LJ Idol 11, Week 1: Resolution
Because apparently I can’t write happy things :D
It was a Monday, he decided. Monday the first of the month. That's what he wrote down.
He was sitting at the desk in the study.
It was dusty, the window had been boarded up and he had disturbed approximately seven spiders whilst trying to find paper and pen, but he was now sitting at the desk he had used to write essays on during his school days, using a pencil stub he had found in the bottom draw.
Even if it wasn't a Monday, he dubbed it so, because Monday was the beginning of the week and today felt like it should be the beginning of the week.
And the first.
It didn't matter what month it was, not really.
But let us say, just for the sake of argument, that it was January, just to start off properly.
And because his calendar started on a Monday the first of January, and that would make it slightly neater in his mind, even if the calendar was way out of date and had pictures of New Zealand, from a long ago trip that someone took.
He would start again.
Yes, that sounded good. A new start to a new life.
Today, Monday the first of January, he was going to go outside.
He wrote that down too.
“Monday the first of January. Today, I'm going to go outside.”
He knew he was going off the deep end when he had to organise the world around him in order to make himself do something as simple as going outside, the Madness was getting to him more than usual.
Oh, the Madness.
He had first noticed the Madness creeping along the border of his consciousness at his brother's funeral, Mark's funeral, the second one that week.
It was a black pressure against the back of his head and spots to the edge of his vision.
Everyone was wearing black and grey and for a moment he had thought it was the veil of his aunt's hat on his right, until he noticed her on the other side of the coffin, which meant that the spots weren't from her veil.
He had checked around, found no women with spotted veils and decided that this must be Madness. But he was stronger.
Or so he had believed.
Now he was less optimistic.
He knew it was coming, it was just a matter of time.
He had closed the windows, shut the curtains and never ever opened them, apart from the one in the bathroom, because it was frosted and he couldn't see out from it.
But if he went outside, dealt with this, maybe he could keep the Madness at bay just that little bit longer.
That's why he called it the Madness, as well.
If he referred to it as simple madness, he might be lured into it, but the Madness sounded more official, more real, more concrete, like an object that he could push away or refuse. It helped that he could see it.
The spots came when he was sad or nostalgic. When he thought of the funerals, of the deaths, of the old days.
So he didn't.
He read a lot, instead.
Books, mostly, but sometimes academic journals, if he wanted to find something out.
He stayed away from the Internet now.
He had thrown away his computer after his mother's death - it was the only article that every online paper featured and every newspaper seemed to print. He had thrown the television away as well. Useless object.
He had given away everything that belonged to his mother, brothers, sister. Everything had gone to charity, or auctioned off and then the money given to charity.
He didn't need it. Maybe someone else did.
Maybe not.
All he needed was enough money in the bank to pay the bills, enough money in the house to pay for the books that appeared in his mail slot every few days at ten-twenty-two in the morning and enough money to pay for the food that his aunt brought by every so often (“Just to make sure you're all right, dear, because I haven't seen you in a while. Look at the state of this place, dear, when was the last time you hoovered? I'll do that for you, then, after I've cooked you some tea. You just relax right there, I brought you a couple of your uncle's books, he wants you to have them.'”).
If he had that much, then the rest of the world would leave him alone.
Good riddance to them.
Once he had started refusing to collect the newspapers, refusing to bring them inside and read about more death, letting them pile up on the outside doorstep, Bill had stopped delivering them.
His aunt wouldn't stop.
She was stubborn.
He had tried to make her leave him alone, but she wouldn't.
He used to ignore the knocks on the door, but then she got the neighbour to give her his key, meddling woman. She now knocked once, then let herself in and did as she pleased - as she always had done, his mother would say. Oh, the spots.
Waiting for the spots to disappear, he closed his eyes and made a mental list of things he needed to do before he could leave.
If it was January, he would need warm socks, a jumper, a coat, a scarf, maybe a hat.
But what if it wasn't January? What would he do then? No, no, maybe he shouldn't go outside.
But he had to go outside. If he didn't go outside the Madness would get to him, so he had to go outside. But he didn't know what the outside looked like any more. What if they had changed the street and the old neighbours had moved and Bill wasn't the owner of the shop on the corner anymore and they had changed the signs - and what if it wasn't January?
