Nature’s just a euphemism…

So I was on the train the other day when I smelled that bitter, grassy, nicotine-y stench of weed (marajuana/dope/whichever name you prefer) coming from the seat across from me. At first I thought somebody was puffing away on the train, and I was tensed to spring on them until I realised that he was just rolling it up ready to smoke freely when he got off (as if I wouldn’t still be breathing in the same air as him when we got outside?!). I didn’t have a reading book with me and my phone battery was going to die, so I found myself sitting there and imagining this stranger once he’s smoked his spliff (doobie? Again, whichever name you prefer), with his red eyes and vacant expression, either eating junk food, laughing at nothing or seeing invisible entities and trying to fight them off. It made me wonder why on Earth these people think it’s okay to get themselves into that state. And then I thought about the song, Burn One Down. “Herb of the Earth”, is how the lyrics describe it. Ah, I thought to myself, that’s why. Because it’s natural. It’s okay to get all paranoid and messed up by this drug – and yes, it’s a drug, whether you like it or not – … because it’s natural. That’s alright then! (And yes, that was sarcasm).

the fiction part:

Sprinkle the grass. Lick the paper. Roll it up. Light the end. Inhale. Hold it… hold it…

Ah.

A perfect end to the worst day. Matthew kicked off his black Nike trainers, which after another puff of his joint, he glared at, remembering the sound of his manager’s nasally, grating voice in his ear: trainers aren’t uniform, Matty. 

Matty. Matthew didn’t remember ever telling any of his new colleagues that they could shorten his name. Actually, he was pretty sure he hadn’t, because there had been that meet-and-greet at Christmas, where he had been introduced to everybody at the office one by one. Hi, it’s good to meet you. My name’s Tom. It’s good to meet you too, Tom, I’m Matthew. Ah! Matthew. What can we call you? Matt? Matty? Mattius? *Laughter* None – Matthew’s fine.

He rested his head against the back of the sofa and stared at the cobweb in the ceiling that his girlfriend, Sara, had been asking him to get rid of for as long as he could remember. But the truth was, he hated cobwebs just as much as she did. Matthew lifted his smoke to his mouth once again and took a long, deep draw, almost groaning with relief as he felt it slide down his throat and into his lungs. There was nothing better. Beer and spirits didn’t give him the same feeling – nothing did. Sara didn’t see the point. I’d much rather see you relaxing with a Carling after a hard day’s work than sit there and smoke that s***, she would say. Why? Matthew would reply. At least this isn’t just a bunch of chemicals mixed together. At least this isn’t going to mess up my insides.

He sat and smoked the whole thing until it was barely visible, just a little nub of white and orange poking out of his thumb and forefinger. But he didn’t mind; his head was swimming nicely, the memories of the day a lot further away from his immediate thoughts than they were five minutes ago. The people on the muted television grinned at him, and he grinned back. The music in the background was quiet, chilled, calm, but it had a heavy bass that seemed to thud in time with Matthew’s heartbeat, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was almost painful.

‘Matthew?’

Sara’s voice came from the bedroom. Matthew got up, feeling his body sway slightly before he found his footing. He chuckled, but then rubbed at his chest. It was still throbbing. Before he went through to the bedroom he turned the volume right down, but the thudding inside him wouldn’t stop.

‘Where are you, babe?’ he called. Sara didn’t reply, so he went through to the bedroom, hoping to see her waiting in bed for him, but she wasn’t there. If he hadn’t have just smoked, he would have known that looking in the wardrobe for his girlfriend was a stupid thing to do, but because he had, he did. Of course, she wasn’t in there, and so Matthew came out of the bedroom and headed for the bathroom, where he could hear the shower running. He began shuffling out of his trousers and loosening his tie, and then he swung open the door.

‘Here I am!’ he said loudly, but then he stopped, staggering slightly from the wall of steam that hit him in the face. There wasn’t just one blurred body behind the shower screen, but two, and Sara’s soft giggle indicated that she was one of them.

Matthew didn’t understand what had carried him forward but suddenly his hand had smashed through the screen and grabbed the man from behind it, ignoring the blood, the pain and the shards of glass that stuck grotesquely out of his fist. He dragged the man by his neck out of the bath, across the floor and into the doorway, where he knelt down and began to punch him, one, two, three, four, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth, his eyes, all to the sound of Sara’s horrific screams. Five, six, seven eight, and then he stood up and began kicking him, satisfied by the pained grunts and moans that came from the stranger who had been showering with his girlfriend.

Sara was screaming his name, shouting at him to stop, but it was as if a demon had taken over Matthew’s body. He couldn’t feel himself, couldn’t feel his mind, and was only barely aware of Sara’s arms around his waist as she tried to pull him off. Without thinking he turned and shoved her away, but she stumbled over the foot of her secret boyfriend and crashed violently to the floor. Matthew flinched as he heard the sickening smack of her skull on porcelain, and silence enveloped him as he watched her. Sara’s eyes were open, staring at him with nothing but hurt and betrayal in them. But you betrayed me, he wanted to say. But of course, he couldn’t, because surely his killing her was not a fair payback. He knelt down next to her body and felt himself begin to sob, head in his hands as he watched her fingers twitch before she went still.

