Goner

Author Note: Please do not read this story if you are easily triggered by depression, suicide, schizophrenia or murder. 

James Darko sat at the glossy wooden table in his otherwise rather bare kitchen. A cigarette was slowly burning away in his right hand, smoke curling towards the ceiling in twists and turns, forming a barely visible cloud above his head. Ash hung from the end of the 'cancer stick' as his Mum called them. Bit by bit the snake of grey falling onto the smooth surface; seemingly forgotten by the Man who held it. In his other hand James held a glass of whiskey, half empty or half full depending on how you looked at it. James definitely saw it as half empty. His blue eyes were glazed over, a film of fatigue and alcohol dimmed the usually bright sparkle of his piercing features. They were trained on the dark liquid in his hand, swirling the glass, made ripples and waves form inside the vintage antique.

James could see his reflection in the beautifully crafted piece, honestly, he didn't recognise himself. Sleep was a luxury he could barely afford, and even when the nights were quiet James tossed and turned, battling insomnia and a torrent of voices which filled his head in every waking moment. Due to this he was grey, grey like the rest of his surroundings. His skin seemed to sag off his face, lines carving crevices into his pale features that would have been near invisible a few months prior. Stubble covered his chin and down his neck, he barely had the energy to shave anymore; every single action seemingly harder than the one before it.

James looked up at the clock, ticking mercilessly in the back of his mind. Six thirty, he'd been sat in the same position for nearly an hour.

"Crap" James muttered, the cigarette had burned to a stub, a pile of ash on the table and burnt finger tips the only remnants. He scowled and tipped the ash to the tiled kitchen floor with his calloused hands. His nails, he noticed, were bitten to the beds. Hours of paranoia meant he chewed them without even realising. They were sore, James didn't care.

Draining the last of his whiskey and grimacing at the burn on the back of his throat, James stood. His vision blurred slightly, he swayed, gripping the table in an attempt to steady himself.

"Half past six" he thought to himself, "bath time."

The voices in his head were muffled by the alcohol, they seemed to be shouting from a long distance rather than from straight behind him, but James knew this wouldn't last long.

Releasing his grip on the table James walked past the piles of dirty dishes and pots of medication strewn across the kitchen counter. "I'll do it tomorrow." he told himself every day, a promise he made to himself every day and which he broke every day too. He could hear the voice of the television from the living room and the lights from the screen reflected on the wall in front of him.

"Just do it, you coward." His own internal narrator was becoming louder with every passing second.

Attempting to walk in a straight line, James entered the dark living room and swallowed the lump in his throat as he saw her.

His Mother, the Woman who had looked after him for nearly 30 years before the roles swapped. James was now her full time carer, his only job to keep her alive and happy. He wasn't very good at it. She was a pale comparison to the Woman she had once been. Once full of life and colour, all smiles and laughs, a radiant, beautiful woman. Now she was grey, grey like the walls and floors and ceilings of the house, grey like James' skin, grey like the ash on the floor and the cloud of smoke in the kitchen, everything drained of colour, it was heart breaking to see. Her face was sunken, she was thin, her joints clearly visible and swollen in their arthritic state. She sat like a Zombie, a measly plate of beans on toast next to her, untouched. Her eyes were glued to the game show on the screen, the only source of colour and life in the house.