Leo

The light from that fluorescent tube makes the whole bathroom feel soulless. The once white sink is now stained brown and what look like marble walls are in truth torn, curling linoleum with heavy, black mould underneath. The carpet smells dank; vile with urine.

That's me, there, in the shower. It's still running with cold water from the cracked shower head; trickling down the hose to the drain and seeping through the broken plastic base on to the floorboards. The smell of rotting wood adds to the rank odour. Limescale has altered the flow of a single jet of water. It bypasses the shower curtain and hits the towel rail, making it vibrate. It sounds like a distant fire alarm. I smell worse now than when I got in. I don't suppose it makes much difference; I'm not going anywhere.

I'm Leo. Three weeks ago I lost my job and I haven't set foot outside my flat since. Life had been good; I was enjoying work; I'd made a few friends, met a girl and was studying Art at college too. Things hadn't always been so good.

When I was about five, my dad went to prison for assaulting a prostitute. Of course I didn't know that then; all I was told was that dad was an evil man who had done a terrible thing and I wasn't to see him again. The thing is, mum wasn't a picture of perfection either. She slept most of the day, went drinking all night and brought a seemingly endless string of men back to the house. Drunken beatings were not uncommon. It was bearable when mum hit me but her boyfriends meted out much worse punishment. Sometimes I tried to defend myself, but after numerous broken bones I learned to bury the pain and anger beneath dark, purple bruises.  I did ok at school; I wasn't dumb but I wasn't that bright either and I never had many friends. In one school report my teacher described me as 'troubled'. Perhaps I daydreamed a lot but I would hardly say I was 'troubled'.

Mum kicked me out of the house when I turned sixteen. I had no job, no money and nowhere to live. I slept in shop doorways and stole to survive. Eventually I found a drop-in centre for the homeless, which I began to frequent. That's when I found out about my dad. One of the staff thought it might be a good idea for me to re-establish contact with him and I got quite excited about it. But after searching the prison system for months I learned that dad had committed suicide in his cell five years before. I remember I cried for weeks after that and I stopped going to the drop-in centre. Dad started talking to me in dreams and then when I was awake. Sometimes I even thought I saw him; I know I saw him. It was weird because I hardly knew him. He told me to do crazy things I never would have considered before. One night he convinced me to smash a shop window. I've no idea why I did it and of course the police arrested me, but instead of being locked in the cells overnight I was taken to hospital. I didn't think I needed to go but looking back, perhaps they were right.

I liked the hospital. It was warm and the food was good. They started giving me this little, blue pill called Lorazepam. Wow, what a rush: I loved it. It gave me a whole new perspective on the world and I looked forward to medication time every day. I would hold one pill between my finger and thumb and examine it closely. Each tablet was scored down the middle and I would place my fingernail in the score and enjoy deciding whether to swallow it whole or snap it in half. I nearly always chose to swallow whole. Once I tried letting it dissolve on my tongue but the gritty texture and bitter taste took any pleasure out

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of the experience.

After six months the doctors thought I was well enough to be discharged. It was true, I hadn't heard from dad for a while and I did feel better, but I missed him. The staff at the drop-in centre found me a place to live. It was a bedsit flat in a hostel; a grey, grim place full of sad, lonely people, but I couldn't turn it down. To be honest, despite its depressing nature I did see living in the hostel as the opportunity for a fresh start; making it work would be a challenge and I like a challenge.

Soon after moving in I got a letter from the prison where my dad had died. It said dad used to write to me every day and he would always talk about me. I couldn't believe it; I never got any of his letters. I thought he had forgotten me. I remember feeling very angry with mum at that point. They also sent me some paintings my dad did in Art classes. They were good: really good. I particularly liked the portrait of a young woman with pale blue eyes. It really spoke to me and I was inspired to enrol on an Art course at college. I had always enjoyed painting and I think I had a good eye but had never pursued it. Seeing dad's work made me feel closer to him. I went to college two days a week and worked as a volunteer at the drop-in centre the rest of the time.

Around the same time, Lisa came into my life. She had started work on the first floor of the centre as an admin clerk. She was unlike any girl I had ever met before; confident, articulate and astonishingly beautiful. She was also older than me, which added a further sense of intrigue to my interest. I found myself making rather more trips upstairs than usual. I made sure I was first at work each morning to greet her as she arrived. Try as I might though, I always felt my mouth dry up and my brain empty of meaningful vocabulary when Lisa walked through the doors. For weeks "Hi" was all I could muster. She never replied but smiled a half smile and walked on. I couldn't work out this smile. Did it mean she liked me or was she just being polite? I decided to find out.

