It was perfectly silent that Sunday as the sun started to rise, began to
colour the deep blue morning sky. A blanket of white snow had been sprinkled
over everything outside and on opening his sleepy eyes, from beneath the white
snug sheets holding them both inside, it was the lingering cold of the moon
slipping in from last night which wrapped him around her within their sunlit
room. Entwined together, skin warm and perfect to hold close, they seemed to
lay forever until subtly their yawning and stretching and snuggling stumbled
into the kitchen. Here lingering lasted even longer and as the smell of fresh
bread and smokes clothed their noses they dreamily draped themselves around a
thick wooden breakfast table, talking idly about nothing much at all; but still
every word became a reason to believe in their private and beautiful world. The
day though did eventually grow and as they walked for miles through the snow,
around all the splashes of flower colour, the flowing rainbow clusters refusing
to conform with the cold; still they held each other close, whispering and
kissing as they went. So then, in a similar manner the evening also came and
began to descend. Filled with comfortable food it consumed them before carrying
their hazy sleepy heads back to bed. Warm and entwined again, the night dimmed
over them while smouldering sex merged late with the slow beginning of another
day.
She had already left for work when
he finally woke feeling thirsty and hungry that next morning. He made his way
alone into their still dirty from yesterday kitchen and after picking his way
around the moulding ones, found a bowl before munching some early lunch. He sat
there after that for some time trying to figure out how much they had left to
spend and, dreading the start of his impending night shift, realised he already
felt like going back to bed. But then the phone rang. It was her and he was so
happy at first but soon he began to feel down. She was lunching with Peter who
he didn’t like very much. She came home just when he was about to leave, as was
the case when he sometimes worked late, however her face seemed strange today
and after they had hugged he said,
“The heating's gone.”
“Wha' d’ya mean? So
it’s gunna be cold for me tonight is it?”
“I found it on high
when I woke up, you must have left it on and now it’s blown. Your fault, but
shit happens. I’ll get it fixed tomorrow. Wrap up, you’ll be okay,” he replied
before slipping both arms into the sleeves of his coat.
“No it fuckin won’t.
You’re a twat and this house sucks my ass.”
“You’re a twat! You
are allowed to fix it yourself you know!” he yelled and feeling aggravated he
slipped his toes then feet into a pair of boots.
“Fuck it! I’ve had
enough, I’m leaving. Can’t be bothered with this anymore,” she declared.
With a look of shock
on his face he stared at her and said,
“What do you mean
your leaving, going where?”
“I’m leaving us, this
relationship, I Just can’t be bothered anymore. I’m gone,” and with that she
stormed off and out of the door.
Fuck you then he
thought, thinking she’d come back but she never did. Just like that he had lost
her, colder than he ever thought she could be and never a sorry. Poor Jack, he
felt so sad. All the hope he’d ever had he abandoned because of her and in its
place a fierce bitterness landed but he’d get over her, Sara Whitacare, she was
merely a name and there were many of those still left out there.
The whole of the next week consisted
of him either sulking miserably or throwing mental fits of rage. While he was
sulking, thoughts of revenge would contaminate him, extravagant plans of how he
would get his own back, show her just how much she’d hurt him, filled his head.
The rage would then follow, spilling out of him it would mostly only messy the
air in his room but occasionally he did attack her with it. He made her cry
many a time but it never did change anything, she was still with her new him
and he was still at rock bottom fucking nothing but himself up. As time moved,
his attacks did become less but still his sulks grew until he hardly ever left
the house. Self-doubt and whys haunted his claustrophobic life and cut his arms
as he tried to fight back but he always failed. One day though, when he was
feeling extremely bad and looking rather pale, he began chewing his toenails to
pass the time. Harmless fun he thought until his nailless toes began to hurt
and so he started sucking them to relieve the ache. However, being used to
chewing, his teeth soon started to grind and grown very used to self indulgent pain,
before he knew it he’d eaten his big toe and was now licking up it’s fleshy
remains. That night the only thing shifting around in his brain was the
marvellous and euphoric release that, even if it was short lived, had pleased
him. So the next morning, without even thinking, he munched another one and
then another after work. The remaining two were gone by the end of the week but
he didn’t stop there. His addiction now had hold of him and it was only until
he had eaten past his knee and was chomping on his thigh that he realised: this
was so wrong!
