Resurrection

Chapter 13 : It's an Awful Life

The continued summation of one's life at this point was a burgeoning abortion of an existence. The recipe for my lack of success included a series of miserable events, the growing shame of a wasted adolescence and the constant nagging depression of life as an adult. I was careful to remind myself there were plenty of people with far more challenging and horrible life stories. These people had so gracefully risen above and beyond to tell their Sunday afternoon made-to- television stories that continued to inspire the uninspired.

But you inspire me. This spiral you're suggesting is only upward. You just have to see it from a certain point of view.

Sadly, I was clearly not one of those mini celebrities, just a manic depressive sad fuck that finally felt validated when some actual bad news fell my way. It gave me a sense of purpose to all the whinging and let me lament everything I could as part of some self-cleansing ritual- though I was always as dirty afterwards. If there was such a thing as a soul, mine would look like a cheap prostitute lying in the corner of a squatter's apartment brandishing a no-frills cask of wine and lying in a pile of pre-chewed newspapers as a bed.

I sat contemplating my own series of events, when I had another miserable person pop onto an adjacent stool. I found it amusing that someone bothered to sit next to me and possibly hear my words of guided dismay. My list of friends, family and remaining loved ones was growing more translucent as time limped on. I could not fathom what my next move would garner, only hope that this deeply due sense of inevitability and dread was just a figment of my own sense of paranoia. Combined with a touch of neurosis, it felt like the real horrors were only lurking around a nearby corner.

How true you are. Trust your feelings, Luke.

So the fellow barfly decided to break my internal dialogue with the dark guardian, letting fly a torrent of bitterness fuelled by another sense of self-loathing.

"It's all gone to shit, hasn't it?" He asked.

"The GFC?" I replied.

"I don't mean the financial crisis. It was already fucked to begin with." He commented.

"Everything?"

"Yes. Everything. Included this pathetic creature you see before you."

"Come on man. I don't want to be the only cliché' in here."

At this instance, he actually surprised me and laughed.

"What are you drinking, anyway?"

"I don't know. Some cheap lager that isn't Fosters."

"Oh that's right. It's everywhere 'ere. Is it true none of the Aussies actually drink that shite?"

"It's true. We just export it. Like ourselves I guess."

My companion nodded and continued to guzzle down his pint. We continued with a fair drinking pace, even when my favourite barmaid Lilly came into the fray and had a few rounds with us. She went to head outside and turned back to me, offering "I guess you wouldn't see much snow in Australia."

"Not really" I replied. "Sure we have snowfields but not like here."

"I'm going out for a fag. I think you need to come outside." She requested.

Almost blindly following, I opened up the old wooden doors to see a sight incredibly strange yet beautiful. This pub: this often dodgy and derelict place, had one of the most exotic Japanese style gardens enshrined within its courtyard. The only thing more dazzling was the myriad of snowflakes floating down from the sky. Each precious snowflake dropped over the garden creating a pearlescent blanket of wonder; a flake smacked my lips and I could see Lilly smiling in the background as she puffed away at her Marlboro. The orange embers were a pale comparison against the angelic display of pure white shrouding an assortment of bonsai trees and tiny waterfalls. The trickling of the water contrasted with the sounds of the last minute village traffic.

I had no idea why Lilly felt so inclined to bring me out here. Part of me felt that despite her lack of interested body language, this was her way of flirting. Another part suggested that she knew I needed something good for once.

I felt like her possible brooding gaze could see my pain and was offering an existential pain reliever. The sight of which was beginning to calm me down and give me a chance to take a metaphorical breath.

The whole scenario seemed out of place with the rest of my time in England: perhaps it was my Hades tea-break. I could only appreciate it for the time being and before I knew it, Lilly was back behind the bar and I was starting to freeze over. I lumbered back onto a bar stool and continued to drink with my newly found companion. Another liquid measure started to block out most of the background noises. My state of intoxication could not notice subtle differences in the background. For instance, there were no more soccer fans, no security and a wandering pack of local pikeys made their way into one of the other rooms. If I had been more perceptive I would have noticed Cujo's owner glaring menacingly in my direction.

I'm sure my barfly accomplice would have tried to help if he could, or that he could actually give a shit for the plight of an unknown alcoholic accomplice. We always try and seek out comfort in male bonding rituals over a pint, yet it all seems futile when the rest of our world comes crashing down. In my case, the cold reality of my existence was about to give me an intrinsic bitch-slap and all I could do was turn the other cheek. Drunk from the feet up, I could barely move off my barstool when a set of flailing arms all grabbed me and marched me out into the frosty outside air. Later I would be reminded of that scene from Robocop where Alex Murphy gets ripped apart. This felt like that same bloody-thirsty scene minus the shotguns.

In moments like these they say that everything slows down, This felt like philosophical bullshit ,as to me it felt so graphically real, with everything being felt and viewed in perfect 20/20 high definition vision, laying out at a perfect framing rate. This of course could only feel more real from the fact that I was about to be beaten beyond recognition.

Cue the transition scene where we jump from an implied beating to a pure white hospital room. Of course this wasn't going to be my recount, as my life resembled more of a graphically real modern revenge film shot in guerrilla style shaky cam.

The first punch came blindingly fast, jarring against my jaw and vibrating my teeth. Saliva flecked out from my mouth and I tried to raise a hand to protect my face, but once again I was too slow and another different fist zeroed in on my ribcage, sending ripples of pain reverberating throughout my chest. Another combination to my face knocked teeth loose and my head started spinning, along with the realisation that each blow to the head made it even easier for me to be knocked unconscious. Like a punch drunk boxer, I would develop dementia pretty soon. Blood and saliva started swirling around my mouth and the pain continued to surge, encircling my head as black clouds started to tear out my vision. A scumbag pikey of the lowest order thought it would be wonderfully amusing to start using a cricket bat, brandishing the willow like Don Bradman and smashing my body around Lord's. The rest of the gang joined in and some evil post-natal abortion gave Cujo's master a hammer. He started on my chest before using my head for panel beating. It only took one blow before I was out cold. This was the point of no return, where each fatal flaw begins to unravel the most delicate human design.