''Nowt to do with you, so just fuckin' leave it!"
"What' s rattled your cage?"
"Look, it's somethin' I'd rather not talk about, so let's just forget it, please.... I've gotta go... o.k... See ya later!"
 With this Jason stood up, both his arms raised as if to ward off any more intrusive questions. This alone was a rather dramatic and grandiose gesture by his own modest standards, but he continued to emphasise the point by turning and heading resolutely for the impunity of the cafe exit. He opened the door and, without turning to acknowledge me, strode out into the rain. I watched bewildered as the door slammed decisively shut, shaking the condiments on every table and leaving me astonished and open-mouthed. This was one strange and utterly perplexing situation. I had never took Jason to be this dramatically sensitive or in any way blindly ignorant of my feelings for him. We had quite literally been through thick and thin together, though it sounded sadly archaic and cliché. Nothing seemed to be adding up any more, my world was passing through a tall, dark shadow that was eclipsing anything positive and safe. I had to get out of here and try to think, the smell of burnt cooking and stale cigarettes were making me light-headed and nauseous.

Unfortunately, Jason had inadvertently left me in a rather sticky and embarrassing predicament. Apart from the obvious embarrassment of having someone walk out on me, my so called best friend at that, I had the unenviable task of paying for two coffees and a cake with my last fifty-two pence, the only money I had on me in the whole world. I looked calmly around the cafe hoping there was some way of resolving this without having to wash the dishes. The elderly waitress, who was sat by the register with a faded paperback and starched face, didn't look too compassionate either. 
I stood, resigned to my fate, picked up my empty cup and with the best snivelling, backside-kissing smile I could muster grovelled none to confidently towards her.
What a fucking day.......!!! (Yes, it was necessary.)

The domino effect of a scarred and wasted childhood is always standing ready in the wings.
Waiting for the slightest of breezes.
I was very emotional as a child. It did not take too much to upset me, in my formative years I was a short fuse of various fervent emotions wired to a keg of sentient passionate responses. I think this was fundamentally due to my over protective parents who saw life through spectacles that were tinged with fear and distrust, each small step their child took without their supervision was a step closer to the devil. I was respected by my mother and father, as an individual, but my life was controlled under a strict moral code that my parents considered beneficial for my spiritual and physical well being. In other words; my parents were basically treading a tried and tested route that was recognised as moderately successful.
Unfortunately this does not necessarily mean that the child under those conditions will effectively develop into a fully rounded and mentally perfect individual.
I, am a case in point.
To say that I was emotionally immature and facilely sensitive as a child would be an understatement. Regardless of the methods of  my parent’s child rearing, the same as any others, I was developing into a man whose highly-strung sensitivities could be plucked by the tiniest of remarks or smallest of gestures. I would burst into a shower of  tears at the turn of a head, a flick of a wrist, a sigh of a mouth. God had decided that I was to be blessed not with outstanding intellect or superlative sportsmanship, but a remarkable talent for unwarranted, irrational responses to the slightest of stimuli.
In other words I was the definitive cry baby.
I just thought that I simply cared too much.

A wash of light sprays over my eyes waking me to the exasperation's of another day. My bedroom is a cluttered mess, curry stained cartons bedeck the fawn-coloured carpet reminding me of last night's Asiatic excesses. The sharp, odorous sweetness of mint and onions combine to ignite the meat rotting in my stomach.  I close my eyes to stop the room from revolving, but I'm greatly dismayed to see the darkness also trying to find its feet. Which is worse I can not begin to separate, but at least in the harsh light of day I can perhaps, hazily, focus on something substantially solid. The floor?

Once again the rain is a tap, tap, tapping against the window, it seeks entry beneath the gaps in the frame, amassing in the deep scratches on the small ledge. I stretch open the floral curtains and the morning light attacks me with its glare, I can seriously empathise with the vampire at this moment in time. Outside the rain falls across my vision, people are rushing towards their own ends. I suddenly feel lost amongst them, a piece of shrapnel in an infected wound. I often have cheery thoughts first thing in the morning.
 The stairs are a treacherous incline, each step moves with an escalators brilliance, the banister is warm and slimy in my grasp. I make my way into the warmth of the living room, tripping over an ashtray and spilling its deadly guts onto the carpet. The settee is a safe and desirable haven for my abused body, I lie down and shape myself into the foetal position. I sink into the soft, comforting cushions and let sleep wash itself over me.
I dream...

