It’s difficult to recall events of an earlier time, especially when they’re separated by many years. Sometimes our past grows so distant that you wonder if the moments you replay in your head actually happened at all. Memories slowly become fractured, and you see them as you would a dream. However, when a memory captures events that initiated a turning point that got you to where you are today, they are never forgotten. I do try to forget them, but my nightmares won’t let me. My turning point began back in October 2005. The world was changing as fast as it moved, and instead of adapting like everyone else, I remained locked inside my cramped flat where everything moved slowly and stayed the same.

I was unshaven, unwashed, and unemployed. I thought I would have made something of my life by the time I reached my mid-twenties. At the very least I expected to have a clear indication of what god had planned for me. I was under the impression that we all had a destiny — unless the bible had a list of terms and conditions that I somehow missed. I always remained patient and told myself:

Just a little longer. I’ll be okay. Surely I’m due for at least one victory, aren’t I?

Of course, I never did get a reply from fate. If only I had realised sooner that you have to meet opportunity halfway. Instead, I stayed in my living room, sat on a saggy second-hand sofa, wishing there was some sign to tell me what to do next.

I hated that living room. I’m not sure whether it even qualified as a living room. You wouldn’t expect anyone to want to live in such a neglected abode. The first thing you would notice when entering is the floor. Or at least you would notice that you couldn’t see the floor, as any evidence of there being one was hidden beneath a thick layer of rubbish. It was mostly covered with food packaging, but I’m sure if you were to dig deep enough you’d find an undiscovered state of matter. The only confirmation that a floor did exist somewhere below was the fact that the rubbish didn’t suck you down into an abyss, never to be seen again.

The second thing you would notice is the large coffee table in the middle of the room. I never once used it for coffee. Instead, I used it to hold my collection of cans. Cans that were once filled with beer, but I had consumed that beer and replaced it with my piss. That’s right — piss. I also used a small space at the end of the table as a foundation to build a tower of dirty dishes, which had grown tall over the years and I kept adding plates no matter how unstable it became. Sometimes it would even sway a little when I passed it. I liked to call it “a disaster waiting to happen,” or “my life” for short.

The last thing you would notice is how fast you can run as you bolt out of the door and up the street. It truly was a forsaken place in which I chose to reside. Well, I didn’t specifically choose it, but I accepted it — that’s the summary of my mentality back then. It was a place of seclusion. On the bright side, the dust really tied the whole place together.

So there I sat, no idea whether it was day or night — I always kept the curtains closed so I couldn’t tell the difference — and every second that passed was lost in time. It’s an interesting thing, time. I had no concept of it whatsoever, even after watching many documentaries on the subject. Apparently, time is a construct of our minds and calculated through motion and position, so no matter how far you get in life, you’ll never really go anywhere. A moment has gone, but another is here. This is the kind of nonsense I used to ponder over. I wasted a lot of time thinking about time.

As my thoughts drifted from one worry to another, my mobile suddenly burst with a sombre ringtone and forced my spine straight. In truth, it was a very uplifting tune, but I’d planned to change it because its cheeriness only caused my mind further distress. How dare a ringtone try to evoke a false emotion.

Nobody had called my mobile for a while, so I suspected it was a wrong number. There was a small part of me that hoped god was calling to answer my many complaints, but he only uses acts of cruelty to send a message.

I snatched up the phone, and my excitement died down as a voice demanded, ‘Edward? What are you doing?’

The voice belonged to Hugo Prescott, a self-proclaimed friend of mine. I hadn’t heard from him for at least a month, maybe even longer. His voice was unmistakable: he enunciated very clearly and spoke in a commanding tone that balanced on a line between confidence and arrogance. When we first met, I foolishly mistook him as a well-mannered man. It didn’t take long for me to discover that he wasn’t one for politeness, as you will too.

‘I’m not doing anything,’ I replied.

‘Impossible,’ he countered.

‘How so?’

‘Well, you’re talking to me, you fool.’

‘I was referring to my state before you rang.’

‘I haven’t time for your excuses, you lazy prat. I need your advice.’

People never came to me for anything, least of all my opinion. Though, I wasn’t surprised to hear that he needed something — that’s always the case. It’s not what they can give, but what they can take that makes you an option. And if I were ever among those options, my place would be at the bottom of the list, under last resort.

‘Advice on what?’ I asked.

