Day 12: One A Day: Shattered



I know the scientific reasons why answering my mobile would be good for me right now, (and good for the papers and the TV and the radio stations, all wanting a bite of the action) but all I want to do is scream, shout and stamp my feet. I want to stamp until I go through the concrete, through the earth and the clay below. I want to drive myself six feet under and hope someone puts everything back over the top of me. My phone goes quiet, for the first time in three days and my pocket stops shaking. I nearly threw the bloody thing in the river a while ago. I know I should turn it off. Three nights ago, you were saying how we ought to go somewhere on holiday. Somewhere we could warm ourselves in front of a wood burning stove. Where I could catch rainbow trout and you could cook it in foil parcels and serve it with minted mushy peas and boiled new potatoes. It was only four days ago that we painted the window frames red, your favourite colour. It was the colour of your lips when the drunk football hooligan glassed you in the face and neck, spoiling your confidence and the rest of your life. Shades have been pulled down over my memories of anything before it kicked off, the night Middlesbrough lost to Man U. You weren’t to know the man you were talking too had red hot hate in his head. The accident was like a slow moving car crash. When the glass sank into your cheek like a knife through bread dough, I wanted to break every bone in that bastard’s body and pull a pint into his skull. I didn’t want to leave you alone today. Alone on the hospital ward where anyone, anything could get to you. But they said I had to come down and sign a few things before the ‘For Sale’ sign went up. Now I’m ready to take you to that place with a wood burning stove. I’ve already packed my fishing tackle in the car.