‘What have I done?’ he whispered. ‘Sara…’

‘What?’

Matthew whipped around to the door to see Sara standing in the threshold, fully-clothed, dry-haired and watching him, bewildered. Matthew looked back at the Sara he had just killed, but there was nobody. He looked at the unknown man on the floor in the doorway, but again, there was nobody. His hand was clean, empty of blood from himself or from the stranger; the shower screen was intact; the shower was off; the bath was dry. And Sara continued to stare at him before she rolled her eyes knowingly, and walked away.

Fast Car

This is dedicated to Tracy Chapman, and although I don’t listen to her much, my sister loves Fast Car and after listening to the song a dozen times one afternoon on the way back from university, I loved the story it told. There aren’t many songs that tell stories like that – they talk about men, women, love, sex. Fast Car talks about life. It’s only short, but here it is and I hope you like it:

the fiction part:

There was another smash of a bottle breaking in the kitchen. The third one so far. I knew my father wasn’t doing it on purpose, but he was just too drunk to keep a steady hand.

‘You!’ he called. Well, slurred. ‘Help me.’

I had been writing a paper I didn’t have to write anymore, because the week before I had sat down with the head of department and explained that I needed to leave. Too many things going on at home, I had told her. I’ll still study, though, I promised. She had smiled and sighed all at once. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t want to leave, that I would have given anything to complete my final year there. But there was my dad. My dad in the kitchen, who couldn’t hold a bottle in his hand no matter how hard he tried. It was his own fault, and yet my heart wouldn’t let me leave him alone.

And so here I was, writing my paper, and it was the best paper I had ever written. But I put my pen down and got up.

‘You won’t remember this in the morning,’ I said to him in the kitchen. He stared at me through hooded eyes, pupils big and black and vacant. His mouth hung open and his body hunched over, gripping the fridge door loosely in his right hand.

‘That’s the plan,’ he said.

His drunkenness gave me confidence. Liquid courage on his behalf. I said the words I’d been thinking all day, knowing there was no point to them but wanting to say them, wanting to feel them spilling out. Maybe he’d dream about them.

‘This is your fault,’ I spat. ‘I’m glad you dropped those bottles, because it’s three less that you’ll drink. You should be working, dad, you should be looking after me. You should be looking after mom.’

‘Gah,’ he moaned. He stumbled a little, and pulled another beer from the fridge. It crashed to the floor like the three before it, splashed against my calves and I closed my eyes. I was sure that he had done that one on purpose, to shut me up. ‘My body’s too old for working.’

‘Yeah, and your body’s too young to look like this.’

*

He was the only person to make me feel better. He was the only person who cared enough to be there, to let me moan and vent and speak wistfully about the future I craved. One night, he asked me if I wanted to go and find it.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘We’re in charge of our fates,’ he said. ‘Stay here and this will be your life. You don’t want that, do you?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

So I packed a bag and left, not unlike my mother, and we got in his car and began to drive. We drove so fast it felt like I was the drunk one, happily intoxicated with my head back against the rest, the wind whipping through my hair and against my face. His arm was around my shoulders, warm, comforting, and it felt good. I felt free.

*

It wasn’t all it had seemed on that one night long ago.

He had promised he would send me back to school, that he would work like my father never did, let me get my qualifications and live in a nice house, have a few kids. We did the latter, but stayed in a squat, cramped flat in the city, instead of in the country just like he had promised. Instead of working, he stayed out at the pub, getting drunk like my father always did, coming home at three in the morning and waking me up, even though I had to get up for work in the morning.

Because that’s what I did. I worked, like my mother, behind a counter, serving people. Serving people.

I’d hoped for better. I still hoped. Why was it too much to ask of him? After all, he was the one who had promised. I had heard nothing from my father, and it had been a long, long time since I had gone. I still pictured the nice house, the nice things, the nice life he had told me to find. I still wanted it. If I didn’t try, I would live and die this way.

One night, he came home in his fast car. He had been too drunk to drive it, but he still had. He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and I picked them back up and gave them back to him. We watched each other.

‘Keep on driving,’ I said.

Please follow me on Twitter @karisgould – I follow back!

Mr Suicide

So I’m pretty annoyed about the fact that I’m going to be spending the next sixteen hours of my life travelling to Scotland, however I’m somewhat conflicted because I actually feel excited for it; the thought of sitting in the cosy little cottage my mom booked for us, sweating it out in the sauna (yes, somewhere in Scotland has a sauna – right!), the possibility of catching a glimpse of the northern lights outside on the coast… no doubt it will be an experience, but really? Sixteen hours?
Anyway, so I get especially annoyed when I realise that our train from Birmingham New Street will drop us to Crewe at midnight, where we have to sit in a waiting room for, urm, SIX HOURS until our next train comes. However, when we get there it proves to be less annoying than I’d originally thought, and it’s because while we’re in here (which I still am, by the way – it’s 03:31 and my train isn’t until 05:57 – 3.5 hours down, 2.5 to go…) I am forced to ask myself the question: is it possible to change somebody’s life within six hours of meeting them?

the fiction part:

The waiting room is lit like a hospital, and painted like one too. Bright white squares across the ceiling and cream walls with a band of light grey spread around the centre; blood-red chairs grouped in threes around the edges of the room, and three more sets on a raised platform, facing each other.

