An excerpt from my as yet unpublished novel.

Helen lasted a year and a half without leaving her bedroom. I had to force feed her for the last months, she was painfully thin. Her eyes had lost the ferocity of hatred and were dull and listless. She stared through me as I shovelled thin gruel into her mouth, massaging her throat to make her swallow. I hated her for having given up, unwilling to see that her apathy had saved me, helped me to see beyond my selfishness. In the end, I had her admitted to hospital and placed on suicide watch. She gained more weight and with it more vitality, when I visited, her eyes flashed once more with resentment, hate and anger. But she never spoke. She hadn’t uttered a word for at least a year, not one word to me, at any rate. Her hatred provoked the only reaction I could muster in my unhappiness, I hated her equally in return, duty alone made me keep up the caring charade. Fuck, I wanted to kill her, would have relished the chance to leave her to die. Maybe I could have conquered my own shame then; she prevented escape from contrition, impeded a cathartic re-invention of me.
She was released from hospital after three months and into my care. I cringed at my cowardly acceptance of responsibility, conscious that I was the least qualified to fulfil this duty, aware that I was the only one who would feel compelled to bother. I wheeled her out into the sunshine and, on the way to the car, asked her whether she would ever forgive me. She spoke finally - Fuck you, Nat, nothing absolves you. I recoiled as if slapped. The venom in her tone threatened to wrench open that carefully sealed container of grief and self-loathing. We spent the rest of our time together in pugnacious silence.
The days blurred into a continual agony for each of us. We both reminded each other of how guilty we were, the well of despair was never allowed to drain, constantly brimming with bile and loathing. In our inescapable solitude, we constantly replenished the vitriol, nurturing it and expanding it to use against one another. I maintained my pretence and cared for her with pseudo-piety to the utmost of my ability. My acrimonious service left her speechless with rage and she glared balefully whenever I entered her lair, gathering the bedclothes around her like an armour, coiled and ready to strike if I threatened her too nearly.
At night, I could hear her sobbing through the ceiling and I was compelled to reach for the vestiges of a memory of compassion guiding me. With an ever increasing ease of will, I managed to suppress these contrary feelings and, at the end, felt emboldened and strengthened by my callousness. My weakness was hidden from me by a veil of revulsion. I doubted that even had I gone to her, she would have rejected me with equal ferocity. Our very hatred sustained us, preventing us from breaking free and seeing beyond the confines that we had constructed in our misery.
Indeed, I felt a curious positive buoyancy of spirit when at the hospital and I lavished attention and care on all my patients, masterfully disguising what lay inside of me with a treacly manner. I had hired a nurse to come in and care for Helen, while I was at work, to her I continued my guise, showing over-effusive concern on the state of my estranged wife’s mental health and her moods. I duped everyone. Before the whisperings of concern and pity had whipped me into a frenzy of self-flagellatory disgust, now their admiration and respect at the paragon I had become acted as a similar goad. I masked my hasty retreats in self-effacement.
The schism in my character took its toll and, by the end of the working week, I was reduced to a somnolent wreck as I desperately tried to shore up my creaking facade. The strain was apparent around my eyes, they sank and retracted even further into my skull, giving me a hollow, skeletal appearance. I went to my doctor and complained of insomnia. He indicated that I had a deep depression and prescribed Xanax as relief. On reflection, though my thoughts forever shy away from it, the idea’s inception was much earlier in the chain. My battered personality sought a viable escape, my will to survive rose to the fore and guided my hand unerringly. However, I continued to deny this on a conscious level.
As I left the surgery, I clutched the prescription securely, nervous but ebullient and resolute. Upon my return that evening, I ventured quietly to her domain, creeping cursingly up those creaking stairs - mentally shushing their accusing protest. I entered what was now her bathroom, I had long since abandoned it, preferring to do my ablutions at work. Stealthily, I entered the code and eased the container onto the lower shelf. It would now be at eye-level. Swinging the door to, I paused in thought and instead left it ajar, its contents clearly apparent at a glance. I dithered a moment longer, stricken with indecision, then returned the way that I had come. Once again, my schizoid personalities roiled against one another, I halted and breathlessly waited for the turmoil to abate. Mentally, I rallied my defences and repelled any doubt which assailed. Assertively, I retraced my steps to the safe and furtively, shook two of the peach tablets into my palm. I marched back down the stairs, this time with confidence, ignoring the previously strident groans, aware that curiosity at my imposition would eventually drag her out of bed to examine the reason for my extraordinary intrusion.
Absentmindedly, I grabbed a bottle of irish as I passed the drinks cabinet and slopped some into a glass. My shaky hand was that of a palsied old man as I raised it to my lips. The enormity of the machiavellian actions pressed in about me and the peaty, acrid potency of the whiskey was all that steadied my resolve. Now, we wait, I thought - calmness restored.
I assumed my normal position on the couch, this time, rather than the slovenly attitude that I normally adopted, I was alert. I laid the Xanax tablets cautiously on the low table before me. All was ready, the trap was set. I had to remind myself to release my breath when the throbbing in my ears became audible. I was tensed, mechanically bringing the glass to my lips at regular intervals, undeterred by the fiery sensation in my chest. I was unprepared for the length of time that it took for her to respond to my blatant challenge. Nonetheless, I was resolute and held firm. I had thrown myself with murderous abandon at this solution and now all that remained was for my wife to take up the gauntlet. My role had been played out, hers was before her now. Her death would bring her much desired escape; the only thing that might prevent this mutually beneficial result would be spite. Either way, I was patiently resigned to await her decision.
Above me, the creaking of her mattress heralded the end gambit. Her heavy, dragging tread passed overhead and I arose, following the shuffling until she came to a rest in the corner of the room. I strained my hearing, staring at the blank white ceiling above me and waited. I felt the beginnings of a headache gather at my temples.
A full five minutes passed and then the footfalls retraced themselves, I spun to follow them, head cocked in a foment of nervous tension. Her door clacked shut and a few moments later the mattress pinged as her body flopped down heavily. I collapsed onto the couch again and groped for the glass before me. I gulped greedily and then refilled, burping fumes through my nose, causing my nostrils to prickle. I checked my wrist watch and noted the time, it was 9.23. With a deep breath, I gave up my vigil and swallowed the two tablets, washed down with the whiskey. I flopped back on the couch waiting for the effects of the drug to take hold. I felt an unfamiliar sensation of peace long before the drowsy numbness dimmed my awareness.

