How I Managed to Kidnap Neil Gaiman

The bathroom is heavy with steam; droplets cling to everything. I lie in the tub, considering my surroundings. At the other end of the bath, the hot tap drips an irregular rhythm, chipping away the seconds.

You know how people often greet you by saying "Alright?" or "How're you doing?". Well, I always respond in the same way everyone else does: "Yeah alright" or "Fine thanks". The problem is this though — these are lies. I'm not fine. I am not alright. I haven't been for some time. Nobody wants to hear that though.

My guts give a prolonged growl. I can almost feel my intestines snaking around inside of me, revolting against their contents. I couldn't face up to the proposition of hanging or cutting myself, so gathered up every pill I could find in the flat, and downed them one after another. Aspirins. Paracetamol. Vitamin C. Vitamin D. Sleeping pills.

For so long now, I've felt like I've been on the verge of something. On the verge of a promotion. On the verge of meeting The One. On the verge of being happy. Always on the verge — never quite there. I go to the gym three times a week. I arrive at the office early each morning, eat my lunch at my desk. I don't smoke or take drugs. I put a regular amount into a high-interest ISA every month. But what is any of it for? The years fall away from the calendar, and I'm still standing still. Treading water.

I notice the lukewarm water around me has taken on a brownish hue. My bowels gave way and I didn't even notice. I could try and get out, but if I do I probably won't have the willpower to get back in. Maybe I'd even end up ringing someone, and that wouldn't do at all. This isn't a cry for help, this is an exit strategy.

"Excuse me?" says a voice, rough and low. A male voice.

I'm hearing voices now. A side-effect of my medicine-cabinet cocktail or an angel come to collect my wretched soul?

"I'm sorry, but... where am I?" asks the voice again.

I turn my head to find that I am no longer alone in the little bathroom. Standing at the sink and staring wide eyed into the mirror is a living, breathing man. Tall. Floppy locks of dark hair. A very vertical, etched face. I recognise him instantly, though I have never met him in my life.

"You're Neil Gaiman," I say. "What are you doing here?"

"That's what I'm trying to ask you!" Neil Gaiman replies.

What is Neil Gaiman doing in my bathroom whilst I'm trying to quietly commit suicide? He is well dressed — a tuxedo. His hand still lingers over the burgundy bow tie, as if in the midst of adjusting it.

"You're... in my bathroom," I answer after some thought.

"And where's that?"

"In my... flat?"

"And where's that?"

"49b, Flat 17, Macauley Road. Rosethorpe." It took a bit of effort to recall those details; my mind drifts back and forth, like an untethered boat.

"Shit. That's the other side of the country! How the bloody hell did I end up here?" He starts to pace now. His face has gone very pale.

"I don't know," I begin, then have a bit of think about it. "I think maybe it's because I'm trying to kill myself. I took a load of pills."

"What?" So far, he's been trying to avert his line of sight from my skinny, naked body, but now pauses to draw in the reality of the situation. As if to help convince him, my body decides to sick up a little bit, a yellow gloop spilling down my chin and into the water. "That still doesn't help explain anything."