Table of Dreams:Pain

Another piece from my first year portfolio.

A crash breaks through the space surrounding me, the echoes bitterly bringing a sense of tension that ripples into a gentle fear.

I am lying on the floor, my head tilted at such an angle, my body is tensing to keep my neck and head at such an obscure pose. I can see nothing but my own body; twitching horridly, stranded beneath loose clothing. The space around is black, black like the moon’s core, and I am lost. I feel as though I could reach forever and never hit a wall, a side, a person. I would explore for the entirety of my life and find nothing, but I can’t even do that. I am on the floor unable to move. On the floor. Pinned, by my own failure as a person. As a living being.

It seems as though I am waiting, but for what I don’t know; for nothing, for something, for judgement, for redemption, for death, for a Saviour or a miracle. I have no idea why I’m here, only that I seem to be waiting, forced to be waiting, for what? What am I waiting for? I have no idea but I’m…       I’m Fucking Scared.

As if by some satirical magic my muscles tense in quick succession as my nerve endings erupt in a painful euphoria of fire, throbbing and pulsating in unison. Eyes open in shock; I feel my pupils retreating into themselves as tears cluster behind the glistening lens, trapped and never to escape. I don’t cry anymore, that ability left me long ago; I suppose some things stay with you forever. At this thought my parched lips stretched to something which could loosely be construed as a smile, surrounded by pain that keeps my jaw clenched shut in foreboding fear. I haven’t spoken in such a time, I can’t. I speak silence to anyone who listens but there’s no-one to listen. I am alone in this black deathless place.

A shriek, woman’s? Or, I ponder, a very troubled man’s. It erupts now, gaining volume and force, the echoes rendered unnecessary as the powerful screams of unfathomable pain and disgust reiterate constantly. What she is saying? I. Do. Not. Know. Sound is audible but not recognisable, the sounds strike my ears, and although the words ring out, the meanings are lost to me, they are nothing to me, it is simply the emotions that allow me to understand, fresh from the gaping wound of a shredded soul.

There is a thud. It envelopes and instantly smothers all previous noise. Nothing reverberates in the slightest. All sounds stop. My breath is the only thing breaking silence, the breath in front of me whisping away into the cold darkness around me. The slow scratching of metal ambles through the air before dissipating into nothing, and again I am alone, I am alone with my breaths and my thoughts.


My shirt is gone now, in the blink of an eye my view changes; I am still looking forward, only now at my naked torso. I fail to recognise it as my own. My body has been torn into with feverish pace, and it resembles what I can only describe as a patchwork quilt of pain. Its seams are scarred across my chest in horrific unison and the only thanks I have is that the nerve endings beneath my ravaged flesh are now dead.

I can’t help wishing I was as well.

Shrill, nervous, delectably sinister squeals poke out of the darkness from every angle, taunting me as though I am ready for the slaughter. I am a dying flower; wilting, crumbling, persisting and waiting to be haphazardly pruned, these sounds haunt me for a time that is completely unknown to me. Every now and then there’s a pinch, a nip, a scratch against my legs. I look down, trying to see what is toying with me, but all I see is jeans, my jeans, gaining tears, and being bathed in a vile fluid that no longer resembles a real, authentic bodily fluid, the colour is all but gone, all vitality within it, gone. Yet the darkness still manages to engulf it, making it bleaker then a blind man’s perspective.


It plays softly now, a nameless tune that lulls my body away from the pain and into transparency, it’s as though I can’t be hurt. Although when my eyes open, I see my body, my flesh, my clothing being torn into… I see it all happening.  I see myself slowly dissipating from existence, leaving nothing but a physical shadow of what and who I was behind. I cannot feel it, the torture. I reach such a pain barrier that screams did no justice. Only silence, as the pain stabs through me in every instant. My silence helps me regain humanity.  I now hum through my dried lips. Humming through what is now a brown crumbling scab, forever sewn up from determined disuse.

Hum, mmmm mmm mmmm

For a time, a time where everything can touch me, I am in heaven. My body doesn’t recognise the squalor of its state, the way I am in, but strangely I’m at peace.

The music stops and a molten assault of Knives, Jabs, Cuts, Bites, Sights and Sounds rise up into the darkness out of vision, swirling around above me. Then, in an instant, they move downwards, floating cataclysmically down like leaves in a transient sense of whimsical, sickening fun. Fluttering around me, twisting into shapes and then into nothing. Moving away from any perceivable sight I feel them all submerging deep into my entirety, my skin bulges and squashes and I am in agony. But it is over soon. There is no blood.