Man Number Six sits on the platform. Grey haired and spectacled, with a turtleneck jumper and cord jeans; he is fast asleep in the silence – well, not the silence, but the sort-of quiet – the only sound is the continuous trickle in the radiators, the loud, leisurely snore of Man Number Three, a thirty-something year old Asian fellow who lies comfortably across a set of the red chairs, fingers threaded together across his stomach and a beanie hat covering his face; the plastic rustle of Man Number Two’s loaf of bread as he opens it, the pop of a tub of butter as he starts making a sandwich; the heavy breathing of Man Number Five, another who lies across a band of red chairs, though this one lies on his right side, facing the wall, head on the metal armrest, glasses askew, smart black coat twisted and work trousers partially tucked into his Simpsons socks… He looks uncomfortable, but still, he sleeps soundly. Those are the sounds that can be heard, as well as the click of a mouse next to me from Man Number One – My Man – and the tap-tapping of my own computer keyboard as I write this.

Man Number Four is on the row of red chairs next to Man Number Five. He smiles a few times at me, but something tells me he wants to cry. I hope I’m wrong, but then he gets up and asks if he can plug his phone charger into the wall next to My Man. We both say yes, but as he tries to do as he asked, his hands shake miserably. I ask My Man to help him and Man Number Four apologises. He says he has had the worst day, and when I ask why he says he has ME. He asks if I have heard of it and I haven’t, but because he looks so unhappy, I nod. I thought he was talking about MS, but I quickly realise he means something different. Man Number Four then says he’d gone online and started talking to a woman – he wouldn’t do it usually, but you know when you’re feeling sort of lonely? – they’d arranged to meet and he was supposed to stay at her place for the weekend, but they’d gotten into it at 8:30pm and she’d kicked him out at 9:00pm. He’s been sitting in the waiting room since 10:00pm, hoping against hope for a train that might take him back to London. He tells me this at just before 2:00am, and I know we all still have another four hours before any train arrives. Before returning to his seat he glances out of the see-through door at the train tracks, and then he laughs before saying that somebody kicking you out of their house without a care as to how you’re going to fare upon them doing so at such a late hour could make you want to jump onto those. I’m not sure what to say to it, so I smile sympathetically – probably the worst thing you can do when somebody so casually brings up the idea of suicide over a woman he barely knows. It’s the type of thing that makes you wonder what kind of life Man Number Four lives. After another humourless smile he trudges back to his seat – the middle in a row of three, clasps his fingers together and then stares out of the see-through door. I feel worried that his eyes are on those train tracks.

The almost-silence continues. The trickle of the radiators has stopped, but I don’t understand why because it is getting no less hot in the waiting room. In the late-February cold I came out in a vest under a hoodie, under a cardigan, under a coat and then a scarf. I’ve taken off almost everything, leaving me in my hoodie and a vest and yet I’m still hot. My Man removed his shoes and Man Number Six on the platform removed his turtle-neck some five minutes ago. Underneath he is wearing a black shirt and suddenly he looks intimidating; subtly wealthy and superior, and I don’t know why it is until I realise that now he’s awake, staring around the room as if he’s wondering why he’s sat here. There is a slight frown on his face and he looks across at Man Number Three, no doubt wishing he was sleeping in the same comfort. He crosses his left knee over his right and puts his hands deep into his cords, then briefly looks at me, smiles and softens his authoritarian expression before closing his eyes again. But they open quickly, for a train suddenly storms past, breaking the almost-quiet. Everybody is disturbed apart from Man Number Five, The Uncomfortable One. Everybody else looks out at the train no doubt wishing they are sitting in one of its uncomfortable chairs rather than these uncomfortable waiting room ones, because at least those ones would have cushions. Man Number Three looks disoriented, and after some seconds when the train disappears, he lies back down and carries on snoring as if there has been no interruption.

Man Number Two has been making his sandwich for some twenty minutes, and I’m sure that mine, My Man’s and Man Number Four’s stomachs are beginning to feel slightly envious of the fact that he has food. Some moments later, My Man reaches into his bag and pulls out a packet of three Kit-Kats and opens them, and just as I ask whether we should offer one to Man Number Four, he asks me to offer the third one to “that guy over there”. It’s the same man, and we share a smile, no doubt both thinking that great minds think alike, before I get up and hand the Kit-Kat to Mr Suicide. He takes it gratefully and gobbles it down, and my heart stumbles for him. He didn’t mention food in the story about his Online Friend and I’m willing to bet that she kicked him out before dinner. But after the Kit-Kat he stops looking at the train tracks, and I can’t help but hope that I helped him lose interest in them.

Sliding doors…ish

It’s been a long time, I know. I apologise. But hallo!