He had to open the curtains and see what the weather looked like outside.
But if it wasn't January, then he would have rethink what day it was and his day wouldn't be organised and maybe it wasn't a Monday, and if he went to the shop he would look at the newspapers and they would give him the day, month and year. What if he was completely wrong and it was the middle of June?
No, no, this was the Madness talking, trying to make him doubt himself, trying to make him stay inside, no, he had to go outside.
He put the pencil stub down, on one of the lines of the piece of paper, parallel to the edge of the page.
Alright. Ok. He could do this.
He walked downstairs and made himself a cup of tea.
Once he had his tea, he would open the curtains.
He knew the kettle took two minutes and nineteen seconds to boil one cupful of water, so in that time he washed the mugs that were on the side, twenty, and took the sugar and one teabag out of the cupboard, forty-five. The bubbles started, tiny little bubbles, fifty-two; he took out a teaspoon and set it, with the mug and the teabag and the sugar, next to the kettle. The bubbles became more violent, one-thirty-five; he put the teabag in the mug, took the milk out of the fridge.
The kettle clicked, he poured the water in and let it steep for one minute exactly. He removed the teabag, squeezing it to get the liquid out, added a teaspoonful of sugar, a little bit of milk, put the sugar away, the milk away.
Routine kept the Madness away.
Making a cup of tea took three minutes. Now he had a cup of tea in his hand and he needed to go into the living room and open the curtains.
But if it was too sunny, he would need to shield his eyes, and how could he shield his eyes if he had a cup of tea in one hand and a fistful of curtain in the other?
He would have to finish his tea before opening the curtains, that much was clear.
He went into the sitting room and sat on his winter chair. It was near the radiator. The radiator wasn't on, but he thought that if it was January, then he should sit in the winter chair.
He sipped slowly at his tea.
It was rude to slurp.
So he sipped, waiting for it to cool down enough that he could take proper mouthfuls.
The chair was comfortable.
He liked this armchair, it was one solid block of colour, unlike the summer chair, which had a light pattern on it. It was also less padded, which was good, because he would sweat in the summer heat and if he did so in the winter chair, he couldn't wash the covering as easily.
It was a silly thing to worry about, but organisation kept the Madness away.
He finished his tea and set the mug on the side table.
He knew he should open the curtains now, but the mug on the side would bother him until he brought it back into the kitchen and poured some water in.
Otherwise it would get a tea-stain at the bottom.
His mother didn't like stains on the mugs.
But she wasn't around to tell him off any more.
He blinked quickly to get rid of the spots.
He didn't like stains either.
So he stood up, picked up the mug and made his way back to the kitchen.
He would open the curtains, check the weather, make another mental list of what he needed, then he would open the door and go outside. He would conquer this little bit of the Madness.
He would.
After he dealt with this mug.
He put it in the sink, turned on the tap and watched the mug fill up with water, the colour changing quickly from tea to dirty to clear.
The sky might be clear.
He used to sit in the garden when the skies were clear and the sun was shining but not too hot.
He didn't do that any more. The door to the back garden had rusted shut.
He turned the tap off.
Right.
Item one on his list, check the weather.
He walked back to the living room, which used to be the front room, the room people saw when they walked in.
He stood about ten feet away from the living room window, squaring off.
No, that was the wrong word.
That implied he was getting ready to face the window, scared of what he might see. He wasn't scared, no. He was simply nervous about the change.
Everyone was nervous about change.
He took two steps forward.
The curtains moved as though there were wind, but there couldn't be, because the only window he opened, the bathroom window upstairs, the frosted window, was shut.
He hesitated.
No, no, that was what the Madness wanted. He had to go outside.
Another two steps.
Just one to go. One step.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and put his foot forward.
He felt short of breath, as he hadn't in a long time, and he brought one hand up to pull at the curtain.
He could do this.
He would do this.
He had to.
If he didn't, the Madness would win and he couldn't let that happen.
He had the curtain in his hand, he only had to pull it and he would see what the weather was like.
One tiny little movement.
Just one.
He couldn't do this.
He rushed back into the safety of the kitchen, shaking.
Tomorrow.
He would go outside tomorrow.
The Madness wouldn't get him in twenty-four hours.
He would be safe until tomorrow.
Yes. Tomorrow he would start again.
Tomorrow would be the first of the month.
