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He woke shivering that morning, the house cold and sad. Hugging the covers against his chest, Arthur delayed the process of getting up, closing his eyes but finding that sleep wouldn't return. With an unintentional grunt, he stretched both arms out as far as they would reach, until it felt like his muscles could snap, and rolled over to face the empty space beside him.
The pillow still held the indentation of a head and the sheet over mattress was wrinkled in a way that showed the person that was last there had spent a while sat in place before getting up. Whatever residual heat said person may have left behind had long since faded but Arthur reached out to feel for it nonetheless, craving warmth. Curling his fingers so that they dragged along the material with some added resistance as he drew his hand back to himself, he laid on his back then sat up slowly, as though rising from the grave.
Noting the window remained closed, Arthur wondered why the temperature of the house had plummeted so dramatically, thinking perhaps the ever more miserable weather had infiltrated their home. Clouds one shade lighter than thorough black blocked out the sun like a thick, woollen blanket, their oppressive weight stifling without warming. The spindly, naked branches of the neighbour's tree were in frame of the windows view, eerily still, not a hint of a breeze, and blurred by a saturated mesh of mist.
Atmospheric heaviness further delaying his already slowed movements, he struggled from the bed and ventured into the hall. Not only was it colder outside of the contained space of the bedroom but the sound of nearby traffic was audible and, on making his way further along the landing, a recognisable smell drifted up the stairs.
He came down to find the back door open, Francis sat there stretched out along the length of the threshold. Stopping by the base of the stairs, Arthur leaned against the banister as he watched his partner raise an elegant hand to take a drag of the cigarette balanced loosely between its slim fingers. While he wanted to interrupt, the expression of melancholic reflection on the other's face was one that required solitude and Arthur felt he owed him that at least.
However, he couldn't look away. Taking a moment to admire the way smoke rolled from his barely parted lips, the depth to his oceanic eyes and the sadness that lay there he ached at the thought of losing him. He wondered why he stayed when his loyalty was repaid with consistent cruelty. It would have been kinder to cut him loose years ago, when things had started to get bad, and Arthur knew he was selfish for not doing so but he had expected things to have come together by this point, they both had. Another disappointment courtesy of himself.
Leaning his cheek against the top of the stair railing, the old wood let out a complaintive creak and the form in the doorway glanced over at the sound. Both men looked at one another, no discernible emotion on either tired face, until Francis spoke first.
"I took them from your jacket," he informed, gesturing his cigarette wielding hand, "I did not think you would mind."
"You worked so hard to quit," Arthur quietly disparaged.
Lips drawn back into a tight line, Francis turned his face towards the hand that held the glowing stick outside the door to inhale again and continued to look out over the garden as tainted breath swirled from his nostrils.
The already obvious fact that Arthur continually hurt those around him was clearly demonstrated by the scene before him as Francis relapsed in his two-year victory over the vice and happily went on poisoning himself. Despairing in the knowledge that he had driven him to this, Arthur felt compelled to rectify his actions, although doubted his efforts would amount to much.
"What's the matter?" he failed to think before he spoke and cursed the stupidity of his words.
"Nothing, amour," the other muttered with such little conviction a deaf man could have called bullshit.
Unfamiliar with the position he found himself in, Arthur paused, casting his gaze to the floorboards as he bit at the skin of his index finger. To see his behaviours as others did, portrayed by someone else, he realised just how impenetrable the situation seemed to an outsider. While Francis appeared to want to be left alone, something told him this was the wrong thing to do and so, hesitantly, he shuffled closer, shaking as he sat against the opposite side of the doorframe, facing his partner.
Blue eyes remained fixed on the overgrown grass, embers tumbling from the end of his cigarette, as Francis slouched against the frame. Rubbing his arms while he shuddered, the elements welcoming themselves in through the opened door, Arthur straightened one leg out, hugging the other to his body. Francis remained unwilling to converse leaving the inepter of the two to open up a dialogue, yet nothing lent itself to mind.
Gaze skipping from the trisful face of his lover to the world beyond their doorstep, the smaller man was rendered mute. Fog stagnated in the air, particles of it settling on his exposed arms with a tingle, so dense that anything beyond the diameters of the garden was erased. The branches of the tree one garden to the left reached over, invading their space and Arthur wondered what kind of tree it may be. He hadn't paid attention to the shape of the leaves it bared when they had first moved in and would have to wait until spring to find out. Wordless, the pair stared into the murky oblivion.
"You're allowed to be angry with me," Arthur offered contritely, "You don't have to treat me like I'm fragile."
"I am not angry at you, you have done nothing wrong," Francis denied, a languid hand flicking a collection of dull ashes to the ground with decidedly little effort.
"Neither have you," the other insisted, his eyes unable to find a point of focus as his partner wouldn't to face him.
"I still see no reason to be angry at you," the older man pointed out, his tone flat.
It was rare and unsettling to find Francis in such a chillingly cynical mood and, to Arthur, an unpleasant insight into what he had forced his other half to endure as of late. The pensive silence this bred prompted him to carry on despite not knowing what to say.
"You're annoyed," Arthur clumsily tried to get into the headspace of his significant other, "It's okay to be annoyed with me, I know I'm making this more difficult than it needs to be."
Although the other had presumably been sat there for some time he saw no new cigarette butts by the back step. Francis had always been a slow smoker, breathing each puff of the rancid fumes as though it were his last. Neither man could remember when they had taken up the deadly habit, some drunken night out most likely, but the Frenchman had always claimed he continued it out of stress. The way he savoured every drag to its fullest seemed to be an act of self-comfort, unlike Arthur who simply possessed an addictive personality and could go through a pack in a day if he wasn't careful.