A long while passed from then on and during that time he never once
nibbled himself, not even a toenail. He also made large efforts to leave the
house and generally get back to normal living again. It did seem to be going
fine most of the time and even the loss of one of his legs didn’t bother him as
much as he thought it would. The questions from friends were a little awkward
but he just lied, said it was an accident and that he was lucky to survive and
so they would smile and pile on the sympathy and that was how he happily lived
until she heard about it. She dropped round one afternoon when he was not in
the best of moods to offer him her condolences and explain how something like
this puts things into perspective, but he just told her he’d never forget and
sent her away. Sadness filled him that evening, memories of lost beauty and
close friendship, intimate companionship and happiness circled inside his mind.
He felt so lost, and craving something, anything, his desperation turned into
obsession into the removing of his shoes, socks and trousers, toes and leg. The
next morning he woke up cursing himself and retching and, after emptying the
contents of his stomach lining, decided that it was time to finally try and get
some help.
The wheelchair had been pissing him
off all week, it was old and rusty and squeaked as it moved. Fucking NHS he
grumbled while he rumbled down the cobbled path leading up to an old building
and its cold wooden room, inside of which he was due to meet the rest of his
self help group that evening. The group were all sat in a circle when he
wheeled in, their shifty eyes flinching away and towards anywhere else whenever
he attempted to smile at any one of them.
“Don’t worry about
’em, fucking shits all of ’em. Ain’t ya Jim,” said an attractive lady who’d
just walked in and was now staring at a hunched up young man cowering in the
corner.
“Fucking retards,”
she complained, mostly to herself.
“So what ya up ta?
What’s ya problem?”
“My legs,” replied
Jack when he realised she was talking to him.
“Only been in this
damn thing a week,” he said banging one of its wheels, “Accident.”
“I see. I’m Marie.”
“Jack,” said Jack,
“so why you here?”
“Because I’m broke as
fuck and hooked on crack and, believe it or not, used to be twenty eight stone.
Got my friends worried, me being so thin,”
“Or jealous,” Jack
butted in.
She smiled at this,
“Truth is I’m lazy.
Always have been, never followed anything through. Dropped out of everything
I’ve ever done but fuck it. I’m happy. Love this bullshit, it’s so much fun
being one of these pricks.” Sarcastically smiling she scowled around the room
and they all ducked away.
“Well you’re
beautiful at least,” he told her and then squeaked into position as their hour
of “How to believe in ME” got underway.
The lecture ended after what seemed
like a lot longer than an hour since it had begun. But as much as he felt
stupid it had done the trick. Smiling and squeaking, out he went ready to face
the world, refreshed and full of happy fuel. But before he had even reached the
door he lost control of his wheels and was pushed out into the street, fake
feet bouncing as he leapt off the curb and into the road and then onto the back
seat of an old Cavalier. From here he was spun around and lying on his back,
looking up, he suddenly felt elated to be greeted by the smiling teeth of Marie
and her undressing body.
His happiest month in recent times had gone by, he’d spent almost
everyday with Marie and, just when he thought it couldn’t get any better,
Saturday arrived. Waking early the sun was in the sky and, leaving Marie lying
he heaved his body into the wheelchair and squeaked off for some morning
shopping. The streets were quiet and the air still seemed tired as he brushed
by it. Peaceful and hopeful clothed him as he slipped between the few people
strolling alongside. With should be like this everyday feelings he wheeled
until his arms turned him around and back to bed, bags full of goodies hanging
from every jagged wheelchair edge.