Question: Is it wise to begin learning something new when you’re just about to finish one big, important chapter in your life? I started asking myself this question when I began a new job just as I should have been spending all of my free time concentrating on getting a First at uni (you know, hopefully getting a first, anyway); did I really care about the hundred different kinds of tea they sold? The thousand types of coffee? The ridiculously gargantuan (albeit rather tasty looking) menu? I realised I didn’t. Not to say that I don’t love my tea and my coffee (and my food), but selling them? Not for me. I care much more about my degree, my career, my passion.
Today’s blog is about making the choice to cease to work in this new establishment and pay attention to my degree, or whether I should carry on for some extra pocket money and sacrifice some precious hours of study for something that will only really be beneficial to me in the short term. It’s inevitable that the latter part has some serious wishful thinking going on.

The fiction part:

 

In a job

I had been staring at the computer screen for – I checked the clock – almost a solid ten hours. My word count was at fifty-seven and that included the title, my name and my I.D. number. I knew vaguely what I was supposed to write about, but a persistent ache thumped at the back of my head and scratched at the back of my eyeballs, making it painful to even look at my laptop, and preventing me from being able to form the actual words. All I wanted to do was close my eyes, lock myself away from the bright, offensive light and lay my head down on the desk. I was so tired I could have fallen asleep anywhere and not cared.

It was one in the morning. I had been awake for nineteen hours, travelled for three, worked for eight, and was due to travel for at least another two before I would be able to get into bed. The thought was even more dismal than the idea that I would need to write two-thousand words before I was able to make that journey, and one possibly more dismal than that was the knowledge that I really had no idea what those two-thousand words would be.

A glance to the opposite side of the desk saw my friend viciously typing at her own keyboard, so fast that it sounded like the flap of moth wings close to my ear. I was bitterly jealous. She had comfortably woken up at ten a.m., planned her work and began writing at four in the afternoon. The only reason she was still writing now was because she was a perfectionist. She was finished, but she was removing her “redundant” wording, tightening her already-tightened sentences, ensuring herself a high grade. And then there was me with no idea about how I would move forward.

My friend looked up at me. ‘Come on,’ she said.’This isn’t the year to mess about.’

If only she knew. No other commitments filled her diary; the only things she had to remember were her deadlines. Me? I had to be up at six every morning, work my shift and then travel under a time limit to make my classes, and by the time I got around to finally completing that essay I would stare, zombie-like at the computer screen, lost in a maze of language and literature, wondering what on earth I should write in order to ensure a pass.

Six months later.

I was handed that piece of paper, but was there a point in me opening it? One by one I’d watched classmates look, squeal and laugh, jump and shout and think about the future. I knew what mine said. Average: 58%. Two percent off of something respectable. Three years out of my life for something that was not even worth putting on a CV.

‘You have your work experience, don’t forget,’ soothed the friend who had typed harshly at her keyboard and received a satisfying 67% for her efforts. I nodded my acknowledgement and went home.

Two weeks later

‘Thanks so much for your interest in working with us, Karis. You’ve done a really good job – good luck for the future,’ said my supervisor. I sat across the desk with her and she had been through the things I had done right and the things I could have improved over the fortnight I had worked for her. She hadn’t specified whether I should continue with this career path. She was too polite, too unfamiliar, too impersonal. I smiled and nodded my thanks. Was there a point in asking if I could continue, if the doors that promised to open upon completing this experience had indeed opened, or whether the key that locked them had been thrown away. Was I stuck on the wrong side of them forever?

‘So… do you think I could apply for some further experience with you? Perhaps an internship?’ I asked. After all, I was here now. I couldn’t not ask.

The lady hesitated. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any openings at the moment, but of course, in the future you could. Have you ever thought of doing a teaching degree? You know, only as a backup plan. You might find it helpful.’

I shook her hand and left, and after that I went back to selling tea and coffee.

Out of a job

I had been staring at the computer screen for – I checked the clock – two hours. Three thousand words in that space of time was pretty impressive, even if I did say so myself. And for once I was happy with them. I saw their potential. Excitement developed in the form of a hyperactive vibration in my stomach. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help thinking that this could be the one. This could be the making of me. I allowed myself a slight grin and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. A headache threatened, so I reminded myself to put on my glasses when I returned to my room, and when I took my tea upstairs with me I saw a message on my phone. Have you finished your essay? it said. Yes – submitted it last night. Working on my novel now! I replied. And then I switched off my phone and managed another five thousand before I decided that I ought to sleep.

Six months later

I ripped open my envelope. I knew what was in it already, but this would make it official. 74%. It was enough to make me want to scream. Not once in my life had I achieved an above-average grade, but this felt deserved. I had put in my everything, listened, taken notes, even gone as far as to record classes to ensure I caught every single word if my mind happened to wonder. It had paid off. I finally knew what it was like to have my efforts rewarded.

‘Now, you go and wow those people at your work experience,’ my tutors said.

Two weeks later

I sat opposite my supervisor, rubbing my fingers in my palms and feeling them slide around. Nerves physically shook my body, made my words come out in a wobble, but then she laughed and I relaxed.

‘Calm down,’ she chuckled. ‘What is it you want to ask me?’

