21 days after the first meeting with the Colonel, I found myself astride his still warm corpse, the beaten heart ripped from his chest and held aloft as a cheer leader holds a pom pom. Those about me gave noises of appreciation, but the loss of this once great man made me sick to my stomach, a wretching worstened by the inevitablity of his decline.
Wednesday sees the dustmen powdering the road. The noise of the lorry wakes me and, as usual, I have to run outside to place the bin on the pavement else it will be missed.
This morning it is heavy, and groans as I tilt it towards me and bounce it down the steps.
I open the lid, and look inside, forgetful of what rubbish I have collected over the past week, but confident enough that none of it should be shouting at me.
The bin seems empty to its depth, but darker than normal inside. And deeper.
That’s strange, I think to myself. I can smell sulpher, and the cries when the lid is flipped open seem to be those of tortured souls. I wonder, briefly, whether Guantanamo Bay has been relocated to my wheely bin, but it seems unlikely, as there are no protesters nearby.
No option, then, but to leave it out for the lorry and see what happens. I only half hope that it won’t empty out the contents of hell outside my house, but its a risk that I take, not having yet had a coffee or being properly awake.
You see a boy get knocked off his bike. He dies in your arms. The accident wasn’t your fault. You can’t explain what happens afterward. The dead are visiting the living. The dead love the living. Even if they don’t love you. They want to cling on. Take an influence in your life. Complete the trials of their earthly life, or repeat challenges that they believe they have failed. And one of them wants you, innocent you, who held him as he died.
“Remember me?”
Surprised, I turned around, and saw my reflection beckoning from the mirror into which I”d just stared. The eyes were more red than a moment ago, and it seemed as if my reflection had suffered even less sleep than I had recently. But this wasn’t really much of a concern, and as my eyes made contact with themselves my legs made it clear that they wanted no part in this reunion.
“You can’t reun, you know. How can you possibly avoid your own reflection?”
It was saturday morning, and once again the kids were playing with the gas mains. Mother was out, shopping, whilst father had only just returned from a busy night at the pub. Martin and Jerry sat in the basement cellar, with only a torch to guide them, and attempted once again the connection to the meter. It was no good. Either the meter would require a hole, or the pipe would have to be ruptured. A tough choice, but they knew that really it was no choice at all. One swift blow with the axe, and the gas would be able to fill the space. The brothers were excited.
If you stare at life for long enough, it starts to make sense.
Isolate. Hide away. Deny name when called. Abuse, avoid, destruct. Again, louder. Ignore the olive branch. Think of nothing, constantly. Refute the positive. Notch up the days. Don’t learn. Don’t change. Compound thoughts. Self obsess. Portray one aspect as a whole. Desaturate. Drown out life. Live in white noise. Hurt friends with rebuke. Embrace guilt. Risk everything.
Repeat.
They say that history repeats itself. Who am I to argue. But I didn’t know it would be the case.
The face of death stares through the glass at the woman asleep by the fire.
Sitting. At the desk. The computer tries to block my vision but its easy to see over the top; a middle distance stare that would put me in good stead for a job as a model in the freeman’s catalogue.
The park stretches ahead from the office window. To be a squirrel. In summer time. With some peanuts. Close to the path.
No good.
Summer has gone, taking with it the park dwellers and their bags of pre packaged vermin food. But the squirrels here have forgotten that they’re vermin. Too used to being fed.
There’s a crash, as another small furry body falls out of the tree nearest the office. This time, instead of landing in the mouldering heap of grey fur from other failed squirrels, who move only to play with the rats, the branches of the tree catapault the starving creature through my window. It lands in a small sea of glass and blood, in the centre of a report that details the newest business paradigms that will allow us to square the circle of perfection and avoid being sent up river when we’re trying to go downstream.
It is not surprising that the paper pulls the life blood from the animal, although the speed means that it is not so much a blotter, but a suction pump. The squirrel is left, still and silent, its pale face screaming the same silent “why?” that I was expecting from anyone else who encountered the document.