By 

Dan Melchior

----The year is 1995 - A man, or adolescent (depending on your point of view) who will henceforth be referred to as Our hero (although he doesn't behave in the least bit heroically--------well, apart from in a lot of subtle ways that you may or may not come to appreciate from the reading of this book------ways that may only be detectable to those who have the capacity for sympathising with emotional cripples)----anyway, this character's ended up in the all too common situation of acting out an extreme psychological melodrama concerning a girl he's been rejected by (Though there were a lot of other contributing factors ------I mean, let's face it; she was really just the catalyst) He's on his own, in a town he didn't grow up in, and had never previously visited until he was moved there by his mother because, well, quite frankly she (and everyone else in the family) was tired of his whining-------------his days are empty and devoid of hope. The sky is constantly over cast----(But then he is in England after all!) It may also be of some importance to the background of this story for you to know that he went to a Christian school as a kid ----though he wasn't baptised by his atheist parents. There he was taught about a man in the clouds called God with a big grey beard who saw everything bad that a person did----------he could even use his ultra powerful x ray eyes to see all the bad thoughts hiding in your head-----sort of like a vindictive superhero!-------But returning to the present, to the story, as we must, I would have to say it's a very tough period for our boy-----speaking strictly as a casual observer, you understand.

Yes, I'd have to concede that Our hero is having a bit of a hard time----

Our hero attempts to ruin his solitary Christmas and become a martyr by getting horribly drunk and throwing up- -

- - - -In a pathetic attempt at rebellion against good health and the season of good will - I drank the bottle of peach schnapps my mother bought me - wolfed down the Christmas pudding raw - - threw up into the bleachy smelling toilet bowl (I'd just cleaned it for the first time in weeks!) and by proxy into the ANTISEPTIC FACE OF CHRISTMAS! (Sorry Jesus!)- - - I then crawled, shuffled and rolled in perverse slow motion over to the sink - - and laid my face against the sweet, cooling lino beneath it thanking the God of irresponsible drinkers for such a tiny relief - -

Now I come to, horribly dis-orientated- grasping at the room -my environs - -

Bright white light streams in through the frosted window above the sink. It's snowing lightly outside -

The part of me that isn't drunk looks down at the part of me that is, and laughs affectionately- has a bit of fun with my tiny tragedy; glamorises it a bit. After all, Im funny! I can laugh at myself!

And I'm young!

Things are bound to get better; everyone says so, everyone agrees that they can't go on this way forever. (Although, deep down inside, I suspect that they probably will -)

- - -The old lady next door sent me a Christmas card, which was nice of her - I couldnt' help wondering if it was a cry for help though - - - Perhaps she wanted me to go round there and watch the Queen issuing platitudes with her - - - I couldnt face that! - Benevolent gestures are good in theory, but ultimately I think I was just being kind by not going - Imagine how offended she would've been if I'd yawned ostentatiously, or sniggered into the glass of sherry she would've undoubtedly forced on me - - -No, it was better for everyone that I declined her advances - - - -

- I go back downstairs, and stop to look at myself in the mirror in the hall. It's gratifying that I look terrible; I would've felt cheated otherwise. I think of old films in which the leading men have theatrically rugged five o' clock shadow, and all the women seem to love them for it, because it means theyre tough and can drink a lot - and they never ever cry.

- These days are running into each other imperceptibly, like a series of polluted streams emptying into a huge, grey sea.

- I've been trying to hold onto something solid, but it seems that there's nothing left to hang onto I feel I'm breaking up on the tide -

(Tears hang like chandeliers from the chins of pretty girls - but they just look ugly on my face)

- I look into the mirror trying to find somebody solid. But all I can see is a halogen lit ghost-

- So I stumble back into the living room.

-The TV's still on, brimming over with lurid, festive cheer. I allow myself to get lost in its soft, narcotic glow (I'm getting a headache and I dont have any painkillers)

-Still, I have a strong belief that things will get better. Yes, I really believe they will! --------I have grand visions. I'll move to America, marry a beautiful woman, become a success at something. My mother will even be impressed!

-I go into the fantasy in exhaustive detail -try to see into the future with perfect clarity. How will I look then? How old will I be when all this happens, as it undoubtedly will? What will this wife of mine look like? What colour will her hair be? Her eyes? Will she enjoy playing badminton? Will she really love me?----- I mean unconditionally will she be able to accept my secret madness?---------------------------
All the fun goes out of the fantasy. It becomes a chore. I can't fasten on it tight enough, it becomes painful. And besides its just a dream. I want a certainty! I dont want any wishy washy crap, its tearing up my mind to be honest. All these fruitless dreams, theyre weighing down on me. I want it all now, or I want to sleep, I want to walk away. I want it all now or I want to deny it! I want to be the one to turn it down, to be a martyr, to withdraw into a little cave, hide in a little lair, and fester ---------------there I'll endlessly re- run imaginary funerals in my damaged head, where members of my family are struck down with immeasurable guilt and grief. But, most of all I want the knowledge that I turned the dream down. Not the other way round ------you understand! - Me and my pride must be the hollow victors! And we'll be the ones to make ourselves martyrs; no one else will have that dubious pleasure. Poets will write poems about us, even if it takes the general public 50 years or so to catch on -But then, after all, life is suffering. That's what the Buddhists say, and I agree with them.