I reached into my bag and pulled out the finished manuscript that I had thought about for the whole day. In fact, I had thought about it for the whole fortnight, the whole month. Ever since I had started writing it. It was my baby. I looked at my supervisor as she looked at the manuscript. I expected to see a roll of the eyes, or hear a quiet sigh, because of course every intern wanted their manuscripts published. I handed it to her wordlessly, but instead of telling me no, she took it with a grin.

‘You’ve got passion,’ she said, ‘you’ve got commitment. And you’ve really done well this last couple of weeks, so well that the whole office loves you, so I’ll pass it onto the editors and see if they see some potential in it. But, one question.’ I nodded my head, trying not to seem so eager but miserably failing. I was ecstatic. ‘Can I read it first? I read your blog and I have to say, I love your writing.’

A Writer Blocked

I have been consistently aware of the fact that I did intend to turn this into a DAILY fiction blog of things that have happened during my DAY, when in reality it’s actually become more of a weekly/fortnightly (monthly?!) one.

Here’s the thing. My days just aren’t as interesting as I thought they would be. Recently, they’ve been consisting of me going to university (if my alarm succeeds in waking me up), work (admittedly not at all frequently, which is part of the reason why I’ve had no entertaining stories to tell) or sitting on bed, writing. And so when I glance at the WordPress bookmark in my bookmark toolbar and feel guilty that I haven’t written anything, I justify myself by saying “well, I’m blocked, so what can you do?”

But today I had a revelation. What if I wrote about having writer’s block? Hmm.

Just to forewarn, I’m going to do that exercise where you just write and write and don’t pay attention to what you’re writing until after you’re done… just to forewarn. So this may be a train-wreck.

Nevertheless, here it goes.

The fiction part:

With my eyes closed, I can feel the wind in my hair, whipping loudly inside my ears and bringing up goosebumps on my arms and chest. An open-mouthed breath allows the cold air to sting the bottom row of my teeth. I sigh, because I know that the sting will turn into a throbbing ache and that it will take a couple of days to go away. I’ve never been sure if that happens to anybody else. But it happens to me all the time, and I don’t know why it has never registered in my brain to stop taking open-mouthed breaths out in the cold winter.

Not only can I feel the wind, but I can hear the distant scream of car horns, shouts, laughs from people way down. They’re having fun, driving fast, living life. I try and take notice of the smell of the air, past the scent of my own perfume and the stench of pollution, to the smell of the air itself. I don’t succeed, and it makes me ask the question: does the air even have a smell?

The glass bottle in my left hand is almost empty. I dropped the lid around twenty minutes ago, and it makes me laugh that I will never find it again. I dropped it so far down that it would be impossible to retrieve; perhaps the air carried it away, perhaps it dropped into a bin, perhaps it hit somebody hard on the shoulder and they threw it in anger. Either way, it’s gone forever. I lift the bottle to my lips and down the rest of the liquid inside. I consider dropping it over the edge, too, but that would draw the attention to me. I don’t want that.

I don’t want that because if attention is on me, people will wonder what the lady with the empty Smirnoff bottle is doing, standing on the edge of a tall block of flats.

I forget about everything else and concentrate on what it could be that has hurt me so much. Just standing here alone is difficult enough. It brings me down, makes me wonder about life, makes me wonder if people who are hurt feel even more hurt when they put themselves in this position. I consider stepping down to reevaluate, but I don’t.

A broken down relationship? Am I in debt? Is somebody stalking me? Am I a stalker?

There are so many possibilities it brings a smile to my lips. I chuckle a little, and then feel the wind blow me forward. I flap my arms hysterically, try to steady myself but I am falling. My left foot no longer has a support underneath it and my right one seems to be adamant in joining it. I’m falling.

I have fallen.

With my eyes open, I can see my kitchen, the table I have just been stood upon, the empty bottle of Evian in my left hand, and then I see the lid which has skittered over by the bin. It turns out I will find it after all. I drop my bottle on the floor with no fear of drawing attention to myself.

After a brief thought I get up and sit at the kitchen table in front of my laptop, but for some reason my hands sit poised an inch above the keyboard, mimicking the same two sides of a magnet, refusing to make contact. A blank word document stares me in the face.

My Friend Insomnia

I was lying awake last night for a good couple of hours, wondering when sleep was going to come to me. What it feels like, most of the time, is that whenever I lie down with the intention of sleeping, I’m always awake for ages. I think everybody will be able to relate to me when I say that this happens every single time – without fail – when I have to be up at a ridiculously early time of the morning.

Ever since I’ve been allowed to choose my own bedtime (let’s say since the age of about 14-15), I’ve not been able to go to sleep before midnight. It’s not necessarily that I’m lying in bed and waiting for sleep to find me, but I literally haven’t been able to get up and go to bed, before midnight, and in the very recent days, even 2am feels early. I wouldn’t quite say that I’m an insomniac, because when I’m really tired it’s quite easy for me to sleep, but for some reason, sleeping is really difficult when I try to do it deliberately. I always end up just lying there with my eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. However, if I’m watching a show or reading a book or writing a story, I’ll always drift off for a few seconds, wake up, realise I’ve drifted off and so put down whatever I’m doing and settle down to sleep properly. And then I’m awake again – eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. (Does this happen to anyone else?!)

