It was Valentine's Day.
Hues of pink and red floated through the Camden streets; disguised as balloons, flowers and boxes of chocolate. Love hung low above the heads of passing couples, warming the February air and seeping underneath the doors of nearby homes.
Loud music emanated from clubs, where coloured drinks and bright fabrics mixed together in imperfect harmony. Chatter filled the narrow streets as laughter lit up the living rooms of lovers, cuddled in front of the television. Drunken exclamations of love were whispered in the shielding darkness of hidden alleyways, waiting until morning to disappear.
In a secluded London flat, not a sound could be heard- only the steady breathing of a man void of love.
Even though hearts decorated the nearby shop windows, the tired eyes remained oblivious to the smiles outside. The warmth of a porcelain mug was all that he felt. The hot liquid seemed to burn his numb fingers, but he was long past caring.
Ever since that day, all he could feel was the emptiness inside his chest, right where his heart should be. Every day it seemed to get a little bit larger and a little more raw along the edges. At first, it was if he had been shot. It wasn't empty, or gaping. It had stung, but hope had kept him intact.
Soon, however, the initial shock had worn off and the wound began to fester. His mind was sent reeling and the hole began to grow, ever so slowly consuming him.
He remembered the fight, vivid and tinged with red. He winced as the scene replayed, almost by its own accord. Memories came swimming back- angry and hot against his skull. Words, usually filled with adoration, distorted into insults, so full of barbs, they cut deep with a single utterance.
It had been a tipping point, and now he was falling. Dark birds circled overhead, watching him with smiling eyes, as he approached the sharp rocks below. He knew he wouldn't survive, but he couldn't get his heart to care.
Somewhere, a small part of him was begging him to try. It cried out to him, urging him to call out or find a branch to hold on to, but it was overpowered. Voices, dark and molten, whispered from inside his damaged psyche, reminding him, with flashbacks, of what he had single handily destroyed. They closed in like a vice, until, with a sickening crack, the pressure finally caused his hope to fracture. Regret seeped into the opening, infecting his heart beyond repair.
Overwhelmed, he grabbed the mug off the table and brought it up over his head. He threw it harshly against the wall and watched as the white shards spread across the floor. The once childlike image of a saxophone shattered into hundreds of golden splinters. That had been his favourite mug, he sighed, and the lone souvenir from the life he had left behind.
He wanted to be angry- to blame Naboo, Bollo, anyone but himself. The problem was that he couldn't. The only person he could blame was looking back at him in the mirror. The soulless orbs criticized his reflection, hating the person he saw for destroying everything he had loved. This man was weak. He deserved to be alone, they both did.
Studying the grimy surface, he was surprised to see how much he had aged. The sparkle was gone- replaced by glazed, unseeing eyes. What remained was a mere ghost. His features seemed more prominent, the contours of his face more defined. Maybe, he thought to himself, he was just growing up- losing the innocence and wonder which the shop had granted him. Maybe, it was just the lack of food. It didn't really matter.
Together, the two ex-zookeepers had always seemed to have the worst luck, and lost opportunities piled up behind them. With each mishap, the stress had grown; building up, layer upon layer, like the rock which was now crushing him. Maybe, he began to think, they'd be better off alone.
He had dismissed the idea quickly, but it never really disappeared. Every sleepless night, it would reignite and flit across his thoughts, conjuring an endless stream of what-if's.
They had been together for years, and he knew the other man's every shortcoming. He knew the look in eyes when he was close to tears, and the way his voice wavered when it all got a little too intense. It was predictable, but this time he had gone too far. He had ignored the signs- pushing dangerously, knowing his only friend would soon crack. Harsh words were thrown carelessly around the room, statements aimed precisely to kill.
Vince Noir and the jazz maverick were inseparable to everyone who knew them, except for their flatmates, who saw behind the rose-tinted curtains and into the heart of their friendship. Naboo and his familiar had seen it all- the growing tension, the surplus of bottles which seemed to litter the flat, and the missing drugs from their shared stash. The list was ever-growing, and the number of petty arguments, staggering.
They watched silently as adoring looks turned bitter and smiles became more and more rare. Every comment had a snarky reply, no longer innocent but with an underlying insult. Both sides eventually escalated until even the persistently high shaman could see a clear divide.
The man with the vacant eyes was left wondering when they had become so transparent.
Ignoring the protest of his fatigued body, he raised himself precariously from the chair. His tired feet were unsteady on the slanted floors and a thin hand wrapped around the wood for support. Stumbling to the small kitchen was a feat in itself.
He pulled out a fresh bottle of vodka from the upper cabinet, his once loose t-shirt stretching over his ribs and hanging over his thin torso. Forgoing a glass, he tipped it to his mouth and gulped the harsh alcohol quickly. The burn distracted him as it flowed down his throat, making him forget about the gape inside his chest, if only for a moment.
A year had passed since that fateful night and he was utterly lost. He filled the silence with strong alcohol and cheap drugs, but they rarely dulled the pain. Some nights, he would just sit on the roof of his rundown flat and watch as the smoke unfurled to form exotic shapes against the starry backdrop. Other times, he would talk to the moon, and even though he could no longer see its face, it usually gave him some comfort.
Once in a while, he would walk to the edge and just look down, wondering how it would feel to fall. He imagined it would be rather nice.
Usually though, he would just stay inside, tracing his wrists carefully with a kitchen knife or bent over a toilet bowl, with the bitter taste of sick burning his throat.
It didn't matter.
About six months ago, he had developed a relentless migraine which lasted for days, weeks, and eventually months. The never-ending pain, just behind his eyes, was now an everyday occurrence, which he could all but ignore. His movements became staggered, and bouts of dizziness started weeks later- eventually becoming the only constant in his life. His memory was fragmented, and although he originally played it off as a side effect of drinking, he finally accepted the truth. He wasn't the smartest person, but even he understood what was wrong.
He just couldn't bring himself to care.
The hole in his chest continued to grow, and fray along the edges.
It was Valentine's Day, but to Vince Noir- it was just another day closer to death.