Imagine There's No Heaven

by paul harrison

Never Forgotten

  Guy awoke in a cold sweat. He’d been dreaming about the day his mother had left, yet again. Fifteen years he’d dreamt about it, but never with such realism as the past few months. His nightmares had grown worse and worse. They had been so bad lately that he had insomnia from fear of getting to sleep. His head felt so heavy he could barely lift it. He wondered if he should go to a doctor, but he wouldn’t risk having his father find out. Jerry was bound to know what the issue was and wouldn’t tolerate being reminded of Imogen and the mistakes of the past. Guy’s burden was his to bear alone, of that he felt certain. He lived with the pain every day.

  He’d left his letter in bed with him, he realised. It was dangling over the edge. He slapped himself on the forehead in frustration. Can’t I even look after her letter? Guy chastised himself. It was his most cherished possession. It had been sent from Imogen years ago, but his father had only given it to him when he turned fourteen, as his mother had instructed. He read it every night, as one read a prayer. Thank God it wasn’t damaged; he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. He picked it up, kissed it at the top, folded it carefully and filed it in a shoebox on a shelf above his bed.

  The alarm clock was still buzzing like mad. He hadn’t heard it in his sleep. It was a quarter past eight. He’d woken half an hour late.

  ‘Oh for...’ he hissed as he sat up in a hurry. His abs were burning with pain. He lifted his shirt. Despite the sadistic levels of exercise and the countless reps he’d done with the weights over recent months, there was still a little pillow of fat at the bottom of his stomach. The rest might have been ripped, but that tiny bundle of fat meant he still wasn’t good enough. Imogen had been completely ripped. He had to try harder. He massaged his abs firmly, promising himself to work out more intensely next time. Everyone at school said his physique was sick, but if that was the case why wasn’t he perfectly chiselled? They all said he looked like a Mixed Martial Arts fighter, but he liked to think that his shaved head made him look more military than that; his attitude was pure military, of that he was sure. He never let himself rest, was always sharp and on the point, never backing down, never thinking twice, a true combatant. That was what Imogen had been, that was what he would be; only not for the government; no, not for them. He had his own cause.

  His computer beeped, telling him he’d received a new email. He sat up, took a gulp from a tall glass of water, moved to the stool by his desk and clicked through to his messages. The most recent one had been sent from ‘www.warnomore.net’. It read,

  As requested, here are the travel times for today’s protest. We hope to see you there.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, leaping up so quickly he nearly tripped over his feet. He only had forty minutes before the next train left. He kicked his way through a pillar of clothes strewn on the floor and grabbed a pair of jeans and a hoodie as he headed out of the room. He sniffed at his armpit and grimaced; it reeked. Still, he didn’t possibly have time to wash, that’d have to wait; he had to be there before the organisers began the march. He hurried to grab his large green rucksack, along with his copy of Tommy Franks’ American Soldier, and dashed out the room, down the stairs, and into the street.