‘I accidentally punched a small boy whilst at work,’ he answered, in a tone that suggested he was proud of such a thing. I’d usually be shocked, maybe even a bit frightened, to hear someone admit to that, but very little ever came to a shock when Prescott was involved, least of all assault.

I exhaled slowly. I knew I was in for an exhausting conversation.

‘Accidentally?’ I asked.

‘Yes! The little bastard had it coming.’

‘How do you accidentally punch someone?’

‘Well, I didn’t plan on striking a child today, so by definition, ’twas an accident.’

‘So what d’you need from me?’

‘I don’t need anything from you. I want your advice.’

‘Then I shall not give it.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds of you not needing it.’

‘Have it your way then, you pedantic swine!’ He paused and took a long, deep breath. Then, swallowing his pride, he said, ‘I need your advice,’ without the slightest hint of sincerity.

‘Fine. On what?’

‘On whether I should — oh bollocks! The parents are here.’

Prescott fell silent for a moment. I found myself trying to lean into the phone so I could hear what was going on.

‘Jesus christ,’ Prescott burst, ‘the father’s built like a fucking refrigerator.’

‘Curl up into the foetal position and stay still,’ I urged.

‘Before you do anything rash,’ I heard Prescott implore to someone on the other end of the call, although fear was absent in his voice, perhaps due to his over-confident nature. ‘I just want to say —’

There was a loud crack and then the phone cut off.

‘Prescott? Hello?’

I figured he got a smack in return for his punch. I wasn’t surprised. He was due for his comeuppance.

Silence filled the room once again, reminding me I was still sat inside that godforsaken living room, still all alone. Then the silence was interrupted by a rumble coming from my stomach. I assumed it wanted food, but I also contemplated the possibility of illness — I could never think of the most likely scenario without at least considering the worst case.

I’ve got plenty of illnesses, I thought. Enough to spare, and I can’t afford another. Or, at least, the government can’t. How would I cope with the flu in my state of living? It would be the end of me. I’ve barely eaten in the past week, so if it’s a stomach flu I won’t have anything to regurgitate.

A familiar lump started to build in my throat. My chest tightened and constricted my lungs. The pain inside my head increased with the pressure and squeezed the blood from my brain. My heart could barely keep up with the extra demand and was beating so hard I could hear it. I had worked myself into a panic for no discernible reason.

I started to inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, just like the doctor instructed. He had also prescribed some anti-depressants, but I had forgotten to pick them up from the pharmacy a few months prior, and since then my mind had been unrestrained. I needed the medication to give me enough courage to leave the flat. Without it, I would work myself into a fit before I even reached the garden wall. Even if I did get past the wall then the stares from my neighbours would quickly send me into retreat — I would never catch them in the windows, they were far too sneaky, but I knew they were there.

The breathing technique started to work, and I felt my heart begin to slow.

Wait, my mind told me, isn’t it bad if your heartbeat slows too much? The brain will cease to function without the appropriate amount of blood to keep it going.

Every time I stopped to think I’d give myself another reason to panic. Focusing solely on breathing wasn’t enough, so I cast away all thoughts of negativity so my mind could feel some sense of hope, but I also repelled thoughts of positivity so my hopes didn’t get too high. Then I closed my eyes so the sight of my living room wouldn’t interfere, and the tension around my brain finally loosened a little. I gradually forgot why I was worried in the first place, and I was eventually left with an empty mind, which went well with my empty life.

Having overcome the episode, I continued with my daily routine and, picking up right where I left off, I went to sleep. As you can probably tell, my routine didn’t consist of much.

When I woke a few hours later, I was due for my afternoon breakfast, but I hadn’t ordered any shopping that month so there wasn’t much choice in the matter. I went into the kitchen and inspected the fruit bowl, and I discovered a banana and an orange. At least, that’s what they used to be. The banana had evolved into a freshly squeezed turd, and the orange had grown its own coat of fur. I had discovered something ungodly. I couldn’t let them live in the flat, so I bagged the entire bowl and threw it into the wheelie bin out back.

Fortunately, I did have some bread left over. Judging by its green blemishes, it may have been slightly out of date, but even so, I popped a couple of slices into the toaster and enjoyed some very dry and sour toast. I had to take a quick nap after I finished eating. Otherwise, the food in my stomach wouldn’t have settled, and I would’ve found myself lying down all day with abdominal pain.

