The last of the strawberry and chocolate milk dribbled tantalizingly down the neck of the smooth, cool bottle. Jack held it longingly to his lips and wished it back to its former 100ml glory. Sadly, like all else in his life, it failed him. Sighing and regretting taking Sociology with Cyber Crime at university instead of medicine, like his grandmother had told him to, Jack placed the bottle inside his cabinet and stepped back to admire his creation. Five thousand bottles. Not just any bottles mind, but the remnants of pleasure in his life that each drink brought. Even if the strawberries were synthetic.

            ‘This must be how that guy felt, when he did that thing, for the first damn time’. Many of the thoughts that roamed around in Jack’s thought were not dissimilar to this one. All were aimless, disjointed, and often rather useless.

            Running his hand through his dirty brown, brittle hair, Jack couldn’t help but feel that he had forgotten something. Scratching his head with one hand and readjusting himself with the other, he decided to help himself to another strawberry and chocolate concoction, and settled back down into staring at a piece of his wall.

            *            *            *         

            The light streamed in dead straight lines, as always, onto the top of Jack’s head. A nearby blackbird serenaded its mate, and a cat was amicably entertaining a mouse in next door’s garden. The alarm clock had fulfilled its duty a long while ago, but Jack was not sure quite how long ago. It had sounded a little more halfhearted than usual, and in retaliation, he had decided to ignore it. Across to his left he saw a pile of books that needed reading, a comb that was aching to be used once more, and a flannel that was no less than screaming to be useful again. Feeling a dull ache in his chest, Jack simply shrugged, and rolled over. Nothing mattered.

            Jack could feel himself digress. He had noticed himself doing this a lot more lately. One minute he would be considering whether to cook a lasagne in the microwave for his dinner, or to give this honour to the half eaten casserole. Another, he would be pondering whether to water the plant with his red watering can or green one. The next, he would be wondering at which point it was that his life invariably slipped away from him whilst he was running and screaming towards it to not give up on him or so help him God he would do something bad to it. The cat, bored of its conquest since it stopped moving, sauntered over the fence. Stripped of its dignity and most of its flesh, the mouse lay in the scorching sun, gathering flies.

            Later on that day at around about gone lunch time, Jack was staring at his reflection in the mirror, criticising himself from the balding patch at his crown downwards. The process went as follows: ‘You’re balding, with lank hair, and a big forehead, with wrinkles in it, and oily skin, and bushy eyebrows with no shape that make you look like a tawny owl, and…’. Jack had reached his eyes. His eyes that could once shock anyone from the young girl in his music class, to the elderly teacher in his music class, into forgiving him for not only the sins of the world, but also for anything that anyone may continue to commit in their future lives. A young woman told him once that she had looked into his eyes, and seen where she had gone wrong in her life. She had refused a business promotion to get married, and one could be forgiven for thinking that her gazing into Jack’s eyes whilst lying in bed with him was the first sign that this was maybe the wrong decision.

            Many people state without question that the eyes are the windows to the soul. If this is the case, blind people must be deeply misunderstood wherever they are. In Jack’s case, his eyes were never the window to his own soul, but had been the windows into the life of whoever happened to be looking into them at that particular time. This was an ability that only he had seemed to carry. One felt, as he passed his eyes over them, that their whole lives were laid out in front of them, to be criticised with the hope of altering them for the better.

            He looked into them now, and spat at their reflection. Dull, lifeless things. He had hoped to see where he had gone wrong like that young woman had, but saw his entire existence stretched out before him like a traitor on a rack.

*          *            *

            And another award! Envious glances from the other students in his school informed Jack that without a doubt, he was pretty fantastic. In his lap assembled certificates and trophies from the sciences, to ‘Best Public Speaker Award’. He tossed back his elegant, silky fringe from his eyes and smiled smugly onwards, towards the stage, his home of the evening. He was feeling great. To be the best, the most successful, and consequently the most loved, was his one and only goal. Unlike most goals in life, this was one that appeared to be being reached. And how it was reached! Jack concluded the night by accepting the award for the most awards, in the history of Ardington School for Boys. He was going to go far. Destined for greatness? Never! Destiny was practically begging him to achieve it, so it could in turn be great! Jack passed a feigned bored stare over the room, and basked in self-recognition. This was definitely ‘His Night’.

            “For bugger hell’s sake!” The shattered bone china lay on the floor, lifeless. He knew there was no hope; it had long past the stages of resuscitation, but seizing the super glue and swearing vengeance, Jack got down on his knees and pledged his day to mending this mug. The words ‘World’s Best Dad: the warmth is within’ gaped back at him with a cold, calculating expression. The irony of the message was not lost on Jack, and he hurled the remains of the scornful pottery against the wall. Cowering, he smothered himself in the corner, where the walls met. Jack wept.

            A hole in his sock allowed his blistered and hardened heel to reduce him to the most pitiful of sights. A hole in a sock can make the noblest, most intelligent man seem as a six year old whose kitten has fallen over and lain still, because it didn’t take to the home-made bungee jump it was lovingly attached to. This pathetic form remained this way for four hours.

            *            *            *

            That night there was a storm, and the roof of Jack’s house was nearly carried off with a local lamppost that had been knocked loose by many a van, a few dustbins, and an elderly lady. Luckily, the wind changed before too much damage could be done. Replacing various pots and pans to catch the drips from the holes in the roof gave Jack some time to reminisce. He used to have a dream. He could not quite put his finger on it. He vaguely recollected a woman with red hair, and scrawny legs, but quite what she had to do with world domination he was less than sure. He was, however, almost certain that world domination was his ultimate goal. What else could be as satisfying?

            *            *            *

            Jack could not bring himself to leave the house. He seldom entered the outside anyway, but this time of year was the worst. Red. Everywhere. Like a bull, it made him feel rage that burnt deep down inside his core. Pressure on him that he could feel even when in the most sedate of moods, when his unconscious took over and he was reduced to a shell with only eyes that took in the superficial side to his wall, or floor, or ceiling. It depended on his position when he sank into that state. The earliest instance of this feeling beginning to emerge was when he was in his early teens. He could not quite remember how early, but those sort of details were of little importance to Jack. If he searched beneath every memory, every OCD, every particle of his mind, Jack could vaguely summon up the image of a table, with some sort of meat, or poultry lying on it, a tree that shone, and a hell of a lot of booze. The makings of quite a party, it would appear.

            However, this could have been an involuntary absorption of the tinsel covered idealised crap that surfaced, unleashed, every winter. Jack was unsure. This romanticised ‘perfection’ was paraded around him, circling him like vultures to an already struggling organism. Jack could never understand how this ‘life’, this extension of reality, could ever be accepted as the reachable goal for all families. It only seemed to make failure out of those who either chose not to have it, or understandably failed in their aims to have one day of perfect happiness. If it were possible to have those twenty-four solid hours of glorious splendour, why would this not be continued into the year? And throughout the year? It seemed that it was only an acceptable and reachable goal to have when aided by the magic of Christmas. Santa in his sleigh, bringing sacks full of opium.

            What a failure Jack felt now.