One week, I spent my entire Social Security allowance on a gold necklace and left it with a card on her desk. Halfway through that morning the phone rang in the ground floor coffee shop where I was working. I could tell it was an internal call by the extended ring and I could see it was from Lisa's extension. My heart began to race. The dry mouth returned and the power of speech deserted me again. I tried to say "Coffee Shop" in a bright, cheery tone, but ended up saying "Shoffee Cop". Lisa giggled.

"So, do you want to take me out for dinner tonight Leo?" she asked

"Urm, yea, yea sure, great," I replied, partly stunned by my luck but mostly scared stiff at the prospect of an actual date with Lisa. As I replaced the receiver it dawned on me that I had absolutely no money. I couldn't ask Lisa to pay for me and by the sound of it she was expecting me to pay for her. I began to panic.

"I can't blow it; not now," I thought.

As the week progressed Lisa was on my mind all the time. I couldn't think what to do, until one night as I was cashing up the coffee shop till at the end of the day.

"No one's going to notice £50 are they?" I thought.

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"Do it," came the reply and I was convinced.

The evening went better than I could have imagined, although Lisa did talk about herself an awful lot. She was also very rude to one of the waiters and moaned about being too cold. But she was so beautiful that none of that seemed to matter. I went to bed that night happier than I had been for a long time.

Over the next few months our relationship developed: I even had a key to her flat and I knew that she was the one. Everything about her was perfect. Her body was in such divine proportion and her skin so clean and white that when we made love she appeared like an angel above me. I liked it when she took control in the bedroom. It was just like the rush I got taking my medication, which, incidentally I had stopped taking. Sometimes sex between us was so intense that she would leave deep scars on my chest and have to wash the blood from her hands.

Despite this, I always felt my hold on Lisa was tenuous. I felt if I didn't buy her jewellery and gifts that I would lose her. Unfortunately this meant taking more money from the till at work and it hadn't gone unnoticed. I tried to appear shocked when John, the manager, informed staff that someone, probably a customer, had been stealing money from the coffee shop till.

"I only ever go out for a minute to have a cigarette," I swore.

"It can take someone less than a minute, Leo," said John, in a tone which suggested I be more diligent in future.

Thankfully, that was the end of the matter and I quickly brushed the incident aside and thought little more about it. What with Lisa and painting, my mind was filled with a rush of plans and ideas and I wasn't going to let the money problem drag me down. I painted every day and would often drift in to another world for hours on end, though to me it felt like only a few minutes had passed.

It was Lisa's birthday soon and I wanted to do something really special for her; a romantic dinner, white wine, red roses and a present to eclipse anything I had given her before. I decided that, for the last time, I would take some cash from the till to cover expenses. What would Lisa think if we didn't paint the town red on her birthday? Besides I hadn't seen her for a few days and this would be the perfect way to show her how much I'd missed her. She told me she'd been away; she didn't say where. In fact, I remember she was particularly vague on the subject.

That evening, I waited until the centre was virtually empty. I laid my hands on the counter and I could see my fingers twitching; I could feel the sweat on my hands making them slip on the surface. My vision was blurred and even with the lights off everything appeared unusually bright.

"I can't do it," I thought

I remember sitting down, closing my eyes and putting my head in my hands. I was about to get up and leave when I heard Lisa's voice. There she was; an angel above me.

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"Take it," she said and I opened the till. However, just as I was stuffing notes in to my pocket the double doors of the stairwell swung open. Before I could react, in walked Lisa arm in arm with John.

"Leo!" shouted John. "What do you think you're doing?" My eyes glazed over, my mouth went dry and I couldn't speak. "You thieving b*****d. What the hell were you thinking?"

There was a long, humiliating silence.

"Put the money back, Leo, then leave. If you're lucky I won't call the police but I never want to see you here again."

I looked at Lisa who shook her head.

"You pathetic loser," she said with a crushing finality. I walked slowly to the main entrance. As the doors slid open I turned: John was still fixed on me with a glare that made me want to cry like a child. Lisa was already busying herself behind the cash register counting money and matching it with receipts. She didn't look at me. I left and the doors slid closed behind me.