Once my stomach was well rested, I performed some exercises to ensure I retained the small amount of muscle mass that I had left. Not that I needed much strength. My bones were held together mostly by loose bits of skin and long strands of tendons, so it didn’t take much thew to shift my small frame around. The only problem was that my knowledge of the human body was minimal, but after a push-up, a couple of sit-ups, and a valiant attempt at a pull-up using the kitchen door frame, I felt my heart had been worked to its limit. I always got crippling exhaustion after physical activity, so I took another nap to restore my energy.

To end the day, I took a refreshing can of lukewarm beer from the not-so-cool cooler box, which I kept in the corner of the living room for convenience, and sat down to watch some quality TV. I particularly enjoyed disliking the news. When I first locked myself away from the world, I was faced with a choice: let an apathetic newsreader update me on all the latest horrors humanity inflicted on the world and worsen my depression, or miss the ten o’clock report and aggravate my anxiety. I thought it was best that I know what was going on with the outside world, so that if the time ever came for me to re-enter society, I wouldn’t be shocked to find a nuclear wasteland ruled over by machines. It could happen you know, they said so on the news.

Around midnight, I put on an episode of See Stormy Seas — a documentary series about the dangers of fishing. Ten minutes into the episode, I became seasick. It always happened, it was part of the routine. The only cure for the sickness was sleep, so I curled up on the sofa and closed my eyes to ease the spinning. Unlike a quick nap, it took at least two hours before my brain finally tired and drifted off into a deep sleep. My mind was always too active, constantly taking me back to the past, to what could have been, and reminding me of all the choices I was afraid to make. I constantly got lost in my head trying to find myself.

I always looked forward to sleeping. I was subject to vivid dreams that offered a greater existence than what the real world promised. The unattainable world in my head was hard to live up to. I wondered how life could be any good when dreaming satisfied more than living, especially when the only thing I had to wake up to was the smell of ammonia. Dreaming was my reality, and reality was my nightmare.

It was about a week later, not that I realised a whole week had passed at the time, that I was once again disturbed from my slumber, but this time, the disturbance came in the form of thunderous knocking on the front door. It was far more personal than a phone call. Opening the door would require me to engage in face-to-face conversation with a potential stranger. I think it rather improper to show up at someone’s door unannounced; a simple phone call beforehand would do. Although, now that I think about it, unexpected phone calls can sometimes be inconvenient. A deeper level of notification is needed. A formal letter, perhaps.

I tried to wait out the mystery caller, hoping that whoever it was would get bored, but that wasn’t the case, and the knocks only got louder and more impatient. I started to worry for my safety. Who would be so eager to talk to me? The knocks were not of a casual nature — they were threatening, demanding knocks. I knew this person wasn’t going away any time soon, so I had no choice but to face the danger. I told myself, if this is my fate, I’ll accept it with open arms.

I crept up to the peephole and looked through. It was worse than I imagined, and suddenly I wished it had been a stranger. Staring back at me, was Prescott, almost like he was looking right through my eyes and into my soul. He hadn’t changed his appearance much since I last saw him. He wore the same crumpled old-fashioned brown suit and had his hair slicked back and his face cleanly shaven. The only change was of the dark circles surrounding his eyes that had grown larger from lack of sleep.

I considered the implications of letting him in, knowing how difficult he is to manage.

‘For fuck’s sake, open the door!’ He bellowed.

Then I considered the implications of keeping him on the doorstep. What would the neighbours think? I couldn’t risk harming their opinion of me, so I decided to open the door, and Prescott immediately barged through with his narrow chin stuck out in front of him.

‘About damn time,’ he said as he pushed his way past me and marched into the living room.

I stood there holding the door wide open, and the outside didn’t seem so daunting now that there was something far worse to fear inside my living room. Then a car shot passed and I slammed the door before the gunfire started.

That was close.

I headed into the living room. Prescott stood near the sofa looking around the room, visibly disgusted.

‘Are you done hibernating yet,’ he said.

‘I’m not hibernating,’ I replied. ‘I’ve already explained this.’

‘Well, whatever it is you’re doing, it wasn’t worth giving up your job for,’ he retorted, referring to my former employment as a lighting technician at the local theatre.