The darkness swings open, and a figure crashes in with a tool in hand, the face covered by a huge metal visor with a glazed over eye slot. I look directly at this Dominating figure and my reflection is non existent, I don’t recognise who it is, I can’t.  I look around the hulking body and my eyes are strained by the exuding light, carelessly protruding from the door-like passage that has appeared from no-where, in that instant I see movement. Muscles tensing, an arm rising, the tool glimmering with a deep burgundy fade that sits over the worn metal fabrication. As the light glints off it catches me and I blink.

I hurriedly open my eyes. The tool is already well on its way into my broken face.

Stuck in Darkness again.

Some Suicides are Never Reported

This was my extended piece for my first year of Creative Writing at Derby Uni.

24/06/2011 9:00 Morning

The waves of sunlight crash into my eyes. My pupils retreat in pain, scurrying away into the infinite darkness of themselves.

“Shit, it’s too fucking bright,” I mutter to myself before reaching and pulling down on the cord, loosely suspended from the ceiling. The shutters slam down eradicating the light leaving the clouded room stale, no longer penetrated by the piercing brightness. My makeshift bed is sprawled across the floor taking up nearly all the room I have; an old worn mattress, coloured by stale stains of soaked-in piss, shit and vomit. Two blankets riddled with holes, scrunched on top alongside the musty pillows that stink of lonely nights. The TV resonates a loud hum throughout the room melodically accompanying the black and white image stuttering across the screen, emitting the only light which this space now possesses yet still struggling to make it through the shadows.

“Urgh.” With strained grunts I raise my knackered body to standing; my hands sway against my sides. I barely have the drive to move, slowly stepping forwards into a dilapidated stagger I end up crashing through the room, still half fucked from a three day long binge started a few days ago, at least I think it started a few days ago. To be frank I don’t know how long it lasted. I don’t even know what bloody day it is; never really do… All I know is that when the retarded litter-bearing sow of a whore below me goes to get her government funded money, it’s probably a Monday. I should really have gotten up and gone to get my share awhile ago.

Desperate for a piss, I launch myself towards the toilet door which slowly creaks open. A small bulb floating from the ceiling flickers into life, bathing the space in a turbid orange that partially resonates into the other room before reducing into nothing but the shadows.

 Follow the normal routine; hair, pull it forward, half covering my face and slapping the hat on, two day stubble, I don’t need to look at it really, it frames my sharp jawline well. Cracked lips shine through in a bloody red and my teeth are brushed to a near white, still failing to be completely rid of that putrid yellow stain from long ago. My eyes look battered, the white broken by thin red wires that creep towards the centre, towards my deep green eyes that have been forced to widen by the crimson tendrils, all framed by a dark fade of tiredness. Throw water on my face and get dressed. Buttoning up the fitted grey shirt, creased but I needn’t care about that, rolling up the sleeves in darkness I perceive nothing before pulling up an old pair of battered, slightly ripped jeans to just under the waistline. My arms are now dying, fuck knows what I did but I see old friends, track marks. Yanking up my boots, my arms still battle against co-operation, lastly grabbing a pile of papers from the table ramming them into my pockets. A couple of quid and my keys are quickly added to the collection. It’s all I really have to be honest…

10:05 Morning 

Pulling the door too, I start to lock up. The key twists into place and I feel the stiffness of the lock as I turn it, until suddenly it snaps. The key in half, I pull free what I can. Half a bloody key? Brilliant! Slumping down the corridor and onto the streets my first task of the day is towards McKinnely’s, an old-school butchers. I used to work there not long back, it was good sane work.


10:40 Morning

There he was, bloated as ever, balding faster than a given up chemo patient, his apron was littered with stains; an ironic reflection to the cleanliness of his business, which he dictated with a fierce harshness.

“Ahh here now! Come for your job again eh? You can fuck off! You wasting cunt!”

For a time we stared each other down, his enormous brow overshadowing his beady little eyes which still managed to see right through me, he smiled… I had to beat him to the punch

“Yeah you can bollocks as well!” I yelled, still staring him out. Rummaging into my pockets I found what I was looking for and withdrew one of the pieces of paper I had picked up earlier, shoving it forcefully into his palm that regressed almost instantly into a fist. He looked confused, bemused in fact, but that glint of anger in his eyes convinced me to start running. In hindsight that was one of my smarter moves of the day, as moments into my sprint, a chopping board flew towards me, clipping my ankles from an almighty throw. Fuck knows if he even looked at that piece of paper.