As if demonstrating this, Francis raised the cigarette to his lips once again to fill his lungs and exhale his thoughts along with a tendril of smoke that mingled with the dankness in the air.
"What colour do you want to paint the living room?" he derailed the discussion, much to his other half's dismay.
"Come on, Francis, we can't both be emotionally unavailable," he wryly joked, strain on his face, "That's just not fair."
His jesting fell flat, and Francis' features remained stoic as he rubbed at his bloodshot eyes.
"I am annoyed at the situation, not you. It is frustrating to not be able to do anything," his lips barely moved as he explained tiredly, his whole face drooping.
"I'm sorry," Arthur apologised despite having been told he wasn't to blame, "It's not okay that you have to put up with this."
Pulling his eyes from the obscured landscape, Francis turned to his partner, a shadow of a frown on his brow.
"Why do you insist on being punished?" he tried to understand.
Wavering under the piteously exhausted gaze, Arthur cast his eyes to the floorboards, opening his mouth and closing it again as he thought how he might articulate his answer.
"Because I've been dreadful to you," he stated, remorse written on his face, "and I shouldn't make any excuses about that."
Still watching his lover with a subtle pain to the quirk of his lips, Francis leant into his cigarette again before he went to reply. However, his organs seemed to take offence to their maltreatment as he began coughing, the toxins spewing from his mouth as he hacked his throat dry.
With a sympathetic tut, the smaller man reached over to take the vice from his hand, placing it between his own lips to take a breath.
Having gotten up whatever had set him off, Francis sat back against the wall, folding his arms. "When was the last time you said you would quit?"
The question wasn't mocking but still reminded Arthur of his trail of failed attempts.
"Beginning of autumn," he let out in a sigh, holding the cigarette up to find he was already nearing the end.
"If you stop I will not drink for a month," Francis negotiated. He had wanted Arthur to quit smoking ever since he had and, at first, it had been a joint endeavour, but the younger of the two had proven the weaker willed as he had caved to cravings two months in.
Shaking his head, Arthur rebuked his persuasion. "You don't have to bargain with me, I know I should stop."
Raising a brow in response, the look Francis sent him was one of asking without words, unwilling to request something that he knew was unlikely to be delivered on. But it was enough for Arthur to stub out what was left of his cigarette and flick away the end into the overgrown grass with one last polluted exhale.
They watched the small projectile strike a path through the fog and heard it land, the late morning starkly quiet around them. A nearby, rasping bird call preceded the beating of feathers and a crow swooped above them, an inverted shadow projected upwards, both lazily rolling their eyes skyward to watch it glide over on still wings.
It passed quickly beyond view and left the couple staring at the great, impermeable expanse outside. For a while they remained this way as Arthur tried to think of some resolution to their conversation but couldn't quite work out what to say or even if it were necessary to say anything at all. It didn't feel right to leave it at that but there seemed to be nothing he could add.
He picked at the loose skin hanging from his lip as he hoped something would come to him, but it appeared the man he aimed to please expected no more from their exchange as he stood and left Arthur by the door. Running water and the flip of the kettle switch signified he was ready to start his day and the man huddled against the wall supposed he should do the same rather than sit on the floor and willingly freeze. Another minutes empty minded observation as the world past his walls hid away behind the damp veil and Arthur pushed himself up to head upstairs.
Beginning his day in his own way, he went to the bedroom and unscrewed the jacket he had unceremoniously flung onto the chair the previous night. A deep crease along the back of the tailored fabric had him regret his carelessness, mouth straightening into an expression of displeasure at the clothing as though it were the fault of the inanimate object rather than his own. Whilst mentally grumbling to himself about how much dry cleaning would be, he rummaged through the wrinkled pockets to begin his comfortable routine with a dose of chemical cheer.
He took the box into the bathroom with him and turned on the tap so as to ease the chore along with a mouthful of water. Pressing on the back of the plastic so that the foil on the other side popped open, two of the tabs burst rather than the intended one, the pills spilling into his palm. Whether this was an accident or a subconscious decision he wasn't sure but not one objection crossed his mind as he swallowed both down.
A shower later and he joined his other half in the kitchen with a rough smile which was returned thinly as they sat at the table together, Arthur clasping the mug of tea that had been made for him. Warming to one another after their frigid start to the day, nothing else was said in reference to the night before or whatever unpleasantness it may have kicked up as they casually discussed colour schemes for the downstairs and whether they should get new cabinets.
While the weekend was a much-needed pause to the continual grind, to Arthur that was all it was. A pause. A small respite that left him in some suspended ether where nothing he did seemed to matter. He read, he ate, he tried to relax but he couldn't rid himself of the lingering apathy that haunted him like a curse through everything he did.
Unlike others who might seize the fleeting freedom to spend their time doing something they thought meaningful, the nihilistic man's view was quite the opposite, finding no motivation in the briefness of it all. Instead he waited, numbed and bored, for the week to start anew, as though this cycle would one day bring purpose. His various activities were occasionally interrupted by the urge to stand and wander aimlessly about the rooms of the house, entering one, waiting, then returning to his original spot, whatever restlessness bothered him refusing to be satiated.
Although their home was by no means large, ideally suited for two people in fact, Arthur still found it too empty. Much of their clutter had been thrown out when they moved as it had been quite a substantial downsize but this wasn't what he missed. It was the activity, the quiet chaos of a full house that he pined for.