- We may as well all just admit it.

- I'm scared of my feelings, they're so extreme, and so out of hand. There doesn't seem to be any end to them. It wouldn't be too extreme to say that sometimes I hate everything.

- Apart from birds, I always like birds.

- I always have some softness in my heart for sparrows. And dogs yes, I always love dogs. Apart from tiny dogs that shake as though they're extremely cold all the time, and snap at your ankles, and have bulging eyeballs and tiny, brittle legs that look like you could snap them inadvertently---not that type of dog.

- But excluding those freaks of nature, it would be true to say that I always love dogs and birds, and quite often feel a distinct dislike of everything else.

- Of course there is another side to all this. Sometimes I go off on absolute rhapsodic flights of fancy about almost everything. Then I love life, and all it entails, unconditionally. The trees, the dirty paintwork on the windowsills of the houses by the abandoned factory, the breeze, (which is in actual fact strong enough that on another day it would irritate me greatly) on those days it fills me with ecstasy. At those times I love all things. I may even love a small dog if one were to cross my path, but not if it snapped at my ankles. No, no, that might actually be enough to get rid of my good mood---

----This house I'm living in was built in the 20s, I think. It's terraced, the same as every other house on the road. Which is a very long road, it runs through two towns. The houses stand rank and file, like big bland faces staring impassively at the passing cars and lorries as they trundle by. Theyre all built of red brick, with bay windows, tiled roofs; the Mock Tudor look. Their tiny front gardens each have a little wooden gate hanging askew on an ancient spring hinge---- But I'm only really concerned with one room in the back of the house. That's the one that I live and sleep in.

- A big wooden standard lamp sits in the corner of the room. It watches over me like a silent friend, producing an amazing amount of soft, yellow light that keeps the ghost out of the room. The gas fire is one of those old models, the type they're always telling you are dangerous, the ones they make scare mongering adverts about. All around the top of the room theres a picture rail where I hang my clothes on wire hangers. The carpet is in that lurid sixties show room style so beloved of English Grandmas. Totally nylon, orange yellow brown and black. Little patches of it are unravelling all over, especially in the corners. My TV sits on top of an old cupboard with art deco panelling. I have to be ready to stow it away inside the cupboard at short notice if the detector van comes round, though I'm sure that would actually turn out to be a completely futile attempt at avoiding prosecution.

- The old bloke who lived here was a smoker, so everything is a little bit nicotine stained. Which is nice.

- The kitchen's the only other room I really use. I only go in the bathroom upstairs (or any of the other rooms for that matter) when it's still light outside. I have to avoid the old mans ghost!

- Sometimes I sit in the garden. But since I cut the apple tree back it's hard to avoid getting into conversations with nosey and overly friendly neighbours. But it is nice to be amongst the bent flowers, which bow their heads as though they're shy. In the day the outlines of the houses are almost bleached out against the blaring sky. Smudges of night appear so early; they hang like a fading scream above the whole town - -

- In a strange way I'm ecstatically happy here, its so plain and bland - qualities I love! And no one can see me when I draw the orange drapes. It's a very good place to disappear, ----

Charlotte- August 1994

Oh God, I was happy! - blissfully happy! - - - I'm sure I'll never be that happy again - - - I turn over and over in bed - kiss my pillow like a fool - - - I'm wishing those days back - but they're gone - - - I have to move on - - - but I can't! - I'll never be loved again - - - they say I will, but I won't - Charlotte loved me because she was damaged too - - - and in just the right way - - - -what are the odds of finding another perfectly damaged girl? - And she understood, she understood! - - - - she understood the blackness of nights - the long tunnels - that's the main thing - the need to be understood - I can't look into blank eyes - - - - however pretty - I can't tolerate politely nodding heads - people who make their necks sore with passive agreement while backing away slowly - - - - - - - - - - -you know when it fits - and you feel the glow, you feel the balm of recognition - you start to grasp at it - clutch it tight - but it's like squeezing a very small pet too tight - youre only doing it because you love it! - you just can't hold on tight enough - and, the next thing you know the pet's not breathing! - you know what I'm trying to say - if you hold it as tight as you feel like holding it - you kill it! - you kill the thing you're trying to protect! - the thing you can't live without! -