10:55 Morning

Next stop, Becca’s house I guess, we broke up a few months back, maybe three? It was messy and the reason I was now sleeping in that shitty flat. Should be a fun visit, haven’t seen her since it all kicked off.


11:35 Morning

Classy area, for a ‘Classy’ girl this place. Grand terraced houses with towering coloured doors lined Swingate Road. After trawling for five minutes I reach the house that I once lived in. Big blue door, robust handles, styled knockers all put to shame by the intricately crafted number 57 placed in the centre of the door. The building’s just beautiful; looks like it would’ve cost a small fortune! Probably did. Becca got the whole bleeding house, free of charge. It was left by her parents, died a few years back in a crash. Was proper messy, had news coverage and everything. Knocking on the door and waiting was crazy; I used to just walk in. hearing the paced footsteps coming down the stairs I knew it was Becca. The slow opening of the door revealed her in front of me just standing there, taking it all in was strange. Once blonde she was now brunette, her hair curling and falling over her shoulders, her blue eyes partly covered, wallowing beneath an angled fringe. Her frame was still so slender, feminine like a waif, barely covered by a thin cream dress with frills. Christ I hate frills! But she could pull them off. Don’t get me wrong, the break up still hurts, but Christ!

“What do you want? Money by the looks of it.” Her eyes were now piercing into me, she hadn’t expected a visit anytime soon.

“Nah I’m good thanks, just wanted to give you this, I’m leaving town”

“What is it?” she looked almost as confused as McKinnely.

“Nothing, just do what you will, you always do”

“Hey!” Her face instantly red, flustered.

“See you around Becca.”

I don’t hear the door shut behind me. She’s watching me walk away, no looking back, there’s too much of that today.


12:40 Afternoon

Last real stop of the day I guess, Dads house.

Four years ago mum died from liver failure. Cirrhosis of the liver they said, but gave no reason as to how it had come about. Since then it seems dads been trying to go out pretty much the same way, by destroying his liver. Drinking his Pension into an admittedly impressive, empty bottle collection.

My first home now an old run down building. Just a small trek from Becca’s, it’s in a completely different world of its own standing there, alone on a small plot of land. The house used to be beautiful. But now it’s crumbling apart into disrepair and the door is near grey, the remnants of green paint slightly speckle the bleakness. I knock, and I wait, and I sigh for over an hour. I keep going hoping he’s in there and will wake up until my arms and arse are sore.

“Fuck it”

I post the letter and make my way towards the local graveyard.


2:25 Afternoon

There it is. Lodged in a cluster of dislodged broken down stones mantled with moss and flowers, Mum’s grave. Fuck knows why I wrote her a letter, maybe I’ll keep it with me, I think I will anyways. I’m there for hours, talking to her; About Dad, About Becca, About McKinnely, About my room, About how shit its been Lately, About how much I miss and need her. Nobody’s passed me in all this time, I’m sat in a silence that’s only broken by my voice, I’m all alone.


4:50 Afternoon

I glimpse down at my watch, train’s arriving in an hour, I leave Mum and walk down the pathway towards town, tossing the letter into the bin on the way out. What’s the point in keeping it anyway?

5:30 Afternoon

The Stations packed, It’s always packed at this time of day, the train to the capital arrives soon, but there’s still a seat on the platform staring at me through the crowds I walk over to it and I write down my day again, reading back it’s been hectic. Looking up I can see the side entrance to the tracks through the broken security door, just ten more minutes until my train comes. I used to love watching the train come, never understanding why I wasn’t allowed near the entrance, until I found out a lad my age had ‘fallen through’ and gotten killed. Christ what a way to go! Now all I see are the kids staring at the policemen, armed with their rifles, their guns, ready to take down any threat to the public in an instant. Time to get ready, I’m going to walk up now. Stand in the crowd. The plan? Wait until the last moment…

10:00 Evening

Tv’s flicker on, the evening news begins

And now to tonight’s top story. At twenty to five today, Newkstead Train Station was the scene of tragedy as now named 23 year old ***** ******* was perceived to be threatening members of the public in a terror scare, claiming to have a bomb. Armed members of the police quickely responded in force gunning down young ***** ******* leaving him dead. After searching the body it appeared that ***** ******* Was actually of no threat, with no bomb attached. His life now wasted, the case is under investigation. On his person were a journal recording his day and a separate note addressed to the police. Police are now following up leads gained from the journal of ***** *******.





                You gave me a place in the world to work. It was hard but worth it, but then you fucked me over, all for what?! A couple of quid YOU said I could borrow from the register. You knew I had fuck all to eat, always complaining about how skinny and weak I was.

