A vague notion that I’m alive nags at the corner of my brain. This quickly grows into a piercing pain that wars with the urge to slip back into blissful unconsciousness. I can hear bangs, each thud and clink driving icicles into my skull.
It takes me a moment to unstick my eyes. The curtains are open, flooding my room with light. They’re never open. I don’t have time to wonder about it before an unholy roar tears into my head.
Steph enters my room with the vacuum cleaner. The noise hurts. I try to retreat under the covers but the thin sheet does nothing to dull the assault. The pain makes it hard to collect my thoughts.
“Jesus, Steph. Fuck off with that. You’re killing me.”
She isn’t looking at me. I glance blearily around the room and it seems bare. My desk is empty and the usual piles of rubbish that litter the floor are missing.
“Hey, don’t mess with my stuff. Where’s my laptop?”
“Fuck you and fuck your laptop!” she shouts. “I spent all night defending you to Pete and when I get back I find you passed out from my wine! Time and time again I keep giving you chances that you throw away. You’re determined to drown yourself and I can’t let you pull me down with you anymore. I have a chance for a better life with Pete. I won’t let you ruin that!”
“Steph, I-”
“No more excuses! I want you out.”
The words hit me hard. She still isn’t looking at me. I try to form a response but the words seem to slip through my grip like sand. My whole body feels like lead.
“Your stuff’s in that bag,” she says then leaves the room.
I don’t move. Time ticks by, maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. I feel sick. My legs still won’t support me. I blink and cast a slow glance around the room. I can see the bag Steph mentioned. It’s a Tesco bag for life. Now it contains my entire life. Over twenty years of life and I don’t even have enough possessions to fill it up completely. A handful of old clothes, a laptop, Xbox, a small screen TV, a handful of games and books, and dozens of bits of paper. Piled together as they are, it all looks so insignificant.
The only things that haven’t been tidied away are the wall of post-it notes on the wall above my bed. It all feels like a bad dream. I know it isn’t. The list of failures stare down at me. Each one stings. I know what they say even though I can’t make out the bad handwriting from here. I suddenly can’t bear the thought of them.
Anger races to fill the emptiness. I stagger to my feet and tear at the notes. They fall down around me like snow. In seconds the wall is bare. I’m breathing heavily but the anger has drained away as quickly as it came, leaving behind an even deeper emptiness than before.
I start to collect them up, more to busy my hands than anything else. A part of me is aware that I should be crying, but there’s no threat of tears. I drop the notes into the bag and pick it up. It’s heavy and I know I won’t be able to carry it for long. The coarse handle is already uncomfortable to hold.
I’m too proud to beg Steph to change her mind. I’m pretty sure I could. Why would I though? The knowledge that she sided with a controlling dick like Pete over her own brother is more devastating than I can admit. It hurts. Through everything that we’ve been through, we always have each other’s backs. Maybe we don’t actually like each other, and maybe I’m not reliable, but we’re always there for one another. Apparently that doesn’t mean much in the face of a shitty relationship with a man who overcompensates for his small penis with bags of money and an ego the size of a student’s debts.
I never took my shoes off yesterday, so I waste no time swinging the door open and slamming it shut behind me without so much as a backwards glance. I’ll never give anyone the pleasure of seeing me upset or full of regret. Spite is about the only motivation that hasn’t been burned away from me.
It’s not until I’m near the city centre that I slow down and allow myself a moment to think. I have no home, no family, and no money. It wasn’t a great start. I consider my options and quickly realise that I don’t actually have many to consider. I reluctantly grab my phone and tap my contacts.
“Hey Corgi. You fancy a drink?”
“What’s up?”
“What’s up? I just want a drink. Does something have to be up?”
“You never call me and you always sound extra confident when you’re upset. Conmen only ever con strangers.”
I can’t keep it up. I slump against a shop wall and close my eyes.
“Steph kicked me out. I… I don’t know what to do.”
Corgi doesn’t answer straight away. I can feel him piecing together his response like a jigsaw puzzle.
“Sounds like you fucked up.”
“Big surprise, I know.”
“Shocking.”
“Yeah.”
“Right. I’ll see you at Spoons. My round.”
“Thanks, Corgi.”
“Don’t start getting sentimental on me. You’re a miserable bastard and don’t forget it, okay?”
“Yeah. See you soon, prick.”
“That’s more like it.”
I end the call. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I don’t do either.
Matthew Roys 