‘I didn’t give it up, I was sacked. And you had a hand in that,’ I reminded him, referring to the fact that Prescott also worked at the theatre, but as an actor. Although, he preferred to act as the director rather than his given role. He loved to give out orders, and he gave them out to pretty much everyone who worked there, especially me. His demands contributed to my anxiety and pressured me into making the mistakes that eventually got me fired.

His self-importance also contributed to his own inevitable termination. But he believed he had the last laugh because he didn’t give back the costume he received for his last role in a pre-war drama. He wore that same suit every day like a trophy. He looked like an early twentieth-century lawyer after being hosed down and then dried up by the sun.

‘I didn’t choose to become a shut-in,’ I continued. ‘This isn’t exactly a bloody holiday for me.’

‘Whatever,’ he replied. ‘My god, it stinks of pig shit in here.’

‘Well, you’re half wrong — on the pig part, at least.’

Prescott sat down in the armchair, which I had bought along with the sofa as part of a matching set. They used to share the same rich cream colour until a brownish discolouration set in and disfigured them for life. I knew I should have paid for the one year warranty. I’m not usually one to be bothered about the decor, but I’ll raise my complaints when the furnishing resembles a huge faecal stain.

‘Get me a beer,’ Prescott demanded.

‘Get it yourself,’ I replied.

‘Where are your manners? I am a guest, show me some hospitality.’

‘Technically you’re not a guest. I don’t recall inviting you in.’

‘Then I am an uninvited guest, but a guest none-the-less.’

‘No, you can’t have it both ways. To be a guest requires invitation, which you don’t have, so that makes you an intruder.’

‘Not exactly. I’ve no intention of robbing you. Consider me as a visitor.’

‘You still can’t enter a person’s home without permission.’

‘I’m not a fucking vampire — I’ll enter wherever I damn well please.’

I knew arguing with him would prove futile. He’s always been a stubborn, obnoxious person; it’s obvious even before he opens his mouth. You can simply tell it in the way he walks — head up high, back straight, eyes peering down his nose. I gave in to his demand and collected a can from the cooler.

‘Heads up,’ I said, before throwing the can at him.

He caught it with one hand, cracked it open with his forefinger, and sipped it with a satisfied smile.

‘So where are your manners?’ I politely asked.

‘I don’t have any, piss off.’

I collapsed onto the sofa and watched as Prescott took another sip of his beer and then placed it on the table among the countless abandoned cans, unaware that most of them were full of my piss.

‘So, what happened the other day?’ I enquired, curious about the refrigerator-like man.

‘Which day?’

‘The day you rang me.’

‘That was a week ago. You poor bastard.’

‘Whatever — what happened?’

‘Well,’ he began, with a smug look on his face, ‘after the police had tamed that shaven ape and pried his hands from around my neck, they could no longer press charges against me. The rules of assault, rule in my favour once again.’

‘So you still have a job then?’

‘No, the wankers fired me immediately. Righteous twats.’

‘You did attack a child.’

‘So? It’s not my job to protect them, it’s the parents, so blame them.’

‘You were out collecting for children in need.’

‘And that child was in need of a punch. Besides, I did that job for a steady wage, not because I have some sort of twisted messiah complex.’ He picked up his can and started to chug it like he’d been victorious in his argument.

He must have a screw loose, I thought. Or several. He means well, but I believe he’s due to crack any day now, like me. Oh no, what if we crack at the same time? What sort of predicament would that create for us? I can’t take any more predicaments.

Prescott slammed his beer down on the table, derailing my train of internal worries. As you have probably realised by now, I often drifted into those kinds of stress-induced thoughts. I couldn’t help it, especially without any medication to control my attention.

‘What now?!’ Prescott shouted. ‘I can’t sit here like this, not like you.’ He jumped to his feet, ‘I need air!’ he cried, in an over-dramatic display of emotion. His experience and obsession with theatre tended to carry over into real life, as though he was portraying an unpleasant character in a rather depressing play.

‘Well, you won’t get any air by using up what’s left in here, so sit down.’

‘There isn’t any left in here,’ he whimpered as he returned to his seat. ‘This place is suffocating.’ He picked up a random can from the table, assuming it was his, and brought it to his lips with a pause.

‘Even the beer has begun to erode in this foul air,’ he said, preparing to take a swig.

‘Actually, that’s my toilet,’ I revealed, just as the can brushed his bottom lip.

‘What?’

‘You’re about to drink my piss.’

‘You animal! No wonder there’s no rats in here, they’re all fucking disgusted with you.’

