Chapter 1

A Chapter by Niall Madden

Chapter 1

This is a tale of old premise, but revived with youthful energy you may consider this tale some form of resurrection and in that stance you would be correct due the unholy themes that intertwine with the story as a weed would with a flower but no matter how red the rose nor how blue the bluebell the weed shall take over even the most vibrant of colours and smells, leaving a hybrid pulsing, light lost in dark. Nigel Biron was 26 a man whose many afternoons would remain in beds, bars or bathrooms looking back there was no certain quality that made Nigel stand out to her and in fact some would have argued that he was not worth the time of anyone, let alone her but I digress this not because Nigel was squalid or vile in any manner but nor was he any form of saint, he has lived for the past year in a new relationship that much like the blossoming rose was beautiful in all aspects each petal of their personality’s matched impeccably well. Their love was strong and made both purposeful Nigel would walk with strong posture but with no particular effort a pace that would reach the destination in no real hurry. She was celestial, that is all that could be said no deed she did was wrong, all judgment offered was fair, her walk could be described as closer to a float not only because of the pace but the graceful demeanour that was tangible everything she did lifted the souls of those nearby to conclude she was the first full exhale on a summers blissful moments, pure unadulterated calm. This leads to the darkness that precedes, she was gone and while the break-up was mutual the pain singular, the ravenous claws of adoration had teared deep into Nigel’s heart, the wounds were lasting, it was as if the plug had been pulled and a slow whirlpool was circling sedated, meanwhile the emotions leaked from the wounds and joined the lost parade in never-ending descent.

Nigel woke that morning, foetal position, sheets scattered finally a pillow firmly in his grasp he glanced over his flat held the air of the cave belonging to some beast who shredded corpse upon corpse between his teeth and left scraps to rot in reality this was merely the product of a depressed person tears, bad takeaway and dirty clothes scattered to accumulate in an odour that thickened the air. There was also a thin hint of whiskey, Nigel had never been much of a drinker but from many medians he had seen that it seemed to be an easy way to escape the burn of lost love, in essence the only thing Nigel had accomplished from the breakup was transfer the burn of a fleeting love to the burn of alcohol consumption. Nigel slumped out of bed and briefly considered making himself presentable but as one is when they are lonely there was no thought as to the opinion of others, also the fridge was out another glaring problem however this needed resolution. HE grabbed the nearest clothes regardless of look or smell, A sad day for those who would confront him, some skinny jeans a plain shirt and a vintage bomber jacket all with their own wears tears and personal tweaks added to them like a pentagram patch on the upper left shoulder and a broken cross sewn shoddily on the right both were standing out quite clear on the dull grey of the jacket the shirt was of no substance, white that was all and the jeans had some rips but regardless of whether this was his attire choice or he had but his birthday suit he was leaving. Checking the clock it was 7:08. “great long day here I come” he groaned to himself, he walked towards the door that lead to the rest of the world, Nigel threw the door open and greeted the world, with a blank face combined with an arched back that lead to an air that screamed go away. As the rain spat onto the concrete path Nigel ploughed on. Others would stroll, waltz even skip past but in comparison a street of the shuffling dead would have appeared more alive than he was, Nigel didn’t care, he walked past every bland driveway with its boring house that contained uninteresting inhabitants and he did not care an ounce about anything. After five minutes of cold damp British weather mixed with one call from over bearing parents.

He was at the local corner shop but as one would be inclined to believe it is hard to focus on what needs to be bought then stuffed into the fridge when all you can hear is quotes from the previous conversation “Are you okay.” says mom. “You can talk to us you know.” retorts dad. “Were here for you.” exclaims mom. “If blah need blah jut blah okay” blahs dad. “Blah, blah, blah, f*****g blah” Nigel moaned “If they really cared the might have visited me once. They found out last week for god’s sake, it’s been a month. They just need to know if they should splurge for coffin.” He moaned further. His basket which had been mysteriously transported to his hand despite his clouded judgement had already been filled with various essentials cookies on top of energy drinks and cereal, some sensibility had crept into the subconscious and added some normality to the motions he was going through. As he picked up the last odds and coffee, tea, bread, milk and ready meals Nigel moped to the checkout “Do you take card?” he said “Yes we do good sir!” Announced the polite yet plump Pakistani man. “Would you like to take a chance with a scratch card sir?” he announced again. “No…Yes, no no… wait yes” he contemplated “There you go sir have a great day” he announced for the third time after being paid. “I’ll try.” Nigel shouted as he walked back. He carried on the hunchback of Bur-mingh-Hame lower in status than that of Notre dame but similar in other aspects apart from the face that is. Rain continued to dribble on his shoulders flattening his hair to an increasingly harder point to reverse from, if Nigel was some form of poetic he would see this as an allegory for his lost love the longer he waited to contact her the less chance he could reverse from that point. Nigel waltzed back into to his flat unlocked the door before launching his boot into it as it swung wildly he dashed in, this small burst of energy showed a much brighter version of himself but that faded, as did any joy the room he lived in contained worn walls and faded furniture adorned his abode. He plunged the bags to the ground before skulking over to the alcohol cabinet many unopened aged bottle’s remained there after dusting off one he popped the cork poured a generous splash, downed it, the poured once more. Downed again. He shambled towards the settee with the fifth glass of whiskey as if on a trapeze he lost balance and landed on the safety mat of comfort. Upon landing he sipped away his sorrows while flicking through television channels he did not care for settling on some repeat news channel. This was Nigel’s life now, when she left all happiness, all hope, and all aspiration. Gone now he was left a weed without a flower, a parasite with no host to latch onto he would crumble and fade. He had accepted death spent nights begging “End it all you heartless b*****d!” This may have been drunken stupor but liquor tends to help the truth slide out. So tonight he would drink cook and drink more. Today the routine changed he had decided to grab from his shelf as he did the books toppled like dominos he placed the bottle (he was having a particularly aggressive drunken episode) with a quarter left and used it to prop the books, the shelf creaked and he thought I ought to fix that dam thing as he waddled over to the kitchen to conjure up some bundle of calories that would keep him alive. Macaroni beans on toast was the final verdict and as the toaster, microwave, stove race began he swore he heard a knocking, silence. His heartbeat raised from it slumber and was rising to panic. The stove bubbled, microwave hummed, toaster buzzed as he went to the door reached for the handle. His mobile went off the ringtone was obnoxious and loud as hell, re-directing his attention he marched towards that as he did he kicked up the carpet almost falling into his already chipped coffee table. Silence. The phone had stopped the stove was bubbling much faster the toaster now crackled and burned the contents with it could have been human hands within it was to black and crispy to tell, the microwave beeped like a dog incessantly barking at a postman, the door was being what was describable as sexual assault due to the violent pleasure behind the thuds in on drunken whirl blinded by sound of all pitches, volume thick enough to see. Nigel wobbled towards the door, catching his foot on the carpet he slammed into the wall near the sofa. The shelf collapse, the might bottle cracked on his head, as Nigel lay there slumped and watch his world set fire. As the door knocked, the fire began then his light began to fade.