So it’s sparked a question: real insomniacs – do they ever get confused between reality and dreamworld?

The fiction part:

Gabi lay on her side and stared at Gray, trying her best to mimic his breathing patterns. At ten p.m. he had switched off the television, kissed her goodnight and turned over, and that was four hours previously. Gabi, as usual, had glared enviously at the back of his head and then gone back to reading James Patterson’s Double Cross.

She tried to kid herself on numerous occasions that her inability to sleep was due to the fact that she was really enjoying her book, but she knew that wasn’t the truth. Gabi could never sleep. For five or so years she had been battling with the need of a well-rested night. Battling and losing. She was perpetually tired; tired in the body, tired in the mind, tired of watching Gray get his full eight hours and barely being able to grab two herself.

She should have been grateful for the two she did get, and she would have been if she could ever remember them. Gabi was pretty sure that nobody really knew what sleep felt like. Of course, everybody who didn’t suffer what she suffered knew what it felt like to have to wake up for work at seven o’clock on a Monday morning, to hear the erratic buzzing of their alarm and silently wish for five more minutes so they could finish the beautiful dream they were having. But did they know what actual sleeping felt like? Gabi didn’t think so; after all, they would have been unconscious at the time. But to add insult to injury, Gabi didn’t even know that feeling. She longed to hear her alarm and to press the snooze button for an extra few moments of precious slumber – Gray did it every morning – but her wish was never granted. She was always awake again when it was still dark out – even in Summer when darkness was seldom – and when that alertness hit her, Gabi never remembered what it had felt like to be asleep. Because of this, she could never be sure if she actually had been. Ironically, stupidly, she always imagined that perhaps she’d dreamed it. But to dream, you have to sleep.  And Gabi couldn’t.

On the night in question, Gabi tried her best to act exactly as Gray was. His shoulders were rising and falling slowly and evenly, and she was sure she had matched the pace of his inhales and exhales, a quiet in-breath and a heavy out-breath that almost sounded like a sigh. He lay on his right hand side, facing her, with his right hand rested underneath his face, his feet entwined with hers. She copied him, because maybe that was his secret, maybe he lay in that position every night in order to fall asleep. Carefully, making sure she didn’t disturb her perfect breathing, she reached behind her, fed the lamp cord through her fingers and flicked the switch. Darkness swamped her and excitement threatened, but she didn’t smile. Even if she didn’t fall asleep, she’d disciplined herself effectively and would try it again the next night.

Contrary to what Gabi was scared of, however, soon every thought in her mind became cloudy. She failed to remember the last few sentences of the book she had been reading, her breathing took care of itself by staying sure and steady, and her mouth had fallen ever so slightly slack. She was falling asleep.

A little while later, though, she felt herself moving. Her body, seemingly of its own accord was unfolding itself from her carefully revised position and before she knew it, Gabi was standing by the side of her bed. Looking down at herself she realised she wore different clothes; a white vest as opposed to her black nightshirt, her favourite Gap jeans as opposed to just a pair of briefs… shoes, socks, glasses.

Was this what it was like to dream? Gabi couldn’t contain her elation; it was the first dream she had had in years; she could not remember the last one, and now here she was, dreaming, like other normal human beings. It was a gorgeous feeling. Her effort had paid off, and she couldn’t wait to tell Gray in the morning.

As she stood by the side of her bed, Gabi felt so in control of her body. She bent down and picked her handbag up from the floor next to her bedside cabinet. Where would her dream take her? Would it be one of the ones she didn’t want to wake up from in the morning? Would it turn into a nightmare? Frankly, she didn’t care – any dream was welcome as long as it was a dream.

She couldn’t wait to tell Gray. She took her car keys out of her bag and jangled them about, heard Gray mumble her name in his sleep, but, with a triumphant smile Gabi remembered that she was asleep too. She didn’t have to listen to Gray, and neither could she. Turning to the door, she left the bedroom and entered the dark hallway, descended the stairs and let herself out of the front door.

It was raining heavily. Gabi usually hated the rain, but in her dream she didn’t care. Was this what it felt like to dream? This powerful, carefree feeling? Finally, she understood why everybody hated to wake up. She understood why Gray was a grouch most mornings – she was almost certain that she would be just as moody when she woke up. When she woke up. She couldn’t remember ever using those words before.

Suddenly, she was in the car. An unsteady driver in consciousness, sleep seemed to give Gabi all of the confidence she needed. It was dark out, no cars on the road, and she sped down a sparsely filled motorway, foot all the way down on the accelerator, free as ever. She kept on asking herself: was this what it felt like to dream?

But then her wipers got stuck, the rain gathering in the corners, sliding busily down the windscreen. Everything turned blurry outside and Gabi felt her confidence rapidly turning into fear. It was indeed turning into a nightmare and she did care; this nightmare wasn’t welcome. Let me wake up now, she begged silently to her own mind. Just let me wake up. Reaching forward, she thumped the windscreen with her fist and almost cried with relief as the wipers began moving again. She wasn’t going to crash, but then she noticed the blue and red lights flashing behind her, the scream of the siren, following her. Police. Well, at least she wasn’t dead.