Hello Dad, I can see you through the gap in the curtain. The light is shifting yellow in the grey of your hair. You are sat watching the racing, Granddad is mouthing silence at your side. Your glasses are propped up on the end of your nose, you are doodling absently with a pen on an old betting slip.
I'm standing away from the window now and a warm breeze is playing with the loose cuffs of my shirt. I can smell the wild flowers that are decorating the side of the brook; they remind me of summers in the park with you and the dog.
 People are passing me by as I stand by the window, I feel strange in the shorts that only hide half of my scrawny legs. Debbie has just skipped past and I turn scarlet with embarrassment.
My attention is back to the gap in the net curtain. You've disappeared from the armchair, you've left your glasses case on the arm and my heart misses a beat as I wonder where you are. Granddad is stamping a foot urging the horses onto the finishing post, an excited froth is forming on his chewed lips.
I wonder how he' s done that without any teeth.
Cindy trots into the room searching for her favourite bone, she struts around like she owns the place. Her fur is pale like old newspaper, she is flecked with peppery ginger markings. You are both inseparable but it looks like she hasn't noticed your absence. You must be near....
 A sound like  love is your laugh and I turn to see you sat on the front door step. Your eyes are awash with pride and I bathe in the glow, proud that you are my father. Inside, a shout of despair is the last horse and we both laugh.
 I sit beside you and your aftershave makes me cough, I clasp your hand and I am forever happy....

The dark is pressing against the living room window, the carpet is bathed in its thick, satiny glow. My eyes feel stuck together but they prise apart with little effort. Outside I hear a car engine cough into life, it's like the phlegmish wheeze of a dying man.  I suddenly realise that the day has been swallowed by the night and I have slept nearly through most of it.
I must be ill.

Yet my forehead feels cool and dry to the touch and I feel fit and refreshed. I obviously needed my batteries recharging after endless, copious late nights.  I make my way to the sanctity of my bed and recharge myself a little bit more.

The streets are cold today. Houses seem huddled together for warmth. The sky is a deep, soft sheen of off-white, the sun a frozen ball of ineffectual flames. I slip past crowds of people searching for warmth in centrally heated shopping malls, their bodies rub and touch seeking lasting intimacy. I seek individuality and salvation from society’s moulded bonds.
Depression seeks me today, its black, gossamer wings spread through me like a dark fire replenishing stark red flowers of despair. Outside The Rose student’s parade hoping for a greener taste of tobacco. They are our tomorrows, they fashion themselves on our golden yesterdays and hope for change.
Instead of demanding it.

The phone's trill ring is a persistent lamenting cry in my ear, it screams for attention and receives none whatsoever. I let it scream twice more then smash it down angrily, chipping plastic that stings my cheek vengefully. Worries permeate the brain like a cancer. They take a grip that can be everlasting. Eventually they become magnified, transgressing the original fears and swallowing us whole.
I've just been swallowed.

 Rain beats against the windows yet again. It suffuses the garden with skittering, erratic movements that startle the eyes. The wet foliage of a well neglected garden shines with a super natural intensity that touches the purist inside. It is a wet and green eternity that supersedes the concrete and mortar that negates our 'natural' environment, the beauty and all consuming depth of natures work is a pre-historic statement that is everlasting in our primeval minds.

 I often dream of my father, my natural father that is.
Raymond had met my mother three years after my Dad had died. I have no complaints about the methods of my upbringing. I've never been neglected or mistreated. As far as I'm concerned Ray is my Dad.
But not my Father.
I know what I mean anyway.
We still have the odd photograph scattered around the house, one on the window ledge in the kitchen and two in the hallway, and I think that is a perfect testament to Ray’s attitude and character. He's a great bloke and I love him dearly.
But I still dream quite frequently of my Father, as I know my Mother does. It took all of two weeks from the diagnosis to his death. Fourteen days for cancer to rage through his body and decimate the shell of the soul we loved.
It's strange really that in my waking hours that their is no real concrete memories of the man, just fleeting images that quickly dematerialise on the exact moment of thought. It is like seeing the movement of the shadow but not the figure it is irretrievably attached to. It gets frustrating and I must admit that it upsets me.
Annoys me.
Deeply.
Then there are the dreams. A simple mental aberration that transgresses death and brings my Father back into my life. I often wake up with the taste of salt on my lips and it's really hard to understand why. Why is their so much pain and frustration when I hardly knew the man? At the age of six your mind is immature and not capable of understanding the enormous impact of loss, of death. Your mind heals faster, it smoothes over the grief that you can't feel for the actual loss because you can't understand it. Your pain is a reflection of the one person who is left in your life, your mother. If she breaks down you break down, it’s a simple natural human reaction to maternal grief. A reaction to forced stimuli. No one has died or stopped living, they are just not there anymore.  But your Mother is in pain and you react to that. Perhaps the hurt and anger that wasn't capable of being manifest at six is releasing itself now, within the complexities of  a supposedly adult and mature subconscious.
Then again, perhaps I just dream of my Father.