I walked under the yellow-orange lights of a busy street and drifted in to quiet roads illuminated only by the silver-blue of the moon. I faded in to alleyways and on to dark places. Only now did I begin to see things clearly. I realised that this was Lisa's fault; she had controlled me, trapped me and destroyed me. Even now I can't believe I allowed her to take over my life in the way she did. I grew incensed. I saw all the pain and anger I have ever felt rise up in a spiral of hate and I knew what I had to do. I ran to the flat.

As I forced my key into the door, I imagined myself thrusting the serrated edge of a steel blade into Lisa. The room was black with night; my heart was black with rage and my eyes were black with death. I grabbed a kitchen knife and launched myself at Lisa, slashing and stabbing her again and again until she was dead a hundred times over. Afterwards, I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, tears making lines on my face, hands gripping and pulling at my hair. I was cold and started shaking, but I continued to sit, quietly composing myself before eventually getting up and walking to the bathroom. I opened the cabinet on the wall and took out a bottle of blue pills which I had been saving. I removed the cap and tipped the pills into the palm of my hand. I examined each one carefully before swallowing it whole. A tingle went down my spine. Replacing the cap on the bottle I closed the cabinet door and looked in the mirror. "You need a shower," I said to myself.

The water was warm and cleansing. I felt as though I was washing away the detritus of life and the pain of death. I was washing my hands of myself. I sat down in the shower and fell into a restful sleep. It was beautiful. I dreamed I was six years old at home with my mum. A bright light filled the room as I sat on her lap, nestling my nose under her chin. She had never held me like this before and I felt safe and loved. I looked into her pale blue eyes and she smiled a half smile.

"It's time to go Leo," she said, "Your dad's waiting".

A tear rolled down her cheek and she took me to the door where a young man stood arms outstretched. I was so excited; I gave mum a big hug and ran to my dad. As we stepped

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outside the sun hit my face and the cold morning air took my breath away. My dad lifted me high on to his shoulders and I was on top of the world. "Come on", said dad, "let's go to the park..."

"Leo, are you in there?" shouts John. I don't reply.

"We're going to have to break the door down," says the police officer.

The caretaker and two paramedics agree. There's a sharp kick at the door and the handle breaks. One more kick and the door flies open.

"Bloody hell," says John. It does smell pretty bad.

The police officer is first in to the flat, followed by the paramedics who head for the bathroom. The floor is sodden and squelches as one of the paramedics steps up to the shower curtain. He reaches in and turns the water off before pulling back the curtain.

There I am, framed in the base of the shower like an exhibit in some macabre gallery. I don't even recognise myself. My eyes are gone, there are huge holes in my torso where maggots are feasting and where constant jets of water have washed dead skin and flesh away. The drain is blocked and my remains are spilling over on to the carpet.

The paramedic almost faints and grabs the towel rail, which comes away in his hand. He falls to the floor. The other paramedic throws up in the sink.

"Come and look out here," shouts John, who is standing with the police officer in the only other room of the flat.

"What do you make of this?" he asks.

The two paramedics leave the bathroom and stand looking around them. My paintings litter the room. They are on the wall, on the floor, stacked on shelves and in corners; every one destroyed; every one smeared with black paint and slashed with the kitchen knife.

"He's painted the same girl a hundred times over," says the police officer. "Here at a restaurant look, and another here like an angel."

"Who is she?"

"No idea," says John "I've never seen her before."

Reviews

[ChristianM]

A few grammatical errors but other than that it was very intense! Your a very dark writer, not that its a bad thing. Your very good at it. Keep up the great work. Was the part where Leo sees John and Lisa hand in hand supposed to be John's girlfriend? Only Leo saw Lisa in his mind?

[Stephen Cousins]

Hi Christian. Thanks for the review. The whole thing is pretty much in Leo's head. There may have been a girl called Lisa in the office who had phoned him once purely on work related matters. But Leo is so screwed up that his fantasies become his reality. The girl in his head is a kind of mash up of his ideal woman and his mother. ("The portrait of a young woman with pale blue eyes. It really spoke to me"). The woman in the paintings at the end is the same; his mother as a young woman, which is obviously why John doesn't recognise her.

[Red]

Wow, talk about a life. you got skill, man. hopefully my writing gets as good as yours

[::Yv0nne::]

Very well written!! I was not expecting the ending...but i enjoyed it very much. You have a very good imagination i love to read stories like these. I look forward to reading more of these stories from you.