Could I do it for Helen? As I tossed the empty bottle onto the cushion beside me, it wasn’t looking so great.
Late in the evening, I found myself hiding from the rain under the bandstand in Croydale Park. That hadn’t changed either. The blue paint had chipped, railings rusted a little, but it still stood tall and proud to the right of the privets, holding on to my pain and secrets. It amazed me that, even after all these years, I still felt safe here. With darkness looming, I had most of the park to myself, bar the odd dog walker and fitness fanatic out for a jog.
Hugging my knees to my chest, I tipped my head back, listened to the rain pattering on the bandstand’s worn roof. I drummed along with its rhythm, fingers tapping against my shins. It made a beautiful song, but I couldn’t feel it. Sitting here used to soothe me. The sounds of nature, wind or birds, leaves rustling or rain tinkling, they distracted me. Calmed my soul. I felt nothing now. Is that why she did it? I wondered about my mum. Did she drink to feel numb…to feel nothing? To forget?
Was it worth it?
I couldn’t see the point of life if we didn’t feel it. The sound above was just a sound. The cedar tree in the distance, nothing but an image. The music had gone, the beauty, the purpose. I’d become a shell. A robot. I could move but I wasn’t alive. Life didn’t exist when you couldn’t hear lyrics in a bird’s song, when you didn’t see a view looking at a century-old tree. Life without art, without passion, made no sense.
Hauling myself to my feet, I stretched a hand out into the rain, watched the drops of water land on my fingers, roll gracefully to my wrist before jumping off. I couldn’t tell if it felt warm or cold. My skin was as numb as my mind. I knew what it meant, what all this meant. I may have tried to convince myself I’d hit a minor blip, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d lied to myself as much as I had to Helen. I wasn’t fine. I knew I wasn’t fine the day I caught her staring down at my pills in the hotel bathroom, her face contorted with concern. I hadn’t been fine but, fuck…I’d tried to be. I thought I would be. I truly believed I could do it this time. I had Helen. I’d opened up, allowed myself to feel again. I hadn’t fallen in love with her – I’d leapt into it, launched from both feet. She was everything I wanted. Everything I needed.
I’d fought so goddamn hard.
Things don’t change, though. Things never fucking change.
It was time for me to face facts. The depression had returned and it was dragging me back under. Slowly but surely, it was taking everything I loved away from me while I watched from the sidelines, growing hollower, weaker, more anaesthetised by the day.
Absentmindedly, I removed my jacket and walked down the shallow steps of the bandstand, making my way onto the path. Black had consumed the sky now, consumed everything. Rain continued to pour, faster now, soaking my hair, my clothes as I continued to remove them, tossing them wherever. I just wanted to feel it – the rain. Something. Anything.
“Fuuuck!” The word ripped through my throat, kept going until my lungs had nothing else to give. I’d stripped to almost nothing, bared my flesh to the elements, and I still couldn’t feel a fucking thing.
I sank to the ground, my back hitting the privets. The rush of relief I felt when the sharp and thorny edges of the pruned branches scraped my skin was almost euphoric. I arched further into them, sighed as they pricked and scratched. The pain gave me hope. I wasn’t dead…yet. Maybe I could come back from this…again.
I just didn’t know if I wanted to.
“Remember, Hugo, you only get her if you promise to go to school.”
“I will. I will, Mum, I promise.” I can do it this time, I know it. I’m older now, almost ten.
Mum smiles down at me and lets out a funny breath like I’ve just made her really happy. I like making her happy. I won’t make her sad anymore.
“Do you really mean it?”
All I can do is nod. I can’t think about anything else other than the kitten inside the carrier in her hand. My neck stretches left and right, trying to catch a peek, but she’s holding it the wrong way round.
“There you go,” she says, placing the basket in my hands. “Careful, now.”
My mouth drops open when I look through the trapdoor holding my new pet inside. She’s perfect. I rush over to the sofa and gently lower the carrier onto my lap before prying the door open. “Hey, Cecilia,” I say, reaching in to stroke her white fur. I decided to name her after my mum’s favourite Simon and Garfunkel song. I like it, too. Not as much as The Boxer, but that doesn’t make a very good name for a cat, especially a girl.