Toby Part I

The beginning of a book (hopefully)

I died at the age of twenty eight.  No one knew that till the funeral.  Mum and Dad must have known I suppose.  Everyone else thought I was ten years older. ‘So young’, they would have said.  Thirty eight is young enough, I’ll stick with that thanks.  No need to rub it in. 

 

I remember Dad standing over me in the bathroom.  I had the shower curtain in my hand, the shower rail clanking against the rim of the bath as my hand shook.  I could see a trail of brick dust below the hole where the rail had been ripped out as I had dropped to the floor.  Dad turned on a tap, filled a tumbler and chucked it over my face.  I closed my eyes.  I could still see him.  Now he was bollock naked leaning against the railings of the only house he had ever lived in.  He was smiling.  The milkman walked past and they smiled and nodded to each other. My mum came out of the front door and put two milk bottles on the doorstep.  She looked at Dad.  He turned his head half towards her.  She shuffled back inside and closed the front door.

 

I opened my eyes.  Dad was over me still.  This time he was crouching down and talking to me.  I couldn’t make out the words.  He was angry.  His eyes were half clenched; his neck muscles rose and fell with each burst of speech.  I tried to say something back.  My mouth turned into a downward half moon shape but nothing came out.  My eyes closed.

 

I don’t remember most of my life.  It feels like I was born one day and died a week later.  Maybe that’s how everyone feels when they go.  The gap between sliding out of your mum into the world and sliding out into a box is nothing at all.  I don’t remember having a job, a girlfriend, a holiday, a house.  Something must have happened in twenty eight years.  I’m just tired.  Rest in peace they say when someone dies.  I haven’t rested yet.  I don’t sleep anymore; I’m always just half awake.  When I’ve slept I’ll feel better.  Maybe my life will come back to me.