Tomorrow he would go outside.
It was a Monday, he decided. Monday the first of the month. That's what he wrote down.
He was sitting at the desk in the study.
It was dusty, the window had been boarded up and he had disturbed approximately seven spiders whilst trying to find paper and pen, but he was now sitting at the desk he had used to write essays on during his school days, using a pencil stub he had found in the bottom draw.
Even if it wasn't a Monday, he dubbed it so, because Monday was the beginning of the week and today felt like it should be the beginning of the week.
And the first.
It didn't matter what month it was, not really.
But let us say, just for the sake of argument, that it was January, just to start off properly.
And because his calendar started on a Monday the first of January, and that would make it slightly neater in his mind, even if the calendar was way out of date and had pictures of New Zealand, from a long ago trip that someone took.
He would start again.
Yes, that sounded good. A new start to a new life.
Today, Monday the first of January, he was going to go outside.
He wrote that down too.
“Monday the first of January. Today, I'm going to go outside.”
He knew he was going off the deep end when he had to organise the world around him in order to make himself do something as simple as going outside, the Madness was getting to him more than usual.
Oh, the Madness.
He had first noticed the Madness creeping along the border of his consciousness at his brother's funeral, Mark's funeral, the second one that week.
It was a black pressure against the back of his head and spots to the edge of his vision.
Everyone was wearing black and grey and for a moment he had thought it was the veil of his aunt's hat on his right, until he noticed her on the other side of the coffin, which meant that the spots weren't from her veil.
He had checked around, found no women with spotted veils and decided that this must be Madness. But he was stronger.
Or so he had believed.
Now he was less optimistic.
He knew it was coming, it was just a matter of time.
He had closed the windows, shut the curtains and never ever opened them, apart from the one in the bathroom, because it was frosted and he couldn't see out from it.
But if he went outside, dealt with this, maybe he could keep the Madness at bay just that little bit longer.
That's why he called it the Madness, as well.
If he referred to it as simple madness, he might be lured into it, but the Madness sounded more official, more real, more concrete, like an object that he could push away or refuse. It helped that he could see it.
The spots came when he was sad or nostalgic. When he thought of the funerals, of the deaths, of the old days.
So he didn't.
He read a lot, instead.
Books, mostly, but sometimes academic journals, if he wanted to find something out.
He stayed away from the Internet now.
He had thrown away his computer after his mother's death - it was the only article that every online paper featured and every newspaper seemed to print. He had thrown the television away as well. Useless object.
He had given away everything that belonged to his mother, brothers, sister. Everything had gone to charity, or auctioned off and then the money given to charity.
He didn't need it. Maybe someone else did.
Maybe not.
All he needed was enough money in the bank to pay the bills, enough money in the house to pay for the books that appeared in his mail slot every few days at ten-twenty-two in the morning and enough money to pay for the food that his aunt brought by every so often (“Just to make sure you're all right, dear, because I haven't seen you in a while. Look at the state of this place, dear, when was the last time you hoovered? I'll do that for you, then, after I've cooked you some tea. You just relax right there, I brought you a couple of your uncle's books, he wants you to have them.'”).
If he had that much, then the rest of the world would leave him alone.
Good riddance to them.
Once he had started refusing to collect the newspapers, refusing to bring them inside and read about more death, letting them pile up on the outside doorstep, Bill had stopped delivering them.
His aunt wouldn't stop.
She was stubborn.
He had tried to make her leave him alone, but she wouldn't.
He used to ignore the knocks on the door, but then she got the neighbour to give her his key, meddling woman. She now knocked once, then let herself in and did as she pleased - as she always had done, his mother would say. Oh, the spots.
Waiting for the spots to disappear, he closed his eyes and made a mental list of things he needed to do before he could leave.
If it was January, he would need warm socks, a jumper, a coat, a scarf, maybe a hat.
But what if it wasn't January? What would he do then? No, no, maybe he shouldn't go outside.
But he had to go outside. If he didn't go outside the Madness would get to him, so he had to go outside. But he didn't know what the outside looked like any more. What if they had changed the street and the old neighbours had moved and Bill wasn't the owner of the shop on the corner anymore and they had changed the signs - and what if it wasn't January?
He had to open the curtains and see what the weather looked like outside.
