Purgatory

 Hi. My name’s Dan, and from the outside, my life seems pretty perfect. I earn well above the average pay in England, I have more than enough food, water to drink, a roof over my head and some of the best friends I could ever have imagined. And yet, it’s not ‘adequate’ for me. I hate myself for wanting more when so many people haven’t got enough, but what can I do? Change who I am? How I feel? Believe me; I would if I knew how. But I don’t. And I doubt I ever will. Even if I did know how to change, I have no idea what would fill this, this fissure in the Grand Canyon that is my heart. I don’t know what would sew me back together again; I’m like a deep gash in need of stitches.  With cuts you can go to the hospital, you can be darned back together again as if nothing happened, like a child’s torn dolly. I can’t be mended. I have to settle with being broken.

I rooted myself onto the sofa, running my hands through my hair. I bit my bottom lip to distract the onslaught of guilty tears threatening to charge down my face like the Light Brigade, but I had gnawed at my lip hard enough to draw blood which made my eyes water even more. I quelled the emptiness inside of me and distracted myself with reorganising the cushions I had crumpled in the process of moping; I wanted Phil to be happy, I don’t think I could keep my face neutral if he saw the turmoil I’d left around the apartment ; he’d know immediately something was wrong, and I really didn’t want him to. Phil would try to make me happy, but I don’t deserve to be happy. I WANT to be sad, I need to be sad; if I’m not sad, if I’m happy, then I don’t deserve to be.  I’m not a good enough person to be happy. If I’m not good enough for Phil, who is incidentally the nicest person who has ever walked on this Earth; who loves all despite obvious and fatal flaws such as an incredibly irritating (and this is me saying this,) tendency to overuse sarcasm, then I doubt anyone else could put up with me. I’m not exactly a good, nice friend; he gave up on any kind of reliance on me years ago. Phil was the only I felt I could rely on, but I didn’t repay him in that respect; I gave a little and took a lot. After this quiet moment of contemplation, I came to a bitter conclusion and stood up straight, shifting my weight from the sofa to my aching calves.

It was time for me to go get those inappropriately named custard creams from Casa del Tesco because, after all, food was what I now apparently used as a tool to cement my crumbling relationships. I felt the sadness well up inside of me as a reaction to the thought of my loneliness but I submerged it again, can’t have Phil seeing me all red faced and vulnerable, like a baby with an addiction to eating cereal out of a cup and Candy Crush.  I started towards the stairs, grabbing my worn leather wallet from the squashed cushions of the couch; it must have fallen out of my skinny jeans’ pocket. Then it hit me. I was on my feet, I could move around and I was going to exit my flat, to get out. I could run if I wanted to. I could just go, just get away from this mess that is supposedly called life. I don’t have to face it, I have a way out. There are always more options, and this time, I can get away from it all, I can flee. I don’t have to stay here. Suddenly I bolted. I ran straight for the front door, unlocking it at the speed of light and galloping out of it just as quickly.  I was barely out of it before I realised that I’d be letting Phil down. My pace slowed as the realisation hit, bit by bit. I turned around sullenly to close the door behind me. I needed to get cereal anyways.

Trotting down the stairs at a more respectful pace, I rolled my eyes at my own melodrama. Being without Phil tends to scatter my brain a little; he was the glue that held me together, the PVA to my crappy kids’ artwork; the Pritt Stick to my sugar paper. I snorted, before realising that I’d just laughed at my own thought. Crap, I really was messed up. My mind was slightly tempestuous at the moment; thoughts were flying around like dustbin lids in Kansas during a hurricane season. That was quite a laboured metaphor, but I think the drift was caught.

My mind wandered through different similes that could sufficiently describe my current mental state as I clambered aboard the local bus, my preferred method of public transport. I shoved the fare in the female drivers’ face absentmindedly, earning an ungrateful and frankly incredibly unattractive glare. It left me feeling violated in every possible way that a woman could manage, which, after reading several fanfictions, was surprisingly extensive given their limitations. Women, not fanfics that is. In this light the menacing look she was giving me highlighted the hairs on her chinny chin chin. Supressing the laughter inside me, I channelled it into what I considered as charming a smile as my face could manage. Clearly it didn’t have the desired effect, because she managed to carve a scowl into her gnarled face. She looked like one of those stone faces on Easter Island. I tried to project an air of confidence as I ignored the old gargoyle, sitting in a seat not too far, but not too close to her. So that it showed I wasn’t intimidated by her, but I still didn’t want to be near her. Hopefully she was getting the message, but I doubt that for some reason. She was ignoring me. The twat.