It's scary how much our perceptions can be affected by neuro-chemistry - just a dash of adrenalin and a deficiency of seratonin, and the world seems a very ugly place.
I was sat on the bus at close to four o'clock on a painfully dull Tuesday in January. The bus was crowded, with pensioners at the front and school kids at the back, and the traffic in Grangetown had been torturous. I was sitting third row from the back, with the top of the next seat pressing on my knees. In front of me was the head of a pensioner whose hair was so thin and wispy she was practically bald. Sat on my right with his back to me was a lad of about thirteen who was trading slaps and abuse with his mate on the seat across the aisle: every time he tried to dodge, he kept jolting backwards into my arm.
Just behind me was a girl with an extremely annoying laugh. She was resting her arm on the top of my seat and every now and then she would nudge me in the back and I could never tell if it was an accident or deliberate. I was feeling very paranoid and very put upon. I was sorely tempted to swing an elbow back in the cunt's face. On the back seat there was some sort of fun fight going on, with bits of crumpled paper, torn from school books, flying to and fro. One flew over my shoulder and hit an old man two seats in front of me. He turned angrily but said nothing.
The windows were all steamed up. I wiped a patch clear to look outside, struggling to control my temper. Outside, it was still raining as it had been all day: persistently, yet half-hearted, like the clouds couldn't really be bothered to make a downpour but it was too much trouble to hold it all in. Finally, we cleared Grangetown and turned right at the Toll Bar and up the bank into Hollycarrside. I stared at the little white prefab homes as the bus stopped and mercifully began to empty a bit. At the next stop, opposite the shop, most of the schoolies got off, including the dick on my right and the cunt at my rear.
What a relief! I felt like I'd been holding my breath for the last twenty-five minutes. The sense of ease was short-lived however: now the noise had died down I could hear two girls on the back seat talking in a serious tone about another girl who had apparently gotten into the habit of fucking for drugs - any drugs.
Suddenly, I felt very old and very tired. My limbs felt lifeless as my heart sank about three inches in my chest. I slumped against the window, my forehead resting against the cold pane, overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness. This all-too-familiar sensation took perhaps thirty seconds to take hold. By the time the bus reached my stop, it was a struggle to stand up and walk to the front of the bus.
Somehow I managed it. I stepped off the bus and into the rain and the deepening darkness. I stood for a few seconds as the bus pulled away and traffic appeared in both directions. Hunching my shoulders, I thrust my hands into my coat pockets and waited for the cars to pass. The rain was getting a little harder now. I crossed the road and winced a bit at the loud metallic clatter of the drain lid I had unwittingly stepped on. I walked down my street, fidgeting with the bus ticket in my pocket, until I came to my house. I opened the gate with my finger tips, reluctant to touch the cold wet iron and closed it gently a moment later. Opening the front door, I was greeted with instant heat and light. Straight ahead I could see my mother in the kitchen. The air smelled of mincemeat and onion puddings; the windows were steamed up by the boiling vegetables. My mam turned around towards me.
"Oh, it's you. Do you want yours putting in now?"
I grunted in reply and headed straight up to my room to avoid any conversation. I collapsed into my chair and stared out of the window for several minutes before switching the computer on and trying to play solitaire for the sake of some distraction.
It was no good: I was too distracted myself to concentrate and the deals kept going against me. I felt weak and bruised and it seemed like every eighth or tenth breath brought a heavy sigh. My mam shouted up that my tea was ready: microwave chicken curry and oven ready chips - the same thing I have every Tuesday. I ate what I could, mechanically and without interest, but I couldn't finish it. Unusually for me, I had no appetite. Instead I sipped at my coffee and tried without any luck to win even one game of solitaire.
By twenty to five, I'd had enough. My heart was beating slow and heavy, seeming to reverberate in my chest as if I were hollow. Every breath seemed like a pointless labour. It was no good: I'd have to try to ride this one out.
I stood up to switch on the light and close the curtains, before closing down the computer and switching it off. Then I browsed quickly through my CDs, looking for Moby's Animal Rights. Once I found it, I put it on the stereo and started to get undressed. I switched off the light, pressed play and got into bed.