Alfred and Matthew may not have lived with them for over a year now but when they had first packed their lives off to university halls they had still returned most weekends to the comfort of their own rooms and an environment they were familiar with. Now without the nostalgia factor to lure them back he only ever seemed to see his brothers when there was food on offer. He understood, they had their own lives of course, but he felt the house to be without life when half of his family was gone.
The two days slipped by in a slow blur and the tedium of a new week came as a surprise to no one. Christmas being just around the corner, the couple found themselves seeing one another even less than usual as Francis was kept busy with seasonal bookings. Colour coordinated families and happy couples posing before snowy backgrounds in their ugly sweaters for the yearly card had him staying out late most nights.
In all honesty, Arthur didn't mind the time to himself, too detached to appreciate company and often finding himself collapsing into bed the second he was home, neglecting his need for food and amusement. Most evenings he would hear the stifled twisting of keys in the lock and feel the covers shift as another body crawled in just as drained as he was, but it roused no response from him. As much as he enjoyed the companionship of another person beside him as he slept, he consciously blocked out anything that tried to take him from the one place he found peace.
Dragging his scuffed shoes up the stairs to the confinement of the bedroom, Arthur shed his outer skin, letting the suit crumple in a heap around him, and lowered himself onto the mattress. The way the plush surface dipped to accommodate his weight was enticing, the urge to sink down and be engulfed by it hard to resist, but he harnessed his stubborn will and reached into his brief case instead.
He had felt himself drifting, running through the week on autopilot, and, in an attempt prevent himself from regressing any further, had stopped by the local book shop on his way home. Pulling out his chosen novel, he relished in the scent of new paper, fanning through the pages so that the smell wafted upwards. Admittedly, he didn't find himself quite in the mood and would rather have curled up in the sanctuary of his duvet as he had every other night that week but felt it necessary to inject some sort of mental stimulation into his day, lest he lose the last dregs of his brain's capacity. It was something he had been meaning to look at for a while, though, and not particularly long.
Shuffling up the bed to lean back against the headboard with his legs drawn up under him, he opened up to the first page. He looked at it a moment, a hint of trepidation in the back of his thoughts as he pleaded with some imaginary powers that be to let him have just one thing that may make him happy for a while, but he didn't dare hope too much.
However, no sooner had he run the first sentence through his mind than the front door opened with a clack and a bright greeting of, "Bonsoir, mon ange."
A sinking exhale left his nose of its own accord. He had assumed he would have a few hours to himself but apparently this wasn't so.
"I didn't expect you home so early," he remarked as his partner came through the door, keeping his tone light despite being slightly put out at being robbed of his solitude.
"I sent off the final print of the calendars this morning, no more late nights for a while," Francis announced with a proud smile.
"That's good," was Arthur's impassive attempt at congratulations, his lack of engagement going unnoticed.
"Oui, I am relieved. I feel as though I have not seen you in months," he exaggerated and leaned in to kiss his lover's lips.
Angling his head to the side so as to return the gesture while keeping his eyes locked on his reading material, the younger man only hummed in reply.
Yet in spite of his muted reactions, the oblivious Frenchman continued to chatter, Arthur allowing him to go on, half listening as he read the first few paragraphs.
"Ah, I almost forgot," Francis interrupted himself, rummaging through his pocket to pull out a small, plastic bottle which he tossed in Arthur's direction, "Regarde, I got you a present."
Extending a hand to catch whatever had been thrown at him before it hit the ground, Francis' aim wasn't exactly amazing, Arthur broke his dedicated gaze to study the label.
"To help you quit," the other clarified as Arthur sceptically rolled the bottle of nicotine gum between his fingers, "Not that I think you need it, you are doing well so far."
"Thanks," he did his best to appreciate the gesture when really all it did was remind him how desperately he wanted to smoke.
The older man's mouth curved up as a sign of encouragement, his eyes bright, an expression that Arthur managed to half replicate in return.
He placed his gift to the side and set his attention back onto the first page that he had yet to finish. Francis rustled around in the background, the plastic clanking of coat hangers and shifting paper disturbing the silence, and it seemed Arthur would be left in peace as he became engrossed in the printed words. Seeping into the written expressions, he found himself being accepted into their world as the thrill of enjoyment gently guided him deeper into the story.
"She killed herself, non?"
Lowering his paperback wall at the query, Arthur furrowed a brow at the other who gestured at the book.
"Virginia Woolf, she committed suicide, did she not? Or am I mistaking her for someone else?" he enquired after the author of the novel.
"Oh, yes, she did," Arthur confirmed.
A sombreness settled upon him at the realisation. In a way it felt different than reading a work by someone who was simply dead. There was a sense that the character's suffering was also the writer's, that everything one of those fictional lives went through was deepened by the knowledge of their creator's actions.
"A shame," Francis' sentiment drew him from his contemplation.
"She was a troubled woman," the sobered man mused as he reflected on the life of the writer, finding himself put off of his purchase.
"But from great pain comes great art," Francis, as usual, was able to find a silver lining.
"For the lucky ones," Arthur muttered, the thought slipping past his lips without consent.
Head cocked curiously, the other caught the hushed comment. "What do you mean?"
Reading the last sentence of the page again, Arthur let the cover fold over and set the book aside.
"I don't know," he said, not in the mood to explain himself, nor do anything for that matter.
"Do not stop on my account," Francis seemed to realise he was a distraction and went to make his exit, but it was too late.
Having lost his appetite for literature, Arthur left the novel on his bedside table and stood to follow his partner.
"I couldn't get into it," he excused, turning the book so that the name along the spine was out of view before trail after the other into the hall.
