An hour of walking

Boy stood on the pavement, holding a clipboard to his chest. He was dancing away in front of me, trying to attract my attention.

Stupid. Idiot.

I left him in a pool of his own blood, my spit and the shrieks of a thousand passers-by. Fingers pointing, I ducked into a doorway to light a cigarette.

...flickflickflick of the lighter wheel. The nicotine flooded into my system. I felt better; I almost went back to apologise, sign the form on his board, give up my bank details for some charity that prevented the torturing of dormice

of cats, dogs, whales, tuna fish, vulnerable children, disaster victims.

But I couldn't bear his girlish squeals. Hood pulled up, I rejoined the throng on the street, vanishing into the crush of Christmas shoppers, melting into the myriad bags, shirts, jackets, iPod headphones that litter every high street.

Step around last night's vomit. I stop for a second, see what pictures I can make out in the collection of dried pavement pizza. I turn away from the desiccated sweetcorntomatobeer combo, suddenly losing my appetite for food. Only for food, mind.

For pain it's insatiable.

I saw a psychiatrist once; he said I was using others' pain as a way of pushing my own deeper inside. His eyes widened when I cackled at his comment. It took me a full five minutes to stop. He didn't see me again. Wouldn't see me. Actually.

Somewhere lies a tape on which he recorded me describing the death of my parents. I stole a copy. Even I'm amazed at the lack of emotion. Not one single tear, not a sob, not a pause. Just matter-of-fact story-telling. Start to finish, barely pausing for breath.

Door slams. Hi honey, I'm home. Only the echo of my voice on the stairwell answering me with the same question.

If you asked me if I was lonely, the honest answer would be that I am. The shame of it is, I can't make relationships work. I'm too - what do the authorities refer to it as? I'm way too fucked up for that. If people manage to escape, they never return.

If they manage to escape.