She parked on the shoulder and waited for the officer to approach her car, willing her breath to slow down. Let me wake up now. She rolled down the window.

‘Madam, may I ask where you’re going?’

Gabi searched her mind for an answer, but found none. Was it possible to be lost for words in a dream? Why didn’t she know where she was going?

‘I – I don’t know.’

‘I’m going to need you to step out of the car.’

Her heart seemed to speed up and sink down at the same time. ‘What’s going on?’ she mumbled.

‘Miss, you’re driving with no particular direction at four in the morning, which would be fine if you weren’t going at almost a hundred and twenty miles per hour, endangering your own life and potentially others. I’m going to need you to do a breathalyser.’

‘I’m not drunk!’ Gabi spluttered. Let me wake up now, please. ‘I’m… I’m dreaming, aren’t I?’

The officer laughed – not out of humour, but out of exasperation. Worry, perhaps. He searched her eyes, puzzled at what Gabi guessed as the lack of evidential drunkenness.

He shook his head. ‘No, miss. You’re wide awake.’

The day the homeless man found a pound

I’d just been shopping. And by shopping, I mean three bags full of stuff I’m not sure I’ll ever get to use, e.g. a Kindle cover which doesn’t actually fit my Kindle (I mean, seriously?).

Student loans are my best friend and my worst enemy. Before every installment I have this inner mantra of “I’ll save some of it this time. It’s only three months until the next installment. I can do this!” but it never – and I mean never – happens. Because I go to the shops and I buy Kindle cases that don’t even fit my Kindle, because they’re aesthetically pleasing and I simply have to be able to look at it at all times.

So imagine my guilt when I get to the bus stop (shopping bags in hand, clutching a Starbucks) and a homeless man asks me for some spare change. And he’s not one of those “homeless” men who has a designer t-shirt and a bike and yet decides he needs £2.90 *eye roll* (this has happened before, would you believe?). This man is genuinely homeless. His clothes need a few rounds in the washing machine, his teeth need seeing to and his hair would benefit hugely from a lather, rinse and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I feel sorry for him, and when he asks me if I have any spare change (note: change, and not the specific “£2.90″ the bike rider wanted), I have to tell him no. And it’s because I literally don’t have any spare change on me. I pay by card so I can’t physically see the money being drained from my account. Very responsible, I know.

This man is the same one I stormed past a few weeks ago: I was on my way into Waterstones and I was on the phone, quite frustrated for some reason or another, and he came and interrupted my phone call. I got annoyed, frowned at him and then moved on. About fifteen steps later, however, I felt emotional about the way I’d acted towards him and so I got out my purse, took a two pound coin, walked out of the store, put it into his hand and then walked away again, almost crying at the way he clutched the coin to his heart and said “God bless”.

So today, when he asks me for some more money after I’ve just been shopping and I decline because I really don’t have any change, he looks at me as though I’ve betrayed him, and I feel that way too. I’m not going to go as far as saying that I enjoy giving away money – I would much prefer to actually go and buy this man some food so I at least know what it’s being spent on – but it makes you feel like you’ve done a good deed. And the next time I see him, I really hope my purse isn’t empty.

The fiction part:

Adam rubbed his arms and then felt a shiver push its way through his body. He pulled his coat tighter around him but it was no use; there was a split in the shoulder.

He hated October. In his opinion, it was the worst part of the year. Summer was over, but the weather could never decide if it wanted to be a little bit windy or full blown freeze-worthy. Today it was freeze-worthy, and he watched the rich people in their warm coats with scarves and those hats he didn’t see the point of, the ones with the pompom at the top and the two long woolen plaits that hung down at the sides. A few people had even worn gloves. It was so long since Adam had worn gloves, and as he watched the people walk past him he pressed his hands in between his thighs and pretended he was wearing them too. It didn’t really feel that way, though; he was too skinny to pull it off.

For a while he continued people-watching. He didn’t hate them anymore. Jealousy still consumed him every time he watched a young child peel the wrapper from a chocolate bar, or a businessperson sip on a steaming cup of coffee, but he didn’t hate them anymore. If he had money, he would do the same thing. He would eat chocolate and drink Starbucks right in front of the homeless people on the street, and he probably wouldn’t think twice about it. Not out of cruelty, but out of freedom. They probably all thought that he was a drug-addict, taken to the streets after losing his way, but he would have thought the same.

Some of them were kind, though, and that’s why he didn’t hate them anymore.

After a while he got up and began his usual habit of asking people for spare change. It was around that time where the smartly dressed folk were exiting the train-station, and he usually got about a pound altogether. A pound usually got him a hot chocolate or a cheeseburger, and it was just enough to keep him going. Just.

‘Excuse me, miss. Can you please spare some change? Please?’

He was ignored, which was okay, and he uttered a quiet “God bless” after the woman. Inside, however, he couldn’t help adding: “Bless her with kindness”.

After the throng had started to thin, Adam took his usual seat against the wall outside the station. He put his hands back in between his thighs and left them there. The sky was getting a little bit darker, his chances of some food a little bit slimmer, but then as a man walked past, the sound of something metallic dropped on the ground a few feet down from him. Adam’s head snapped towards the sound, and if a taxi cab hadn’t have driven past with its lights blaring, he wouldn’t have seen the glint of the Queen’s face.