Rot in hell.


Dear Becca.

                  I thought you’d honestly be the one, we were great and we kept each other safe and so happy, together…

But fucking Simon? Seriously! What did you gain? You deserve to drop dead and die alone.


Kind of ironic me saying that really… don’t worry you’ll get it.



        I’ve seen you kill yourself slowly over the past few years because of mum, and I’ve tried, honest to god I’ve tried to help you, but Christ! I needed you. I failed without you. With every bottle you pushed us further apart; your wanting to die consumed you.

I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, just at a faster pace.



         I can still remember four years ago, the whole day. It’s crazy; my whole life is a blur in some way, there’s always a bit missing, but that day… everything is there, even the sterile smell of the hospital and the feel of my eyes welling up when the doctor walked up to me and dad, taking us into another room. He muttered “I’m sorry…” and with that we both knew instantly. It’s strange looking back, he said nothing more to me. Dad hardly gave attention to what he was saying. We just knew, and although we’d all expected it for so long it still… it still hit me,  so much harder than anything before, or anything since: Dad walking away and starting his lifelong suicide; Becca cheating on me with Simon; McKinnely firing me; Being so poor I had to beg. None of it hit me really, not compared to you. No-one was there to help me.
Christ, I was lost in that hospital room for years. I sort of still am, stuck in life, stuck without you.

 I miss you mum, I really do.

To whom is may concern.

                                        To me this was an easy way out. To me this was nothing. Record it as you will.




1/7/2011 10:00 Evening

The inquest into the death of  ***** ******* has finally been resolved today, with a verdict of it being an open ended case. Police are with-holding details but it appears the officers involved have been in talks, and the case is being internally resolved. Our thoughts go out to any friends or relatives of the deceased.


This is the first piece I ever wrote whilst at Uni, its definitely the start of my current writing style.

I am a fucking machine. But my body is a temple of decomposing decay. The gears of my system run fluid with the excrement and pulsating ooze of hate which spills over my entirety, liquidating every surface of my factorial being, causing it to rush, crush and consume any sustainable substance in a horrid torrent of cannibalism. My heart beats faster than any other; it’s powerful, pounding, pummelling, against the soft fleshy walls that hold back my blood, my fuel, my unyielding liquid from which a lucid blue erupts into a violet red filled with rage.

Once set forth from my body, from even the smallest of breaks in my natural casing, it slowly covers itself into a hard crumbly dark matter. Like the broken floor of a once viscous volcano that now lies dead. My skin is blackened by these scabs, pieces of me set apart and raised from my very skin, then with the timely dismissal, and removal of these blemishes, I am left with an everlasting scar. It depicts every instance of pain, release and incident, all distinguished with an underlying sense of anguish accumulated throughout my life.

Internally though, my body embraces my lifestyle, enduring, preparing and dealing with this mechanical mess of a vessel I call mine, for yet another onslaught of poisons I willingly inject, infuse, intake and inflict unto and into myself. So that I might again feel that sense of gratitude and sheer bliss that escapes me in a sober state. ‘A life of excess is a life lived!’ is something I never understood; surely the body would break, but it seems to adapt and wilfully continue with the sole purpose, that it just might live.

I decided never to think about it, but once, I did. At one point in time, I questioned the whole concept.

I pictured a being, willingly destroying and pushing its self to the brink of unstable limits, before releasing the toxins and bile in a projectile, crystalline somewhat semi-liquidated mess, containing his addictions and remains of digested sacrifice, the sludge coloured by the chemicals and glutinous solutions used in its orgy of self wanting destruction. Yet almost immediately, the beast continues, fuelling what seems like complete and utter contempt for itself, a state of disgust solely directed at individual annihilation. Its hostility is aimed at the disfigurement of any trace of humanity that might be residing in the damp mossy corners of its soul, as fetid drops of cancerous death speckle and flourish the silence with razor-edged regurgitated screams, all filled with; sorrow, wrath and despair, yet completely engulfed in a torturous torment of inexplicable anger.

‘To be such a being is sheer lunacy,’ I thought to myself. But now, years later, my body older and my world bigger, more unrestricted, I look in the shattered mirror of the basement room. The cracks cut jaggedly into my reflection with every separate piece showing a new instance of excess. The music booms above me, moving everything in this dark, humid, inhospitable space. I recognise something: I am looking at myself. I have become that being. It will surely destroy me, but I am not afraid. I relish the opportunity to push myself; my mind, my body, my soul, all to the brink of lunacy. All to please myself completely.