Somehow, within the blink of an eye, it was the weekend again and, unable to endure another as he had the last, Arthur intended to spend a few hours at the office, despite not strictly needing to. Anything to kill the hours. The hours leading up to what though, he couldn't say. It was like he was waiting for something that never came. He tried not to think about this, however, as it really did prove the pointlessness of it all.
Kicking off his day on that bleak note, he didn't have to wait long to run into his first inconvenience. One, thankfully, more mundane than the greater complexities of life but irritating anyhow as he found he had gone through his prescription faster than expected since he had continued to take it at twice his original rate. While it was rather annoying to have his routine thrown off so early in the day, in a way it was also a good thing. One more activity to fill his time with, something to stave off those unwanted thoughts.
From this, he set out a cohesive list of humdrum chores to occupy himself with, neglecting to think any further into the future than that night as though that very day was all that mattered. Go to the office, take his jacket to the drycleaners, get his prescription refilled. Simple but time consuming, just what he needed. A manageable day.
The first part of his plan went off without a hitch, arriving at his cupboard around midday and staying until the first inklings of sunset sullied the horizon. A few successful hours of inconsequentially busying himself and he was back out on the windswept streets for his next quest.
Cheeks pink and burning with the bitter chill by the time he reached the dry cleaners, Arthur hurried inside and waited patiently behind the few other customers ahead of him. Blowing into his cupped hands, he flexed his fingers painfully and was reminded how close to the end of another year it was when he spied the neon glow of Christmas lights flickering on along the lampposts on the high street. A little premature, in his opinion, or at least that's what he thought before realising it had been December for a few days already. The holiday seemed to creep up with more stealth every year, bringing with it less of the seasonal spirit each time.
The queue in front of him had disappeared and Arthur was called back to earth with a polite, "May I help you, sir?" to which he stiffly twitched his lips and brought the item of clothing to the desk. He was handed a numbered ticket in return that he tucked away into his wallet for safe keeping and forged onward to his final task.
It was as he stood in line at his registered pharmacy that his, so far very efficient, plan ran into a significant problem.
"Alright, that should be ready for you to pick up on Monday," the woman behind the counter told him with a pleasant smile creasing her plump cheeks.
"Monday?" he repeated.
A well-meaning look of apology came to the woman's face as she leant over the register, speaking to him with unintentional condescension in a way that people do after having to spell something out many times over. "It takes a while to run it through the system and sign off on the dispatch and we're closing for the weekend in half an hour," she relayed the information, "You can pick it up first thing on Monday morning, dear."
She flashed her rosy lipped smile once more as Arthur nodded and stepped away from the desk with his empty box.
He wandered back through the cramped shop, down the shampoo isle, and out the door, his mission failed. Paused outside, useless box in hand, he tapped against it to hear the hollow sound and chewed his leathered lip.
As much as those little nuisances continued to do nothing for him, he also didn't know whether he should stop taking them. He liked the excuse too much. As long as he took them he could tell himself he was trying to improve without doing anything else. It meant he didn't have to go to therapy or start taking care of himself physically or open up to his friends and family because, as Matthew had congratulated him on, he was trying.
If there was one person Arthur had always been good at lying to, it was himself but even that was becoming difficult. He didn't know why he made everything such a battle for himself. He was well aware of what he should be doing but he wasn't doing it. It was like there were three of him, one at the top of a hill with their hand outstretched to the version of him that struggled hopelessly upwards only for the third him to slap their hands apart whenever they were within reach. Persisting to hold himself back was half a knowing decision and half issues too repressed to see. The whole thing was a mess. He was a mess.
Lifting his gaze, he let out a breath, blowing the tail end of it upward to shift his fringe that had grown long enough to dust his eyelashes, and began meandering his way home. From somewhere down a side road he caught the stench of smoke and cursed the temptation. He hadn't thought about smoking at all that day but suddenly it was all he had in his head. Refusing to be so easily swayed, he took out the container of gum to try one. The hard, outer coating cracked with an explosion of cool mint that sent frostbite down his throat when he breathed, but soon after the initial flavour wore away he was left with a strange aftertaste. He wasn't sure what it was supposed to do but it didn't make him want to smoke any less, that much was certain.
Squishing the rubbery lump between his molars until he was outside his house, he spat it into one of the outside bins before going through the front door. There had been no gum allowed under his mother's roof and he had upheld this rule for his brothers, so he wasn't going to be a hypocrite. That lingering flavour stayed with him though, until he brushed it away later that night.
He found ways to keep himself busy; vacuuming the carpets within an inch of their life, clearing the drains, suppressing the fear that he would never find complete fulfilment and happiness. The usual. By Sunday night, he could feel the beginnings of a migraine lurking under his forehead and a hollowness in his ribcage, the alleviation of sleep refusing to grant him respite. Eyelids held open with invisible matchsticks, he stared at the ceiling, scraping off the last rags of skin that clung to his bruised lips.
Counting down the minutes until his alarm went off, he rolled his head to the side to glare pure hatred at the sound, switching it off before it woke his partner, an aching stiffness weighing in his head as he sat up. He showered at length, the steaming water releasing some of the pressure behind his eyes and took a few painkillers after he stepped out. Barely having to swallow, he didn't think about how something he used to find so difficult was now practically second nature to him as the tablets slipped down with no trouble at all.
He left the house dishevelled and dazed from exhaustion. Forgetful in his trance like state, he was forced to walk back on himself in order to retrieve his prescription. A short detour but one that took more energy than he had to spare, finding himself winded from his regular walking pace. Stopping around the corner from the shop entrance to regain his breath so as not to be stood wheezing all over the counter, he hucked up a few wracking coughs that left him dizzied. The forceful expulsion caused a sharp compression in his head, to the point he feared his eyes may burst out and he blinked hard several times to secure them in place before he moved on. His lung capacity wasn't brilliant after years of abuse, but it really would be a cruel joke if the effects of his smoking decided to hit only after he had quit.