A short story for your delectation

Book is dead


He waited impatiently at the bus stop, fingering the object in his pocket, eager to continue reading but unable to discern characters in the constantly flickering ad-lumination. Instead, he withdrew his hand and felt with satisfaction the heavy, reliable texture of his overcoat. Beside him, a group of boys pranced and gyrated to unseen projections. It was impossible to state their ages; the apollonic youthful ideal had taken grip so tightly, one could rarely approach close enough to the eyes to gauge the real toll that time had taken. After all, he was simultaneously 36 in appearance and every long day of 84 in his soul.

The bus wheezed up. Juddering doors released a blast of sterilised air. He entered and propelled himself monkey-like along the bars, against the sway of the vehicle. Finding a seat he collapsed and settled into its vacant confines. With pleasure, he gingerly pulled the book from his pocket, flattened the dog ears and thumbed to his bookmark. The light was steady enough and he mentally shut out the noise of his surroundings. Presently, the tome was plucked from his fingers and the world reasserted it’s dominion of his senses. People gabbled hysterically, eyes rolled back, the vid-tech kit that had been inserted in the optical nerve kidnapping his attention. Again the garish light of bespoke advertising flashed all about him. He searched for the thief.

“Wot is?” The boy leered at him from across the passage.

“That is a book.”

“Sum ol tech, rite there! LOLZ! U freek, u shood...” The boy paused in giving advice to answer a facetime; his eyes rolled back in his head and he joined the histrionics of the crowd.

The man sighed and snatched his property from nerveless fingers. He arranged his face into a look of contempt; it was spoiled, however, by the bile-filled hatred that worked to stifle his oxygen and produce a convulsive rictus. It was unusual that the boy had been interested at all. Tech had worked so hard to connect people while at the same time constructing a mental prison, which isolated one thoroughly from one’s fellow man. His peace was ruined and he suffered a long ride before he could disembark.

As he wended his way to the shop, he cursed the transplant that had prolonged his life. A fear of his impending mortality had swayed him, ignorant of the consequences, to replace his own fleshy, flawed heart with robotic dependability. Certainly, he could switch it off; but it had proven more difficult, and not easier, as time had passed to conjure up the necessary wherewithal.

The one dark spot on the street marked the presence of his little shop; an anachronism that railed weakly against modernity. Really, who bought anything in person anymore? It was all done online with the effort of human interaction removed. He hadn’t had a customer in years. He liked it that way, he decided firmly. He turned the key and pushed the door inwards. The bell jangled cheerily, a further weight on his already heavy mood. From his bag, he fished a bottle of water, filled the kettle and prepared to make tea. The bell jangled and his heart beat exactly as it had before. He exhaled a little gasping, whimper of fright and turned to face the intruder.

She stood and squinted in the relative darkness. Light spilled across her face for a split second and revealed big eyes, wide mouth, pointed chin. Straight from a hentai animation of his youth; surgically constructed, he presumed. The feeble twitch of desire, he quelled with disgust. It lingered though, this senile lust. Evidently, her eyes had adjusted. She stepped towards him uncertainly, he reciprocated and moved in her direction.

“May I help you?”

The words were thick and clumsy from disuse.