The pound coin was so shiny he thought it was brand new, but when he turned it over he saw that the year on it was 1983. The year he was born. Adam looked around for the man who had dropped it, but he had disappeared. He didn’t know if he would have returned it to its rightful owner, but now he didn’t have to.

Instead of rushing to the first food place he saw, Adam pocketed the pound coin, convinced that it wasn’t to be spent. He told himself again and again that he wasn’t that hungry, that only if he were almost dying on the ground would he use it. But he didn’t feel like he would ever need it. The power of having it made him feel more alive than anything ever had.

A (possible) wrong assumption

Yesterday at work, I was emptying bags of coins into my till (I had just started, literally in the same five minutes) when a pound coin landed heavily into it. I looked up to see a girl of about 17 staring at me. ‘Can I have a cheeseburger?’ she said. Her expression was short, snappy, impatient and just plain rude. I looked at the small group of girls behind her who looked as though they were standing guard and any chance of a good mood completely vanished. The shift wasn’t going to be a good one. So, not caring about my manager (who was standing five feet away) I took the pound coin that she’d thrown into my till and slammed it down on the counter in front of her. ‘You’ll have to wait. I haven’t put my till in yet,’ I replied. And unfortunately my tone was also short, snappy, impatient and just plain rude. My manager told me to calm down a little bit, and instantly there was an apology in the girl’s eyes. I (yes, I!) started to feel guilty.

The fiction part:

The day already wasn’t good.
I woke up on the literal wrong side of the bed. Somehow during the night I had twisted upside down and woke up with my feet on my pillow and my head dangling off the end, and when I got up there was a throb in my neck that was going nowhere fast.
My mom wasn’t there at breakfast, but that wasn’t a surprise. Boyfriend number three seemed to have some problem with being at home with her teenage daughter and so that morning was the third I hadn’t seen her. I ate my cereal alone and watched Daybreak, even though I found it hard to pay attention to what they were saying and wasn’t interested either way.
The night before, I’d had a text from the guy I was seeing, saying that it was over. I didn’t care so much, because I had only been seeing him for convenience. My best friend Charlotte had been with his friend for over a year, and so we’d got talking and then one day he had asked me to meet him. Every time we went out it was kind of awkward, and we only really talked when we were with Charlotte and Ben, so when he sent me that message I could hardly blame him. But it added to my bad mood. I would have wanted to see him that day.
I got ready to go to college and then I set out. It was raining, but only the annoying rain that can’t decide if it wants to stay or not. I’d have looked ridiculous if I put my umbrella up, but then again if I didn’t, the rain would flick in my face and make me squint and all day I’d be left with a frown that was too hard to get rid of. Instead, I opted for a hood and a hand across my brow.
At college, my friends were unsympathetic.
‘Gem, it wasn’t like you were in love with him or anything,’ Charlotte tried to reason. It annoyed me, because she had been the one who begged me to go out with him.
“It’d be cool!” she had said. “Imagine us on our little double dates.” So I’d agreed.
‘I did like him though, Charlotte,’ I muttered as we took the walk down the long straight road towards McDonald’s at lunch. ‘He was nice to me. He didn’t just want me for that one thing.’
‘Oh, get out of your strop!’ said Alice. Alice was huge; tall and overweight, with strawberry blonde hair and a boisterous attitude. She came bounding over to Charlotte and me, almost falling into the road and giving the driver of an Astra the finger as he beeped the horn at her. ‘Been in a mood all fucking day!’
‘Shut up, Al,’ Charlotte said.
The two of them kept up a shouting match all the way into the restaurant, and so I didn’t have to listen to it I got my phone out of my pocket and dialled my mom.
It rang five times before she picked up. ‘Hello?’ she answered. She was a little breathless and a little impatient sounding, so I knew it would be a short phone call.
‘You coming home tonight?’ I asked. No point in saying hello, for it would have wasted time.
‘Oh… no, babe. I will be tomorrow though. I’m at work tomorrow. I’ll be home after that.’ She had the courtesy to sound guilty, at least. Still, I sighed inwardly.
‘You finish work at half past nine at night. So you’ll be home after that? Two hours before I get into bed?’
‘I’ll get a taxi back, and I’ll bring takeaway. Don’t moan, Gemma!’
I hung up the phone, because I didn’t want to talk to her anymore. I was first in the doors, and Charlotte and Alice were still at it.
‘Can you two shut the fuck up?’ I snapped at them, and then I went to the counter as I pulled my purse out of my bag. I fumbled for a pound coin and then Alice, who couldn’t stand still for shit knocked into me. The pound coin was knocked out of my hand and flew into the cashier’s till. I sighed, frustrated, but left it there because she was going to take it anyway. ‘Can I have a cheeseburger?’ I asked.
The girl behind the counter looked up at me with a glare on her face that had me feeling like I should have been wearing a dunce cap. I felt my cheeks burn.
‘You’ll have to wait. I haven’t put my till in yet,’ she snapped at me.