One day I found the sun creeping into the shroud of my bedroom. Its yellow finger prodding and poking at my belongings has if they weren't mine. I severed the probing digits with a majestic sweep of the curtain and its black shadowy blood dramatically soiled the shag pile carpet. The sun is an abomination that festers on the horizon like yellow leaking puss, it spills over the land and infects the skin with sleeping death.
Then there are days I like to succumb and sunbathe.
Strange, isn't it?

"Take your time, you're getting yourself all worked up." Her words were like daggers, each syllable cutting me to the quick.
 "I've had a little too much to drink." I could see the frown drop one inch from her hairline, and catch, just two small centimetres before it hit her chin.
"Look we do have all night. I'm in no hurry so just don't worry, o.k?" This was a godsend. Any excuse just to slide off into the night was all right with me.
"Well, come to think of it, we are takin' a pretty big risk doing this, aren't we?" Nervousness and fear combined to stutter a gentle spray of fine spit that ungraciously adhered itself to the bridge of her porcine nose. My ardour was quickly evaporating, shrinking and tightening like the receding head of a single eyed tortoise.
 Could she tell? I don't think I cared.
Not only was I failing between the sheets I was also losing the ability to articulate any sentences correctly. Unfortunately this show of fear didn't detract or in anyway alter her more than obvious hunger for forbidden sex.
It just seemed to excite her quite substantially. Why were nightmares such a  part and parcel of my life?

Focus…
Blink....
Focus...
Blink…
Beside me sleeps, what appears to be a newly beached whale.
Twelve inches away from me a small bulbous nose threatens to evolve into a snout. Thick nasal hair, like the enquiring legs of a spider, probes the fine down that flicker on a repulsively bloated top lip.
What on earth am I doing in bed with this hybrid?
This fucking monstrosity!
I check if I'm naked.
Why, for the sake of God, am I erect? 
I feel sick.
Ripples of cellulite mock the fleshy skin like faded tattoos. Ladder upon ladder of them chastises the pale flabby mass that shakes and trembles with each tiny speculative movement. I seem to have stumbled into a surreal Dante nightmare, a fevered dream that threatens to evolve into something much, much worse.
Her breath is an ashtray that doubles as a sewer outlet.
Dry sweat adds to the general atmosphere.
Dusty Springfield springs to mind; what have I done to deserve this?
Deep snores emanate from her like frightened swine desperately trying to escape her large intestine.
Think of Charles Laughton.
Now think of Charles Laughton as Quasimodo.
I'd just slept with both.
Veronica Deers had just claimed another scalp.
Time to escape or die.
I'll take the former. For now.

The streets are bare. Cold light washes along the cracked paving stones. It settles into the marrow of my bones, transforming my flesh into a breeding ground of pimpled goosebumps.
If I fall I will surely shatter.
Clouds the colour of sour milk leak filthy rain onto my upturned face. Anything to cleanse the poison inside of me.
I'll welcome the acid rain.

Depression has hung its heavy cloak over me. I am hidden beneath the dark thick layers that blind me and bind me to self-loathing.
I saw Jason today.
Rain was washing against the side of the bus shelter, my feet were soaked in yellow, oily puddles that say a lot about the amount of public toilets in this town. Stale smelling, crumpled old people rummaged through shopping bags and cast accusing glances at me whilst I struggled to keep warm. My hands were gripped tight in the depths of my waterproofs, grinding away at the bus fare. Across the street a small, ginger dog sat watching the approaching traffic.