to the paramedic when he arrives, the blur of motion around Her hypnotises me and I struggle to repeat the same fictitious event to the police officer who questioned me when she arrived a few minutes later. She declared me stupefied to one of the other officers and left. I walked out of the flat, unnoticed, into the black nothingness of the city, contemplating the black nothingness of my heart.

And now, years later, I am still wandering the dark, uncompassionate city, contemplating the rotten, bitter heart that consumes my waking thought and plagues my sleep with nightmares.
I stagger to a halt, I can feel the illness taking me. My blood seems too thick; I can feel it clogging my arteries. My hearing is muffled, my head impossibly heavy, my sight blurred. Spectres flit across my vision, patches of darkness, unseen by the woman standing by the bridge. I stumble towards her, but I blink and she’s gone. I search the shadows around the artificially lit pavement I find myself on. There is movement on the bridge, I walk towards it. There is a screaming in my ears, I force my fists against my temples in an attempt to stifle it, screwing my eyes shut. When I open my eyes again, the woman is standing on my left, just out of my line of vision. She whispers something, I don’t hear it, I just see her oddly blue lips move. The agony tearing through my head forces me to shut my eyes again. I feel fevered, shuddering and pouring sweat, yet my breath clouds before me. I use every ounce of effort to open my eyes, she is inches from me. Her white, opaque eyes glaring straight into mine, burning into my soul, finding my secrets and devouring them.
Murderer
Her voice is strange, strained and hoarse as if her vocal chords are torn. I am frozen with fear, yet every iota of my being is screaming at me to run. And somehow, I know I cannot escape. Panic rises in me; my heart feels as though it will rupture, my lungs take in no air. I feel her icy fingers at my throat, and then… there is blackness…and silence.
What must have been just seconds later I awoke, gasping for air. I scramble to my feet, eyes tearing around me, hunting for the woman, the embodiment of my conscience it seems, or my insanity. She has gone, I take a deep breath of cold, crisp air and try to slow my pulse. But I am shuddering with cold, drenched in sweat. Nausea overwhelms me and my legs buckle beneath me, I crumple to the ground. Suddenly the woman is everywhere, her voice fills my head, her figure is in every shadow, I look wildly around me, under the bridge something swings. The woman, neck broken, hangs by a noose from the freezing metal bars. She turns her head at a disgusting angle and breathes,
Murderer.
Again and again this accusation, this truth, bites and claws from within my own head. Suddenly I recognise one of the many voices screaming in my head to be Hope’s.
I tear my eyes away from the swinging corpse beneath the bridge and look to my right. Hope is sitting on a bench a few feet away from me. The only injury She has now is the gash across Her right cheekbone. She is dressed in a white dressing gown, falling loosely over Her elbows. Her eyes bore into me.
I never loved you. You are a disgusting parasite. You leach the beauty from humanity and make it something rotten. And now you are going to die, miserable and alone. I could have loved you once, but you chose to destroy me because you are incapable of love. Incapable of accepting your own loneliness, incapable of accepting you needed someone. So you hid behind your conspiracy theories and your twisted philosophies that even you never believe; they were just a way of keeping people out, and away from your soul, because being loved isn’t artistic enough for you. It’s not the tragic romance you deem yourself worthy of. But you are not worthy of any kind of love now, you have let yourself become inhuman, there is no compassion, no understanding, just hatred left in you.

Then She was gone. Tears streamed down my face. I look down at my blood soaked clothing, soaked in Her blood and the blood of the man who truly loved Her. Exhaustion washes over me, I shut my eyes. Letting sleep take me, letting death take me.
The horrific epiphany of my being suffocated me as pneumonia did. I died alone, in this beautiful world, of the cold bitterness from within.