“Hey,” came a jokey
sulky smile, “I’ve been missing you, Poo Face.”
“Sorry,” he whispered
back into her ear as she leaned over and peaked into his bags, then lifting up
his arms, he laughed as she dragged him back into bed.
“You’re the best. Thank
you,” she purred, snuggling in beside him before beginning to nibble on a huge
piece of French bread. The day floated by motionlessly from then on until
suddenly the T.V caught his attention,
“Fuck Me! No way,
fuck! Fuck me. No way. No way!”
“Whassup?” she asked
him.
“My luck is up,
that’s what. Fucking crazy this world ain’t it? Fucking hell. If mine are the
numbers I’m sure they are…. Well then I’m a millionaire. Where’s me bag?”
“What? What you
talking about?”
“There, look, on the
T.V. 3, 13, 23, 34, 36, 43. They’re my numbers!”
He’d won the jackpot on the lottery and so full of even more happy they
passed the rest of the day. The morning though did eventually come and, still
feeling hung over with excitement they sat down in the kitchen. With talking
dripping from their lips, sipping tea and eating biscuits, they discussed how
this would change everything and how now would be a good time for her to move
in. He could employ her to take care of things since he wasn’t so able and she
would receive a regular wage and accommodation until she got herself back on
her feet. The proposition was perfect and so she agreed and the next day moved
in; at last he felt as if the world was finally swaying to his rhythm, repaying
him everything he was owed.
Officially she had moved into the
spare room, that was where she piled all of her stuff, but they always slept
together and she always used his things so, very quickly, she became fully
integrated into even the tiniest part of his life. But it wasn’t all cosy and floaty
light, in fact her presence was now beginning to feel like more of a hindrance
than a blessing. She was eating everything in sight, and with her wage, was
buying eighth after eighth of green, smoking it up every day and doing
absolutely nothing to help. They were still happy but his nagging was starting
to take its toll, every time he asked her for even the smallest thing she would
tell him to fuck off and, miserable in the mouth, complain that she wasn’t his
slave. She was going to pay him back everything one day, this was a temporary
state of affairs she’d say and he would tell her it was okay, but then she
would just cry and nothing would change until it happened again.
Chewing on a cold chicken leg left
over from yesterday she sat scowling at him; watching him and his stumps as
they squeaked around, struggled up and down the house, until eventually they
came to rest, twitching beside her.
“Could you pop down
the shops for me and buy something nice to eat, there’s no food in the fridge
at all. Please?” He asked her.
But all she wanted to
do was tell him to go do it himself, sick of serving this limbless thing but
too lethargic to attempt to move and feeling too fat to charm much else she
felt trapped and so just sat and shrugged.
“Actually, it don’t
matter, think I’ll go anyway. Haven’t had much fresh air today so might as well
take a roll. Get the kettle on, I’ll be back in a bit.”
Squeaking away he
hoped she’d be okay when he got back, but she just cursed under her breath as
soon as he’d left and, slamming the kettle onto the hob, hoped he’d die or get
lost: it was time to end this. He got back sooner than she’d expected and was a
lot different from when he had left. He was muttering swearwords under his
breath and panting and was clearly distressed.
“I fucking saw her
again, she walked right up to me and all condescending asked me, with a smirk
on her face, if I wanted some chicken legs. Bitch! Who does she think she is
working in that store, packing meat and speaking to me like that? I’ve got millions,
slag’s got nothing but twisted teeth. Stupid bitch!”
“It’s alright love,
here look, have a cup of tea,” offered Marie.
She did feel sorry
for him and as much as he had been niggling her it was the least she could do.
But that was it though, sad prick was still so hung up it kinda made her cringe
to think about it. He wheeled off to his room soon after and, thinking it best
to leave him alone a while, she started smoking again, she closed her eyes and
drifted away. A little later she woke up hungry,
“Jack! Jack!” she
shouted walking up to his door, “Jack, we ever gunna eat or what?”
