Why do you never call? //ferard

Chapter 1

Despite everything, despite all that happened within the last few moths I still found solace in the still silence of the night time. Yet when looked at retrospectively my previous dismay in the face of existence seems silly, childish even to think i used to believe my self inflicted depression was an affliction. Now though even though the feelings linger, I can recognise at the very least that they are warranted.

It all started with the drinking really, that's easily recognisable. They say that the slope to alcoholism is a steep one but i had always took that for a load of horseshit, and it was really. The slope isn't steep, its damn near vertical and no amount of pathetic clawing would allow me to pull my bloated carcass from the depths of the hole i dug for myself: and so Thursday morning rolled around and said bloated carcass was sat shivering next to a toilet. The actual vomiting had long since ended, I was in no danger of puking all over myself if i so fancied moving at any time. Just to be doubly safe I thought it best to not move.

Killing time was a favourite past time now, it was how i chose to move through life; killing time - till my next drink, till my next line, till the next thing that motivated me to move from the cold comfort of tiled bathroom floor. Speaking of said bathroom floor there was a spot of ominous black mould growing next to my hand, itching slowly closer to my skin. I knew its spores had a damaging effect but judging by my lacklustre attempts at breathing i very much doubted i risked inhaling anything too toxic. Stressing the too.

When self sabotage grew tiresome and Killing time became Murdering it, I began making attempts at movement. Limbs screaming I was stood grasping the sink, knuckles white against the greying porcelain. Reluctantly my eyes flicked to the eliminated mirror, shaking hand feebly reaching towards my reddened eyes managing to smudge last nights eye makeup in the process. Makeup that had otherwise stayed in a relatively respectable position. Not being in the business of particularly caring weather or not I was deemed socially acceptable on public transport I sluggishly started making my way to the door, stopping only to gingerly pick up the shattered Samsung off the floor. 2 missed calls. Apparently I am in the business of keeping Frank waiting. Having agreed previously to meet him on the other side of the city what was reaching 40 minutes ago I decided to take a taxi, it was only when sat comfortably and when my head had stopped swimming that I noticed my jeans seemed to be encrusted with a vile cocktail of semen and my stomach lining. With it being too late to turn back and change I chose to sit tight, and to hope that Frank wouldn't smell me before he saw me.

And so 20 minutes later I sat thanking my lucky stars that today of all days Frank had decided to develop a rather serious sounding nasal infection (viral he tells me over his third coffee), saving me from having to explain myself with a painfully awkward conversation. My pleasantly thankful mood was shattered near instantaneously as Franks previously light tone took a sharp turn for the worse as his features darkened considerably, eyes now unable to quite reach mine.

"Where were you last night, Gerard please, I just want to know how you're doing..." he asks his breath is little more than a dying whisper, pitifully weak.

Stumped I stared down into my cup, cheeks unbearably hot under duress. Logic dictated I should just lie soothingly and convincingly, carefully spinning a preferable narrative for him; yet like the fool I am I sat silently and stiffly. Ignoring him and his soft plea.

I continued to ignore him as he got up from his chair and left, what failed to ignore however was the incoming text from Pete wo had just managed to score; now that I couldn't bare to ignore. 

Authors note: I apologise for the short chapter, im still trying to get a feel for the characters and the story itself. ( please leave a review so I know how you feel about it so far) x