The Boy Who Found Himself

by Jessica Cambrook

The Boy Who Found Himself

  By Jessica Cambrook

  Copyright © Jessica Cambrook 2012

  Cover photograph: https://www.flickr.com/photos/ivenoidea/6843340729/

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  Firstly...

  When you’re at the bottom, the only way is up. That’s what they say, isn’t it? I’m not too sure. I’m sitting on the side of the bath with a razor ready and I know I’m already six feet under. No one’s coming for me, there’s no last minute saviour like there are in the films. I’m wearing my favourite Guns ‘N’ Roses top with the small rip in the side, a reminder of a house party from years ago. Although I’m probably as fucked up as Axl Rose, at least he had good looks and money at my age. My possessions comprise of a small, dingy flat and an old banger I manage to drive around in. Tommy used to joke, when he was in one of his better moods, that it was something out of the Flintstones, that I should just pick it up by the frame and run it around everywhere like Fred used to.

  I open the packaging of the bare razor blade I just bought, ironically from my ex-girlfriend, making sure I bought it along with some shaving cream and using cash to make myself less conspicuous. I went out with her some years ago when we had just finished school. I hadn’t spoken to her since, through anger. At a time like this, anger isn’t an issue. There is no time for anything but acceptance and calm. However, everyone has that one person they will always hold a grudge against, for cheating on them or for lying to them or for killing their dog. I haven’t owned a dog since Ludo, just in case.

  We had an awkward conversation, Olivia and I. It went something like this.

  “Oh, it’s you. I forgot you worked here” – me, cringing and hating myself for forgetting that going to Farmoore Convenience Shop would mean Olivia’s face would be the last I saw before the end of my life as I knew it.

  “Yeah, I’ve been here since we left school, Nick. You picked me up from here every day for three months.” – her, looking unamused and probably assuming I actually wanted to talk to her.

  “Right. I remember now. How’s Terry?” – me, trying to make polite conversation about her cruel, obnoxious but handsome boyfriend. Dick.

  “I haven’t seen Terry for a year. I’m with Walter now. Who are you with?” – her, trying to find gossip she can tell her friends later.

  “Walter? He was the sweaty geek from our maths class, wasn’t he?” - me, remembering a morbidly obese Walter sitting at the back of the class alone, with a few of the footballers throwing chewing gum into his long, straggly hair.

  “Go home, Walter. You’re obviously drunk.” – her, with a roll of her eyes.

  “Seen anything of Tommy recently?” – me, starting to feel prickles of anger running down my spine.

  “Now I know you’re drunk. Go and get some sleep, I’ll probably see you soon.” - her, lying.

  “I’m sure you will. Have a good life, Olivia.” - me, ignoring her bewildered stare.

  When I went home carrying the razor blade in the cheap carrier bag, it felt like a intense, guilty light intent on giving my plan away. I just wanted to be home, away from everyone else and free to do what I liked, to end it all. End all the years of torment.

  Tommy knew me better than anyone, and he was the first to notice I was cracking under the pressure. It was very soon after I’d gone out with Olivia, just after she cheated on me. That was when I started going downhill.

  Ludo and I spent countless hours playing in my back garden, I loved him and I would have chosen him over any of my friends, apart from Tommy. We were inseparable as children. In all of the same classes and next door neighbours too, we shared a passion for climbing trees and collecting insects. Our rooms were full of empty jam jars infested with crawling worms and snails, leaving a gooey trail as they slithered around. Ludo helped us find the insects, usually. He would pad around slowly, sniffing as he went. Then he would suddenly stop and quietly stare at me until I went over to see what he had found and rewarded him.

  Secondly...

  I miss Ludo. Another reason why the razor blade makes sense. Everything I love in life is stolen away. I can’t handle any more pain. As a twenty three year old, I have experienced the loss and sadness of a ninety year old.

  “You... cheated on me?” The last words spoken before I left Olivia and never came back. We had shared a good few months together, which was why the break up was more painful. After that, I still had friends, though not as many as before. I think they felt they had to choose sides, me or Olivia. People had to decide who they thought was a liar, and our friendship group was torn in two. It was a difficult time for everybody. During this haze of arguments and teenage angst, I remember Walter. Unfalteringly silent apart from when he answered questions during class, and fat with sweat patches no matter what time of year it was. He stood just on the outskirts of our group, just watching.

  “I’m sorry, Nick. It’s Ludo. He... He was k-killed last night.” My mother was the one to break the news to me. It happened a few days after dad had been kicked out the house, and mum spoke softly in case this piece of news would just topple me over the edge. I had walked in on my dad having an affair with Tommy’s mum, and the family had broken to pieces. When I was able to speak, we guessed dad had been back during the night to get some revenge, not realising mum hadn’t cared much for Ludo. He had spent most of his time at work; he probably didn’t even know Ludo was one of my best friends.

  When school finished, I got a job in a call centre and became number 240467. The bosses didn’t care about your name, just that you always had your photo ID on you to scan your way through doors and your employee number handy to log in to your computer. In seven years I didn’t receive one promotion. Giving my all for a year I expected something but all I got was a five pence per hour pay rise. It was probably laziness and routine that kept me there. I liked knowing my day well, from the exact time I had to get up to who would be in the lunch room at dinner time to what I had to say on the phone.

  I moved out mum’s house when I was nineteen. She had noticed I had no friends and began asking me every night why I wasn’t going out or making an effort to befriend people at work. For some privacy I moved out in to the peace and quiet of my own dingy flat in the midst of one of the worst areas in town. I got a bargain, no one wanted anything to do with Farmoore, and the properties continually lost value as crime rates grew.

  After Olivia, I found hope for happiness when I met Amanda. Mandy really understood me. When I was having an off day and I told her to just go home and leave me alone, she stuck by me and held my hand tightly. If I stopped talking for a while, she’d crack a joke and the conversation would just flow. When I truly needed time alone, she would let me, and wait until the next day before she tried to talk to me. It was an amazing relationship, it really was. Mandy was gorgeous too, with a small, pointed face and wide, innocent eyes. Her sister was manly, with hunched shoulders and too big features squashed on to a petite face. She was the reason it ended. All through the relationship, she had been jealous and spied on us through the cracks in the door. I often saw her eye peeping but chose not to say anything for fear of offending Mandy somehow.

  Thirdly...

  I sit, looking intently at the razor blade. It’s now or never, if I chicken out then the consequences are dire anyway. Nothing to lose from just continuing with it. The poorly tiled floor is grimy, and I have already dr
opped the blade onto it. It hasn’t been washed in months, who knows what viruses are breeding in the patches of black filth. One cut with that blade and it’s either going to go one of two ways, bleeding to death or blood poisoning. Gritting my teeth, I make the first slice. The skin parts stubbornly, a lot of pressure is required, but it does split and bubbles of thick red liquid appear before sliding down into the bathtub. A scream breaks the deathly silence. There’s no turning back now.

  “I hate you.” She snarled, a million miles away from the sunshine girl Mandy I used to know. “I never ever want to see your face again.”

  “Mandy, you don’t understand. I know she’s your sister, but she’s lying. I wouldn’t... couldn’t ever do anything to hurt you. I love you so much. You’re the only thing that makes me happy anymore.”

  “Honestly, I couldn’t care less. My sister wouldn’t lie; you’ve had it in for her since day one, she told me. Always looking at her funny and making her feel uncomfortable. Get out of my house.” She stood resolutely with her arms folded protectively across her chest.

  “But... it was your sister that made me feel uncomfortable. She’s always