But when she reached
his door a thud and a groan echoed from inside. She burst in,
“OH MY GOD!” She
started screaming, panicking, freaking out,
“Fucking hell Jack
that’s so wrong!” Trembling she ran out before throwing up in the sink.
Pulling himself along by one arm, the other in his mouth and dripping
red with blood, eyes running with tears, he groaned and then passed out as the
rest of the day span off around and around drowning her. Out of control it
tumbled into a trance as she began clearing up his nightmare mess and feeling
very distressed, she vowed to escape that vile lump who she could now barley
remember having ever loved.
When Jack woke up he felt really dizzy
and had the worst hang over he could ever remember experiencing. His mind was
full of weird dreams, almost memories, he wasn’t sure but what he did know was
that he’d never felt this bad before. He was examining his newest stump when
she walked into the room wearing a brand new dress, fatter than ever and
smiling slyly,
“So how ya feeling
then, you cunt?” she enquired.
“I’m feelin pure
crap, what the hell did they do to me and what's with you?”
“Nuff cash that’s
what.” His head was thumping already and she wasn’t making any sense so he
said,
“From where?”
“From you. Bitch!”
she muttered, staring down at him and laughing before turning to walk away.
“Wait!” he called
after her, “what you talking about?”
Whipping her head
over her shoulder she hissed,
“You’re my husband
now,” and slammed the door behind her as she stormed out.
Their wedding had been a quiet and
quaint affair; she self-indulgently hummed as she told him how he had just sat
there completely drunk and drugged up throughout the ceremony. She laughed at
how the priest still bound them in holy matrimony, thinking it would be better
for him to have a good home and a wife to recover with. But having saved the
best ’til last, she was glowing when she told him about forging his signature
to get her hands on his cash. She was his wife now and that meant no more
nagging from him or doing anything that she hated. With only one arm he was
almost a worm, so if he didn’t want her to treat him like one he’d better fit
in. The days went by and he mostly kept out of her sight while he tried to get
things right in his head. But he had no plans to remain in hiding and so as
soon as he felt fit again he came out fighting, told her this wasn’t right.
“You’re not right, in
the head!” she said and, repulsed by his twitching and squeaking, locked him in
the cupboard under the stairs where he stayed for two days before she let him
out again.
His life was hell now and, after a year of being repeatedly locked in
the dark, his mind had grown sore from so many haunting thoughts and his stumps
(four now after taking his final limb sometime around March) were torturing him
whenever he flinched or accidentally wiggled them. He became an insomniac as
the periods of darkness outgrew those of light. His head, he was sure, had been
used to mop the floor. But so far gone was his sense of what was real and with
such a low opinion of Marie it wasn’t easy to say anything was definitely not a
dream. The hours kept on flowing and he kept on moaning, time endlessly ongoing
felt like it would never stop; that was until one day the cupboard door burst
open and he was dragged out and dumped in the garden.
“Bloody hell! You
weren’t joking were ya!”
“I told you,
disgusting isn’t he?”
It was her voice, not
Sara come back to him but the other one, Marie. What's she doing he thought?
“Come on help me, get
him in there! Don’t want this thing in my house. Quick, before the kids see.
You stupid Bitch, why didn’t you tell me?”
Who was that voice?
That man with her? Talking to her and why is he throwing me into a wheelbarrow?
Came Jacks thoughts again.
“I thought you’d hate
me, be disgusted of me, I’m so sorry,” she replied.
Not Sara, she hadn’t
come back to save him, it was still Marie’s voice.
“It’s not your fault.
I can’t believe it, who would believe this? You poor thing it must have been so
horrible hiding this from me, dealing with it all on your own. The filthy dirty
thing, it’s making me feel sick just to look at him.”
“So you still love
me, Peter, tell me you love me?” pleaded Marie.
Not Sara, she hadn’t
come back to him. They kissed then, the man and Marie, before wheeling him into
the basement and lighting the furnace.
Sam Rawlings