Flux

building.
    He lit a cigarette. Shaking, he smoked three quarters of it. Instead of flicking the end into the brambles as he usually would, Iain stubbed the burning tip out on his arm; slowly and deliberately pressing down and twisting the nub. The smell of burning hair and skin wafted to his nostrils but only when fully extinguished did he throw the cigarette to the ground.
    The voices in his head went quiet and the centrifuge stopped spinning. Pain was something real, he could feel it. For those few moments, Iain had something to focus on and was in control. He lit another cigarette and did exactly the same; the small round blister joining the other welt already on his arm. Then, he went back to his desk.
    You’re insane!
    -
    You need help!
    -
    Iain didn’t want to listen anymore, but he did know he needed help; whether he wanted to accept it or not was a different matter altogether.
    Mid-afternoon and the tears started once again, out of the blue while trying to work; dripping onto the page in front of him, smudging the ink. Hoping that no one had seen, he made his way to the toilets, where thankfully Bert wasn’t waiting for him. Taking a seat in one of the stalls, he buried his head in his hands and wept freely. He didn’t know why he was crying, just that he couldn’t stop.
    What would it matter if I died? No one would even notice, and even fewer would mourn. He started to seriously contemplate how he would kill himself. Train? – Maybe, but that would traumatise the driver and passengers: Slit wrists? – No, I couldn’t even cut my arm: Overdose? – No, I’ve heard that it can take a week to die, and people sometimes change their mind after it’s too late: He shuddered at the last suggestion. Hanging? – Now there’s a thought…
    Not wanting to be rash, he decided to think upon it but the confusion in his head was becoming unbearable and he wanted out.
    Making his way slowly home that evening, Iain stopped at the off-licence and bought himself a bottle of good whisky. Pouring a large glass before even taking off his coat, he slumped onto the sofa and let the tears come. There was no one to hear his cries.
    Half a bottle down and his mind once again turned to suicide: Shit, I forgot the rope! It was late and the shops were now closed. He was angry with himself for not even remembering the one thing needed to end his suffering.
    The phone in his pocket vibrated. Looking at it and having to move his drunken head to focus, he saw it was a text from Gary. The message asked what time he wanted picking up on Saturday morning. Of course, they were going away at the weekend. In his self pity he’d almost forgotten; he typed his response, ‘early as poss’.
    Of course, it wouldn’t matter if he was dead; he suddenly felt ridiculous. Why was he making plans for the future if he didn’t intend to be around? Although Gary never knew it, his text probably saved Iain’s life.
    “And why can’t I stop crying?” he shouted out loud to himself, flinging the phone against the wall. It broke, the battery falling down behind the television.
    In his mind’s eye, he pictured the abyss and stared into the void. Iain had a decision to make, whether to give into its lure and jump, or fight and escape the alluring pull. He felt like the easy option would be to give in, let the darkness wash over him and accept his fate. He could picture the leviathan squirming in the thick, acrid smoke and changed his mind; afraid.
    Rolling a smoke, he wanted to numb his head. Halfway down he started to feel clammy, his head felt heavy and started to spin, he had to lie down. The only comfortable spot he could find was on the floor. The window was open a crack and the breeze felt good and cooling as it caressed his temples. Noises from outside filled his head, a distant car, a shout, even an owl hooting in the distance; he focused on the random sounds and found comfort in them.

    Iain was woken by a knock at the door, still fully clothed on the dirty carpet, a half smoked joint squashed into his face.
    “Hold on,” he groaned, picking himself up to answer. It was fully light outside, and the sun coming in through the window hurt his eyes. He felt sick.
    Eve looked him up and down as she crossed the threshold, but she still held the same soothing, kindly smile. Iain felt dazed and detached from the world at large.
    “Hi,” followed by, “no work today then?”
    Iain had a sinking feeling, he had no idea what the time was.