The reward for his trials wasn't exactly worth it but he wasted no time in peeling off the clear plastic sticker that kept the tabs closed so that he could get to the contents of his package and gulp down his preferred dose as soon as he was on the bus. Disregarding any looks of judgement as the pills landed in his empty stomach alongside the others from earlier, he looked directly ahead of himself, the obscured slate of the cityscape outside jarring to watch. He sat as still as he could manage, the constant swerving of the vehicle jostling his already fragile insides about in a sickening manner.
Jumping from the bus a few stops early, unable to stand the turbulence another minute, the hyperborean whip of December struck him hard and he stumbled over the curb. There was no one around to witness this though, and he righted himself with minimal embarrassment to move on unsteadily. The malicious looking clouds above tried their hardest to rain out of spite, the occasional drop smacking the asphalt with a vengeance as their darkness filtered down to saturate everything they shadowed.
His surroundings becoming busier yet less vibrant, Arthur rounded the corner to the entrance of the office block, succumbing to the flow of grey clad bodies, and split off from the throng with several others to enter the sliding doors. Stuffy, artificial heat intensifying the higher the floor, clamminess made his collar stick to the back of his neck and he, again, found himself rasping for air as he took a seat at his desk, chest burning. He removed every layer he could, even loosening his tie, and leant forward into his hands.
Head pounding in time with his heart, a hot shiver ran up his spine, his jaw tightened, and searing blackness overtook his vision. Pushing the heels of his palms into his temples, a shrill ringing pierced both his ears and he gritted his teeth as he was convinced his brain was frying.
Time stopped in that moment for what felt like an eon but was more like a few seconds as the clock on his computer screen hadn't changed when his eyesight slowly returned, leaving an outline like spilled ink around the edges. For whatever reason, he didn't consider going home, running on his factory settings, ignoring his physical suffering as though he existed on some higher plane of consciousness. Perhaps he was so disassociated by that point that he actually did.
His hands worked as his skull hammered. The cocktail of drugs in his system began to react, a churning sensation low in his stomach, and nausea gripped his oesophagus with unrelenting fists, squeezing ever harder. He tried to swallow but the suffocating heat of the sixth floor had drawn the moisture from his mouth, his tongue like a sponge against the inside of his cheeks.
The walls were moving, bending around him, he was sure of it, and it sounded as though every person in the office were screaming yet, at the same time, he could barely hear over the blood that pumped past his ears. Above his head, a single neon lightbulb buzzed incessantly like an insect repeatedly flying onto a window, flickering at grating intervals. A static crackling came from the monitor and his head reeled from looking at it, but the room fizzled out of existence when he tried to look elsewhere.
Hands quivering as they moved to type, the tips of his fingers tingled, turning to ice then going completely numb. The involuntary tensing of his jaw foretold the hot sickness that rose in his throat, catching him off guard as it stung the back of his tongue, but he managed to cram it down. The second time, however, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop the inevitable, and so, as his windpipe convulsed again, he lurched from his seat, lips clamped firmly shut, and made a controlled dash to the nearest bathroom.
He flung open the door of the empty room and turned into the last of the three stools to hunch over the toilet and empty his insides in one violent retch. Dropping to his knees, he continued to dry heave until tears streamed down his cheeks and his knuckles were white from clinging to the seat. The tempest in his gut eventually settled, he reached back to lock the stall door and eased himself into a half sitting crouch, the ominously sticky floor unforgiving on his bony legs. Hoarse gasps left him as he choked up the aftermath and spat into the bowl then flushed the evidence down the pipes.
He felt marginally better, his organs weren't wound into one giant knot anymore at least, but he feared that if he returned to his desk he may not be so lucky should there be a next time. Therefore, he remained on the floor between the wall and the porcelain fixture, the taste of his own acrid innards lining his mouth.
As expected, the worst had yet to pass and he stayed in his protective tiled refuge vomiting on and off a fair while longer. To his relief, he was left in peace as he hurled up the meagre contents of his stomach and hoped the sound of his strangled heaving was drowned out by telephone calls and photocopiers.
Wiping his face on his sleeve with a trembling arm, Arthur diffidently leant away from the bowl, the sickness finally having released him as there was surely nothing left for him to expel. Back pressed against the wall, the cooling surface sent a ripple of gooseflesh over his skin as he slouched down, head falling gently back. The dull pulsating behind his eyeballs had culminated into an exquisite, shooting pain that cleaved his skull in two and he rolled his neck to the side so that one temple enjoyed the tiles soothing touch also. Closing his eyes against the stark white reflection of the room, a sigh of relative solace left his lips.
A lethargic arm rose to sweep his fringe from his face and found it stuck to his tacky skin so that he had to pick each individual hair loose, then dropped back to the ground with a thud. He would have stayed there for an hour longer had he not been intruded upon by the cheery whistling of a colleague whose footsteps echoes to a stop in the stall beside his own. Although he doubted anyone was timing him, it would raise suspicion if he stayed in there much longer especially when someone else had come and gone, and so, on quaking legs, he pushed himself up against the wall and let himself out.
Stumbling a few steps over to the sinks, he leant heavily on the counter, watching his reflection teetering precariously, cracked lips parted and eyes glazed over. He washed his hands, Lord only knew what had been on that floor, relishing in the flow of the water and cupped one, still damp, over the back of his neck, half expecting the liquid to sizzle away on contact. A droplet trickled down his already sodden shoulder blade as the other stall door opened and he watched the slight form of a man he hadn't been expecting emerge to smile with chirpy surprise.