‘Rats have it easy, and I can’t afford to live by their standards.’

Prescott carefully lowered the can to the table, trying not to spill it. I leant away in fear that if a single drop were to touch his skin, an animated reaction would ensue — like a man having been set on fire.

‘You disgust me,’ Prescott said as he successfully replaced the can.

‘If you don’t like it here, then leave. I’m sure your parents would enjoy your company.’

I think I should clear up that, whenever I mention Prescott’s parents, I’m actually referring to his adoptive parents. You see, Prescott loathed his real father, who enjoyed beating him to express his displeasure of surprise pregnancy. He neither liked nor disliked his mother. In fact, he felt absolutely no emotion towards her whatsoever. She barely even acknowledged Prescott’s existence and was too busy with other men to pick him up from school. No, he didn’t care much for his birth parents at all, and so when his father drove the car into a tree and died on impact, along with his mother, Prescott didn’t feel anything. Not sadness, not fear — nothing. Well, apart from the pain caused by shards of glass that attacked him in the back seat.

That’s really as much detail that Prescott gave about the incident. He didn’t like to talk about his past, but I’d get some fractions of his painful start in life whenever he got drunk, and eventually I obtained enough pieces to put part of the puzzle together. He was adopted not long after the crash but didn’t take to his new owners. The only reason he agreed to call them his parents was so he could forget his biological ones.

‘I moved out of my parent’s house months ago,’ Prescott divulged.

‘Where to?’

‘Atop some old record store. Can’t stand the fucking music. Can’t stand this aroma of piss either. I need to get out of here.’

My eyes widened, and I readied myself to walk him to the door.

Then he added, ‘we both need to get out of here.’

I swallowed hard. Leave the flat? I couldn’t, not without my pills. Even with the pills I confined myself to a local radius.

‘Get out?’ I fretted. ‘What for? Everything out there either wants to kill me or sell me a t-shirt.’

‘Don’t be so cynical.’

‘I’m not cynical. I’m far from it. And what’s your aim in this? I can tell you’re up to something.’

‘Look at you. You’ll be drinking your own piss and making friends with your toenail clippings before long.’

‘I don’t clip my toenails, and I don’t need friends. I have a telly.’

‘See what I mean? If you stay here much longer you’ll be in for a fate far worse than death.’

I can’t go outside — I haven’t checked any of the latest news updates, so much could go wrong. Although… it has all been going wrong for the past couple of years. Maybe he’s right. What if I am becoming something worse, like… neurotic, deranged, or… my father.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said, snapping out of my head.

‘Do what?’ Prescott asked, having been distracted by his intent to locate his beer during my short mental absence.

‘I’ll go out with you,’ I clarified.

‘I’m sorry friend. My sword may not be rigid, but it’s still straight.’

‘Huh? I meant I’ll go outside with you.’

‘Oh right, yes. Thank god. Let us escape this sty!’ he yelled, like a dictator declaring war — and in this case, he’d declared it on a vastly superior force.

I felt encouraged by his melodramatic battle cry. We both got to our feet in unison, determination mutually flowing. Then, a sudden urge came over me… I was in dire need of a piss. I believe I have some sort of incontinence, you know. I’ve looked it up, and I’ve all the symptoms of a handicapped pisser. I can never manage a few steps without a leak. That’s why I had used so many cans. It wasn’t out of laziness, but agonising desperation. Although, the fact they were all collected on my table was out of laziness.

Prescott knew something was the matter. I was sure he could hear the unnatural noises coming from my stomach, and my face must have warped with the discomfort. I looked down at the table — at the cans. I knew there were a few empty ones among the piss-filled ones. I picked two cans, hoping one would be weightless.

‘What are you doing?’ Prescott asked, a look of concern on his face.

I didn’t reply. All my concentration was on my bladder and sparing any to speak could’ve had a rather dampening conclusion.

I discovered a half-full can, though I think it would be more appropriate to consider it half-empty, but either way it had to do. I whipped around to face the wall, unzipped, unloaded, and relieved myself into the can.

‘You filthy fucker!’ Prescott roared.

He picked up a random can and threw it at me and it lightly bounced off my shoulder. I doubt he was hoping for an empty can, but even if it had been full, I wouldn’t have cared. I was too busy urinating and it felt good. After I had finished, I replaced the can and was ready to get some fresh air.