But if it wasn't January, then he would have rethink what day it was and his day wouldn't be organised and maybe it wasn't a Monday, and if he went to the shop he would look at the newspapers and they would give him the day, month and year. What if he was completely wrong and it was the middle of June?
No, no, this was the Madness talking, trying to make him doubt himself, trying to make him stay inside, no, he had to go outside.
He put the pencil stub down, on one of the lines of the piece of paper, parallel to the edge of the page.
Alright. Ok. He could do this.
He walked downstairs and made himself a cup of tea.
Once he had his tea, he would open the curtains.
He knew the kettle took two minutes and nineteen seconds to boil one cupful of water, so in that time he washed the mugs that were on the side, twenty, and took the sugar and one teabag out of the cupboard, forty-five. The bubbles started, tiny little bubbles, fifty-two; he took out a teaspoon and set it, with the mug and the teabag and the sugar, next to the kettle. The bubbles became more violent, one-thirty-five; he put the teabag in the mug, took the milk out of the fridge.
The kettle clicked, he poured the water in and let it steep for one minute exactly. He removed the teabag, squeezing it to get the liquid out, added a teaspoonful of sugar, a little bit of milk, put the sugar away, the milk away.
Routine kept the Madness away.
Making a cup of tea took three minutes. Now he had a cup of tea in his hand and he needed to go into the living room and open the curtains.
But if it was too sunny, he would need to shield his eyes, and how could he shield his eyes if he had a cup of tea in one hand and a fistful of curtain in the other?
He would have to finish his tea before opening the curtains, that much was clear.
He went into the sitting room and sat on his winter chair. It was near the radiator. The radiator wasn't on, but he thought that if it was January, then he should sit in the winter chair.
He sipped slowly at his tea.
It was rude to slurp.
So he sipped, waiting for it to cool down enough that he could take proper mouthfuls.
The chair was comfortable.
He liked this armchair, it was one solid block of colour, unlike the summer chair, which had a light pattern on it. It was also less padded, which was good, because he would sweat in the summer heat and if he did so in the winter chair, he couldn't wash the covering as easily.
It was a silly thing to worry about, but organisation kept the Madness away.
He finished his tea and set the mug on the side table.
He knew he should open the curtains now, but the mug on the side would bother him until he brought it back into the kitchen and poured some water in.
Otherwise it would get a tea-stain at the bottom.
His mother didn't like stains on the mugs.
But she wasn't around to tell him off any more.
He blinked quickly to get rid of the spots.
He didn't like stains either.
So he stood up, picked up the mug and made his way back to the kitchen.
He would open the curtains, check the weather, make another mental list of what he needed, then he would open the door and go outside. He would conquer this little bit of the Madness.
He would.
After he dealt with this mug.
He put it in the sink, turned on the tap and watched the mug fill up with water, the colour changing quickly from tea to dirty to clear.
The sky might be clear.
He used to sit in the garden when the skies were clear and the sun was shining but not too hot.
He didn't do that any more. The door to the back garden had rusted shut.
He turned the tap off.
Right.
Item one on his list, check the weather.
He walked back to the living room, which used to be the front room, the room people saw when they walked in.
He stood about ten feet away from the living room window, squaring off.
No, that was the wrong word.
That implied he was getting ready to face the window, scared of what he might see. He wasn't scared, no. He was simply nervous about the change.
Everyone was nervous about change.
He took two steps forward.
The curtains moved as though there were wind, but there couldn't be, because the only window he opened, the bathroom window upstairs, the frosted window, was shut.
He hesitated.
No, no, that was what the Madness wanted. He had to go outside.
Another two steps.
Just one to go. One step.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and put his foot forward.
He felt short of breath, as he hadn't in a long time, and he brought one hand up to pull at the curtain.
He could do this.
He would do this.
He had to.
If he didn't, the Madness would win and he couldn't let that happen.
He had the curtain in his hand, he only had to pull it and he would see what the weather was like.
One tiny little movement.
Just one.
He couldn't do this.
He rushed back into the safety of the kitchen, shaking.
Tomorrow.
He would go outside tomorrow.
The Madness wouldn't get him in twenty-four hours.
He would be safe until tomorrow.
Yes. Tomorrow he would start again.
Tomorrow would be the first of the month.
Tomorrow he would go outside.