"Oh, Arthur! Ciao, how are you?" the amicable Italian greeted, his warm eyes beaming as bright as his mouth.
Somewhat taken aback by the sudden burst of enthusiasm, Arthur faltered, blinking slowly as he processed what was going on.
"Yes, I'm alright, and you?" he strained to centre his attention on the smaller man's face, instead latching onto his auburn curls.
"Si, molto bene, grazie. I came in to visit Ludwig for lunch," Feliciano told him, seemingly very excited about every word. Watching him could almost make a person tired. "I'm glad I found you, thank you so much for your gift, it was very thoughtful of you," he continued to gush, "It's a shame we didn't get a chance to talk the other night, I hope you enjoyed yourself."
Arthur had trouble keeping up with his rapid-fire conversation over the thumping in his head but nodded along anyway, stuttering when the other paused for his response. "Yes, it's not a problem," he managed, still trying to squint his companion into focus.
The blurry expression changed and the voice that spoke to him held an inquisitive tinge.
"Are you okay, Arthur?"
He was so tired of that question. People only asked out of concern and he knew he should be grateful they cared but honestly if he looked so awful that they felt the need to ask then perhaps they should think for themselves and come to the obvious conclusion that no, he wasn't okay, and they should leave him alone.
"Yes, fine," his own voice was faint and whatever Feliciano said afterwards was inaudible, but he nodded once more, steadying himself with a hand on the sink as he felt his knees go weak.
A rush through his body told him he couldn't sustain their pleasantries any longer and what's more he didn't want to. Feliciano was a sweet man by all accounts, but it took quite a deal of patience to actually talk to him.
"I'm sorry but I really must be going," he abruptly pardoned himself, swerving around the other to make his escape, hearing a muffled goodbye called after him.
Walking in a forcefully straight line from the bathroom to his office he paused in the doorway to look dejectedly at the stacks of work on his desk, the three-digit number next to the email icon, the shelves that dipped with the weight of unopened files and could barely stand breath. Without another thought, he collected his belongings and left. Down the stairs and out the building, the frigid wind cutting off the last of his connection to his body as his legs carried him away.
Not far from his office was a park, one of those inner-city parks where a person can never quite lose themselves to the freedom of nature on account of the iron fence that contains it, and that was where he headed. Through the town, up the gentle slope, past the last of the tower blocks and out into the open. He was still miles from anything that may have been considered the countryside but away from the main roads, where there were no cars to blast their fumes directly into his face, walking was less of a chore. Barely out of breath when he came to a stop atop the grassy hill at the centre of the park he stopped, gazing out over his hometown.
It reminded him of one of those spaghetti westerns that that Alfred had been so fond of as a child, the final scene when the protagonist looked out over the town he had rid of evildoers, the sunset a blistering orange behind them. He would give a satisfied nod, a steely gaze and turn his horse around to disappear over a ridge, knowing he had done his job and the world was better for it. Arthur had always found it immensely tedious, the same plot was recycled twenty times over and the characters were so paper thin they were practically see through, but he could understand why Alfred had liked them so much.
Everything was so black and white, there were the heroes and the villains; the latter irredeemable and therefore the former justified in their murderous intent. Although he didn't agree with such a blunt depiction of morality it was admittedly comforting to think things were that simple and he couldn't deny that such a conclusive ending was satisfying once in a while.
But, as he stood watching over the place he had spent his near quarter of a century of life, he would have been a fool to think of the world like that. People weren't handed out their parts at birth, there was no inherent good or bad in a human, only their way of seeing things. Everyone was just as confused as everyone else and that was probably for the best.
From his vantage point, the horizon looked no clearer and a gale lashed around him, his coat and hair flapping all over the place. The odd spot of rain caught him like a cold hand tapping him on the shoulder but despite the foreboding darkness it seemed an empty threat as the sky held onto its load. He didn't want to be proven wrong, however, and left when the occasional drop became more frequent.
Back the same way he had come as he didn't know the other side of that hill, had never been there, and wasn't in the mood for an adventure. It seemed to take longer to find his way out of the park than it had on his way in, perhaps he took a wrong turn somewhere along the way, but he really had no idea, ambling in a mildly pained stupor.
The soft padding of his shoes on the grass turned into the crunch of gravel then the staccato clap of pavement as he integrated back into the roads, heaving with people on their lunch breaks. For a long while he wandered, pace slow and unsteady, down the high streets, a passing spectre in the reflection of the shop windows. Somewhere a ways off, the clocktower chimed but he didn't bother to count the number of strikes, he could tell the general time from how frantically the people around him hurried along.
By the time he had reached the far end of the promenade, the clouds decided to call his bluff, unleashing their burden. With the sudden release, the walkway was quickly cleared of bodies, the people of the unpredictable island nation well accustomed to such unexpected turns in the weather, however, Arthur failed to react. He continued on his way, unperturbed by the icy scourge, his back to the worst of it, wilfully ignoring the umbrella at the bottom of his bag. Most of the city having returned to their desks, the coffee shop he neared was empty and as much as the rain didn't bother him he supposed he wouldn't mind being out of it and so ducked inside.
Arthur didn't drink coffee, but the smell always made him think otherwise, the richness of it bred warmth even in a foreign place. Dripping all over the homely, wooden interior, he made his way over to the counter and narrowed his gaze up at the menu board on the wall. Judging by the outlandish item names the shop must have been some new, alternative place. All he wanted was some tea.