I lay motionless, curled up on my side, facing the wall. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the music, focussing on the violin on 'Now I Let It Go'. I followed every achingly beautiful note, wrapping the music around me, taking solace in the sound. On it went: raw guitars, drum machines and pained vocals soothing my soul. I remained absolutely still until 'Say It's All Mine', when I began to get uncomfortable so I briefly turned over onto my left side before settling on my back, stretched out with my hands resting on my stomach. Just follow the melodies, revel in the sense of detachment. After a while I was unsure of the where my arms and legs were: I felt as though I was lying with my arms underneath me and I couldn't tell which way my legs were crossed. My body was numb. Never mind: just follow the guitar solo on 'Face It'; let it all fade. 'Living' built up slowly and sweetly before coming to an abrupt halt. Then it was 'Love Song For My Mom'. Once more, I was getting a bit uncomfortable, but I resisted the urge to shift, instead focussing on the acoustic guitar. When the last note faded I opened my eyes and stretched, enjoying the sense of relief as the life flowed back into my limbs.
After a minute I got up out of bed and walked over to the stereo, putting Animal Rights back in its case and replacing it with Nirvana's In Utero. I switched the computer on and loaded in FIFA 2002.
The room was very warm with the radiator on so I sat in my boxers and socks, playing football. I was feeling a bit better now - over the worst of it anyhow. I had this really strange and intense feeling - how can I describe it? A sort of fierce joy: even though my heart was still aching, in a way, it felt good. I felt absolutely in tune with the music, sweating a little, my legs itching from the nylon covered chair. Midway through 'Scentless Apprentice' I pulled on my jeans and hurried downstairs to grab a can of lager from the fridge. Back in my room I cracked open the can and gulped it down. Beautiful.
A thought, or rather, an urge was forming in my mind, concerning a craft knife I had bought a few months earlier, just in case I should ever need it. Briefly putting the can down, I slid open the panel under my bed and raked around in a plastic basket until I found the knife. It was still in its packet. It had six different shaped blades and had only cost £1.49. I tore open the packet and examined the metal handle to see how the blades were attached. At one end of the handle there was a bit of blue plastic with a cross marked in it. I twisted the handle and the cross opened into slits. I picked one of the blades and inserted it into the slit and twisted the handle to close its grip on the blade.
Sweating and flushed with adrenalin, I drew the blade slowly across my left forearm. It had that oddly sticky sensation that indicates that the blade is razor sharp. A thin red line appeared on my arm. Putting down the knife for a moment, I examined the cut, stretching the flesh either side of it to open it up. At two points, the line became a spot. A few seconds later, the line thickened and blood began to trickle down my arm. Taking a tissue from my pocket, I wiped the blood away. There was no pain as such: just a sort of curiously pleasant itch. I took another swig of lager and watched fascinated as the blood slowly reappeared. Again I wiped it away and the tissue was now damp and sticky with my blood.
I moved quickly to the bathroom, spinning and tearing a fistful of toilet roll off the holder and returning to my room. I dabbed at the cut, took another drink and made another experimental incision a bit further down my arm.
Then again: this time I slashed quickly, but nerves got the better of me so I pulled back the knife at the last instant so the wound was only shallow.
Feeling oddly exhilarated, I dabbed at my wounds and made fresh ones on my bare chest and stomach. By the time 'Rape Me' was coming to an end, my left arm was bleeding from three wounds and their was a further four on my chest: the hair was clammy with sweat and blood, but I felt strangely clean. There is this wonderful sense of relief to be had from cutting yourself.
I pressed the blade hard against the inside of my arm and drew it down slowly. The cut opened and the blood flowed quickly. I wiped it clear with the toilet roll, which was now fairly covered in blood, and saw it was fairly deep. For a couple of minutes, I just drank my can and dabbed at the blood, being careful not to get any on my jeans.
Then, for a change, I swapped the blade over to my left hand and started cutting my right arm, but it was awkward and unsatisfying: my left hand is practically useless. With the knife once more in my right hand I slashed at the left side of my stomach, opening up a five inch gash which bled profusely for twenty minutes. I had to keep wiping it to stop it running down into my boxer shorts.
By the time 'Pennyroyal Tea' had finished, so had the cutting (though not the bleeding). I dabbed and wiped the blood by the light of the computer screen. The toilet roll was crimson and maroon with the stuff. I counted nineteen wounds when it was over: some little more than scratches that would leave no scar; others that refused to stop bleeding. None of them really hurt. It wasn't until the next day, when they were all scabbed over, that I saw any reason to regret it: every one of them itched like mad.
The End