“Dark n ere.”

He fumbled for the reading lamp and a pool of light encompassed them. Shadows retreated to pile in wait behind dusty shelves. Spines of books revealed their titles. He looked about with pride; his hand stretched out to stroke those nearest him.

“Wot is dis place?”

“A book shop.”

Delivered through gritted teeth, as he waited impatiently for her formulaic surprize, stupidity or both.

“Cool. Like ebay. For ol stuff, rite?”

She shuffled from foot to foot, an endearing dance of uncertainty.

“Can you read?” He asked. His tone was more violently condescending than he had wanted. He cleared his throat and continued. “I mean, have you ever read a book?”

“Nope. No books 4 yrs. Readin’ eekwils dull.”

And there we have it, ladies and gentleman! 6 millennia of dominion and then, within 150 years, obsolescence, unable to adapt to the hypnotic brevity of moving images. His thoughts had betrayed themselves because the girl was staring at him quizzically from under an asymmetric fringe.

“You’re right. They are no longer in print. I don’t think that they are boring though. They just exist at a different pace to what you are used to. The imagination has been hijacked by the effortlessness of a projected medium, therefore, relatively, books have lost the impact which they once had. If you think that, within these four walls alone, there exists more information than you have come into contact with in your short life, it clearly shows that humans have erred on the side of ignorance. How much easier is it for the state to control somebody when they lack the tools to construct an informed opinion...”

He faltered as he became aware that his passion had startled her.

“I’m sorry, I am carried away sometimes. Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle has just boiled.”

Her eyebrows creaked to portray her confusion. Her eyes were young. He busied himself with tea leaves and water and teapot. Finally, he passed her a steaming cup. She accepted it warily, sniffed, then sipped. A smile spread across her face.

“Mmm. Gud.”

He found himself gleefully aping her expression. Both of them giggled self-consciously.

“I cn read. Hard, tho.”

She put down her cup and moved about the shop, touching spines and perusing titles as she passed. He watched her carefully. She returned to the front of the room and retrieved her tea. They looked at each other awkwardly. Driven away by discomfiture, he moved down an aisle; he mumbled as he searched, paused, gripped his chin, then marched with purpose to a particular shelf and selected a book. It was thin. He blew the dust off it and bore it reverentially to her.

“This is a fine book. Not too long. It should be easy for you to sink your teeth into. That is, if you wish.”

She smiled and plucked it out of his grasp. Holding it awkwardly, she flicked the pages with her thumb. He reached out and turned the book around. She read slowly the summary on the back cover. He was disappointed not to see a reaction. He hadn’t known what to expect but at the very least he had wanted a kindling of curiosity. Her expression was taut with concentration. Maybe she didn’t understand? Finally, she looked up and smiled.

“Mine? I cn have it?”

He blanched and shook his head hurriedly.

“No, you can’t have it. I’ll let you read it here. You can spend as much time as you wish reading it here. There’s an armchair at the back of the shop.”

She looked disappointed but made in the direction that he had indicated. Out of the corner of his eye, he stole surreptitious glances, anticipating the turn of the first page. He was surprised at the time it took, that first overleaf. He willed himself to patience and reached for his own book. The silence was broken only by the rhythms of whispering paper; one slow, one quicker. He reached for his tea and sipped on emptiness. Carefully, he closed the book and turned his attentions to making another pot. This ritual never failed to sooth his aggravation at the world. The simple act of measuring, mixing and pouring.

When it was brewed, he carried the teapot to her and poured another cup. She looked up briefly, smiled her thanks and returned to the book. He paused to observe her rapt expression, before retreating with a satisfied grin to leave her in peace. Settling more comfortably, he allowed himself to be enveloped in the imagination of the author.

“I c u n heer u, gurl! Long time, no face. Wochu doin?”

Startled, he looked up. The book had fallen from her lap to the floor. It lay there face down and open. Her eyes had rolled back and she was gesturing wildly; the snatches of one-sided conversation banishing the last vestiges of quietude. Rage roiled within him as he glared at her, then at the discarded book.

Cheeks suffused with righteous blood and lips flecked with spittle, he marched towards her. Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her from her seat and flung her towards the door. She cowered in fear as her eyes struggled to focus on inner dialogue and assailant. Finally, her pupils steadied and she leapt to her feet. He stood opposite her, clenching and unclenching his fists ineffectually, desperately trying to control his tantrum. Realisation welled up. He had already lost her and with her those nascent, barely entertained desires. He breathed deeply, words of apology dying in his throat, as she, without a sound, turned and spilled out into the street, slamming the door behind her. The bell jeered in response. He sighed and stooped to pick up the book; brushing it clean, smoothing it tenderly.

He looked up and she was still out there watching him. She leered maliciously and mouthed something at him. Through the injured hatred she projected, he thought her perfect lips had shaped:

“Book is dead.”