"Hey there, what can I get for you?"
The premature question threw him, and his widened gaze darted from the wall to the overzealous smile of the man behind the counter. Blinking stupidly, his lips parted, the sentence he formulated was promptly cut off when a horribly uneasy sense of familiarity lodged itself in the back of his mind. That tooth baring grin and the way it creased at the corners of those eyes the colour of cobalt, he knew it from somewhere.
"Do you need some time to think about it?" the man offered, each accented word intensifying that eerie recognition.
"A latte, please," Arthur's mouth released the first words he thought of while his brain near collapsed in on itself trying to unravel the feeling of Deja vu.
"Coming right up," the other nodded, turning to the machines against the wall.
Narrowing his eyes at the back of the blond head, the slightest niggling memory came to him. He knew the man from school, that much he was certain of, but he couldn't have placed a name if his life depended on it. It was rare these days that he would run into someone from his formative years, most of them having moved on to more interesting things, and he was glad the recognition wasn't mutual.
"Hey, you okay, pal?" the barista addressed him with a subtly tilted head, his spiked fringe defying gravity even at an angle.
"Sorry," Arthur realised he was gawking but didn't look away, "I thought I knew you from somewhere, but I must be mistaken."
The other chuckled, sliding his order over the countertop. "I guess I have one of those faces," he brushed off, "That's £2.40 please."
Pulling out the spare change from his pocket, he paid, exchanging a forged smile with his unknowing acquaintance.
Out on the street he glanced back through the shop window and was surprised to find he was being watched, much in the same way he had scrutinised the familiar man that now returned the sentiment, but on catching gazes the barista quickly looked away, going back to his work.
Nose creasing as he took a sip, he frowned, berating himself for not thinking before he spoke. What a waste of money. The scalding temperature helped to mask the taste, however, and the heat that radiated from it eased his shaking hands.
The elements had begun to permeate his coat and he could feel the damp cold creeping through his layers. There was nowhere for him to go and he knew he should have gone straight home from the office, but he really didn't want to. Francis was working from home that day and he didn't want to be a distraction. That's what he told himself anyway.
Instead he veered to the west of the town, off the main roads again, as a deep seated urge overtook him. In that moment, for whatever subconscious reasoning, he needed to visit the graveyard. He never usually went to there when it wasn't at least half decent weather, as a graveyard in the rain was one of the most depressing things he could think of, but this time the awful conditions didn't deter him.
Braving the misery with his collar flipped up, he pounded the pavements, quick to become winded, sputtering along the way but didn't allow his pace to falter. The rickety peek of the bell tower reached weakly to the sky, like the arm of a dying old man, and it looked so frail that Arthur half expected it to be blown over. Hesitation pulled him back at the sight, the old church a sad, dripping ash colour, no birdsong to accompany him this time, just the wailing of rusted gates. Not quite spooky but certainly not welcoming. Not the sort of place he wanted to associate with his mother.
But, by the time he had changed his mind he was already stood by the front gates. He didn't want to go in, he couldn't think of anything he dreaded more at that point, but he did, pushing through the tarnished metal. It creaked shut with a clang behind him, sealing him within the gothic scene.
He followed the path all the way up to the double doors at the front of the small chapel, stopping in the archway where he was sheltered from the rain as he tentatively checked to see if they were locked. With a heavy clunk, they swung inward and he retracted his hand as though they may bite as they moved. Although he doubted anyone would be there at that time on a weekday, he proceeded with caution, poking his head around the corner to survey the hall before slipping through.
Closing the door behind himself, he stared down at the wood grain rather than turning to see the place he had not been to since the day of his mother's funeral, the musk of dry stone floor and wood varnish bringing a sheen to his eyes. He leaned into the door, resting his forehead against the hard surface as he closed his eyes, composing himself, then faced the familiar place.
Nostalgia momentarily paralysed him, locking him in place as though he were still a child who needed a parent to lead him by the hand to his seat. Not a single thing had changed in the past six years, as though it had not been entered since he had last visited. Tentatively making his way down the centre aisle, he reached out to lay a hand on one of the pews, needing reassurance that he wasn't in some scarily vivid dream. It was ever so slightly sticky from the years' worth of lacquer smeared over it by the caretaker, so many layers that it never completely dried down. He ran his fingertips along each row as he walked, the echo of his steps muffled by the sheet of dust that covered everything, until he reached the alter.
Comparatively unspectacular for a catholic church, it forewent any sort of unnecessary decoration apart from the enormous, carved crucifix that hung from the rafters behind the chancel. Stood in its shadow, Arthur winced up at the bloodied face of Jesus. As sure as he was that crucifixion was not a tidy way to go he did find it to be rather gratuitous. He knew it was meant to symbolise the suffering that Christ went through for the sake of others but still, all the guts and gore seemed a little hypercritical for a religion that preached peace. He couldn't count the hours he had spent sat on those ass numbing benches transfixed by that cross, imagining the wires that held it in place snapping and the giant statue keeling over to crush everyone in the first three rows.
Diverting his gaze before he moved, afraid that those pained, painted eyes might follow him if he didn't, he strolled along the side aisle and ducked into one of the back rows to take a seat. He didn't feel at home there but at the same time didn't want to leave. It was the same feeling he got when he passed his old house or the school he used to go to, a sort of punch in the throat that occurred when he realised he didn't belong there anymore.
Along the walls, the glass faces of the old saints glared down at him. He remembered when he used to find them intimidating, with their holier than thou expressions, when he had listened to the sermons and heard the old stories of their miracles and whatnot. As he grew older, though, he had realised they were just that; stories.
