I had this idea the other day: our minds can be sticky places to manoeuvre. One day the way forward is clear and easy. On others, the path is covered in virgin snow and the horizon is obscured by a blizzard.
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My mind is greasy, just like yours. If I’m not careful, placing every step with purpose, I slip and fall, descending into the deep folds. Once there, pressed against mushy walls, I’m stuck until someone comes to get me. That wait was always short in my youth. If you’re lucky, you’ll have someone watching over you until you reach a certain age. But as the years pass, the wait gets longer. I can lie there for weeks, wondering when someone might pass by and notice my feet sticking in the air like a human sprout. Although those thoughts are just a fraction of time, brief slivers of clear sky in a clouded horizon. But without those moments, I’d slip further into the fold until my sprouting foot, the flag of my salvation disappears.
I’m in one of those folds now, living life upside down, waiting for someone to come and pull me out. There’s a smell in the apartment - body odour and desperation. Stale air muffles the honks and screams of the world beyond my windows, transforming each sound into an ugly, tuneless gong.
There’s a bus stop across the road put to use throughout the day. I watch it with little focus, pressing my head against a dirty window plain. Two figures wait feet and decades apart. They're passing the time before their next connection. The man rests the nook of his elbows on his cane and his weight on the metal bench. He is here most days, waiting, tracing the traffic with his frozen stare.
Leant against the bus stop post is a kid no older than fifteen. Her hood is pulled loosely over her hair, and her neck is craned towards the phone in her hands. Someone who isn’t buried in the dark folds of their mind might make a quint comparison; one bus stop, two generations, two views. But all I can think of is the worst case. If the bus lost control, bumping the curb and ploughing into the pair, who would have the better chance. The man is further away, protected by the post, the frame of the bus stop, and the teenager. But he’s also fastened to his seat, and I'm assuming the cane means he'll be slow to his feet. The teenager might be in a better position. One precise, well-timed jump back would do the trick. Although, her reaction would be slow - she'd not see it until the last second.
The bus arrives, pulling up safely, and both the man with his cane and the teenager step on unharmed.
I pull myself away from the window. I’m disappointed. Life down here is so numb that you need something spectacular to feel anything. And if I have realised anything from life so far, it's that fear, hate, anger, and lust are easiest to come by. Their opposites take time and endurance, a tight grip, something that’s utterly unachievable when you’re stuck in the greasy crevices of your brain.
I decided to take a cold shower. Cold water can free you with its violent attack on your senses. But I step out, dripping and shivering, without any sign of movement. The bath mat is usually a cloud under my toes; today it resembles a sodden marshland, waiting to steal a boot.
A fresh T-shirt and jeans provide a fraction of freshness to my thoughts, but by the time my socks slap my ankles, that relief is doused with more grease, and I fall a little further. It’s as if the depths of my mind are calling me out for my cheap tricks. Is that all you’ve got, I hear.
My bed calls my name when I try to step away. Just lay down for a minute. And that’s what I do, stepping out of the jeans I’ve just pulled on.
The duvet feels weighted, and the mattress has a gravity stronger than earth. I could stay here forever or for as long as it takes for someone to come along and pull me out. My eyelids are heavy, perhaps pulled closed by the gravity keeping me pinned to the linen.
A row of knuckles wakes me up, drumming on a door somewhere. It takes me a beat or two to come around. Sleep this deep leaves you in a mirage when you wake; everything is blurred. Reality and dreams are interwoven as if they’re two sleeves on the same jacket. I rub my eyes clean and gulp down a glass of water.
Another knock, this time crisper and more impatient. My door is definitely the one receiving the beating. I can hear a man mumbling on the other side of my wall, where the hallway curls to the left, leading to my door.
“James, open up. I haven’t got all day.” I’ve heard that voice all my life.
Now someone is here, the difficult part begins. The rescue has all the elements to make things worse: movement, fiction, hope and reaction. Too many mistakes in a row, and I might lose myself for good.
A dark blue sky greets me when I pull the curtains open. Is it dawn or dusk? How many days have I slept through? I ask myself, shuffling to the door.
“God, you look like shit,” he says as the door swings open.
“Nice to see you too.” He always feels bigger when he comes to pluck me from my greasy hole. Or perhaps it’s just me feeling small.
“Not feeling too good, huh?” He asks, walking past me and perching himself on the edge of my sofa.
“I’ve been better.” His eyes scan the room for… well, I’m not sure. That’s a question for him.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing, really. Just taking in the scenery.”
“Take it in somewhere else, would you.”
“You let me in. What do you want me to do, close my eyes?” That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. That way, he might miss the pizza boxes attempting to break out of the cupboard or the razor blade poking out of my notebook.
“Do what you want,” I say, opening the fridge for something to eat. Three cherry tomatoes are enjoying an entire shelf to themselves. I eat them as if they’re fresh strawberries.
“I have a table booked for eight,” he says abruptly, rising to his feet.
“Who for?” He shoots me a look then steps over to the window and runs his finger across the glass.
“You need to clean these tomorrow. It looks like a crack den.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, go and get changed. I don’t want to miss this reservation.” His voice is blunt and honest. Only someone you’ve known all your life can talk to you like that and put a smile on your face. You would have thought a successful rescue is determined by words or actions. It’s only logical that someone wedged in the deepest, greasiest crevices would need to be gently pulled out to avoid injury. But that’s not exactly true. You just need someone who knows what they are dealing with. Someone who understands which buttons to push and where to apply pressure.
A cold breeze pricks my skin while I get changed. He always does this: airing out all the stale air so I can come home to a fresh start.
Each step through the neighbourhood, walking under the dark blue sky of dusk, winches me free and wipes me clean. By the time the wine hits our table, and the waitress pours a dribble into his glass to taste, I’m free. I can see a clear horizon, and my steps are steady.
Love, Luke
Buy my debut novel today! Search ‘Love, Loss & the View from My Window’ on your local Amazon marketplace.
UK - HERE
NL - HERE