That was probably the only part of church he had enjoyed. When old Father Thomas had opened up to verse whatever and told the parable of whoever. He didn't care about the heavy-handed message that came along with it, the stories had been fun to listen to and he could follow the way that Father Thomas had told them. He was a nice man. Definitely dead now though.
While the bare walls and stale atmosphere of the little hall didn't fill him with the warmth of the holy spirit it was certainly better than being outside and Arthur came to realise he was utterly soaked through. The coffee cup he carried, still full, had lost its one value as the liquid inside was stone cold and he set it down next to him to rub his hands together. Bringing back enough heat for them to register on his phone screen, he checked the time. Still a few hours before Francis would be wondering where he was. Why he was so reluctant to see his partner, however, he couldn't say.
Taking shelter in the sacred place, Arthur scrolled through various social media platforms, mildly interested but too disjointed to follow what he saw. One thing he did notice, though, was the seemingly coincidental adverts that kept cropping up for self-improvement or therapy apps and the like. There was a surprising amount, and he frowned when time and time again another one was shown to him, but then remembered what his search history must look like after the past few weeks. Disturbed by how accurate those user algorithms could be, he was reminded of the empty promise he had made to his brother and turned off the screen to be plunged into darkness as though he may hide from the self-reproach he sensed skulking towards him in the shadows.
He hadn't thought about that therapist's number, not even once, since Matthew had sent it to him. Not that he had thought he would but there was something about that hall, the judgemental glare of characters long dead and the guilt trip of that hanging body, that made the smallest indiscretion seem like an unforgivable sin.
Slouching down against the rigid wooden seat, his knees colliding with the bench in front, he deflated with a sigh. He tried to think about it as he said he would, to rationalise, but his mulish stubbornness wouldn't allow it. Any thought of 'perhaps if I just tried it' was firmly and instantaneously quashed by 'nothing would come of it so why bother trying'. It was an unhealthy cycle of thought, one that speaking to a professional could really help to break. Ironic in every sense of the word.
By the silence that had fallen, Arthur could tell the rain must have stopped as the roof was so thin that the lightest trickle sounded like God himself was knocking, so he rose and didn't look back as he went. He did glance in the direction of the graveyard on his way down the path, though, but didn't linger, carrying on through the gate and onto the road. He didn't want his mother to see him in the sorry state he was.
The streets empty and dark, a break in the clouds revealed a full moon. Arthur let himself be distracted by it as his phone buzzed in his pocket. Unable to recall what direction he had come from, he chose one at random to leave by and followed it to the end of the road.
Glaring street lamps gave the night an orange hue and barley lit anything at all, the bulbs so worn down they gave off no more light than a match. Equally spaced circles of illumination dotted the cement walkway until Arthur turned a corner to find a strip of darkness. He was puzzled for a moment, an ominous sight to come across, but simply thought that one of the bulbs must have gone out.
Venturing into the murk, he found the ground beneath his feet to have a strange feeling to it, a reverberation whenever he put his weight down, and looked up to find himself part way across a bridge. He had totally forgotten it was there, constructed so that pedestrians could cross the train tracks below without hassle. Bridges had always provoked mixed feelings in the him. He didn't care for the sensation of suspension, it put him on edge as he couldn't help but feel he may fall at any moment, but he enjoyed peering over the precipice to gape down from the dizzying heights.
Moving to the edge, he leant against the railing to do just that, looking directly down at the tracks far below. Not high enough that the fall would definitely kill him but there would be no getting up from it. Even if he did survive the trains came along very frequently, so that would most likely finish the job.
Closing his eyes to force the invasive thoughts back into the dark cracks of his mind, Arthur put up a mental block against such ideas. It was hard not to think about though. Especially when he could remember hearing of at least two poor bastards that had thrown themselves from the very spot where he stood.
He folded his arms along the top of the rail and buried his face in them, sort of scratching his forehead on the rough material of his coat, then perched his chin atop them, flipping his hair from his eyes. He glanced to the light at the other end of the bridge, brighter and more white at that end, then to where he had just come from before aiming his gaze down again. Wind tousling his overgrown mane, it was like he was falling. Leaning further out over the rails, the slightest thrill grazed his chest, as though urging him.
In answer to the call of adrenaline, he placed one foot on the rung below the railing and stepped up, that little bit of added height exponentially increasing the sense of danger. His hips pressed against the top of the boundary, if he leaned over it he could easily have lost his balance and been the next days page two news.
Again, he cast his eyes down. The exhilaration had faded and now all he was left with was the possibility.
He couldn't. He wouldn't. He could but he wouldn't.
A sigh drained him, and he stepped down to carry on over the bridge, emerging from the abyss. His phone rung out again as he turned in the direction of his home, although he doubted that was where he was headed.
To everyone who cares, I cannot tell you how bad I feel for breaking my uploading schedule. I'm honestly really mad at myself for that but there is a reason. Firstly, I started a new job so that kind of got in the way, but, more importantly, this chapter and the chapter I will be posting very soon (like within a week) were meant to be one chapter. I split them up because my chapters had been getting really long and if I didn't this chapter would have been more than 20,000 words and no one wants that. But, like i said, that part is mostly finished so please just bare with, it is very much appreciated. Sorry this one isn't super interesting (I know it's probably not worth the wait) but thank you for reading and being loyal.
As always, reviews are welcome.
Also, check out Virginia Woolf. She's not one of my favourite authors but she was a very tragic and interesting person, there are plenty of documentaries about her on YouTube.
The guy in the coffee shop was meant to be Denmark by the way.