The book - bit by bit

[lukas989]

The mixture of exhaustion, being stoned and fear driven adrenaline was creating a strange dreamlike state in him, exemplified by the unnatural inability to walk properly; akin to the need in a dream to run from something or one, only to discover your legs don't work anymore. He remembered vividly the all too real dream he'd had whilst in hospital; he'd suffered a rather nasty tear of the tendons in his right knee, which required slicing his knee open to hold them all together again via a loop of wire. The very idea of flesh being sliced open caused squeamishness of the purest nature, and recurring dreams where he'd wake up during the surgery frequenting both visits to the hospital (the first to put the wire in, the second to take it out). It was the second visit where he'd had the all too real one - it was a far more business-like visit...in during the day, hours allowed to facilitate the necessary fast, surgery, then rest though the night. Awareness first kicked in where upon the dream had arrived at a point where he was in his hospital room, with rain lashing ferociously off the windows, amplified by flashes of lightning and rumblings of thunder. He lay there staring at the rains impact, when during one flash of lightning, he was able to make out a human shadow, against the momentarily lit wall. He looked round to take in a person in a doctors coat beginning to press a scalpel against the top of his knee, then dragging it slowly and steadily down across it to the top of his shin. It was a sensation he felt - painless sure, but certainly uncomfortable and made all the more horrific by the light ripping sound it exuded. He stared open mouthed at his knee, barely noticing the person retreating back out of the room; which is when he awoke - fear pulsating through him as he stared at the very same view he had just gazed upon in his dream...windows being pelted with heavy rain lit every so often by flashes of lightning. As he steadied himself and allowed calmness to return he felt oddly proud - although it was all just bollocks within his recently drugged up mind, it was nonetheless confusing enough to not know it was this at the time...and he'd handled it well, never crying out or panicking or crumbling under the pressure. Life had never thrown a death defying situation at him. He now felt better equipped for the possibility.

[lukas989]

He knew this was no death-defying situation, but the fear was moving in waves throughout his body; dread at the what-ifs that swam through his mind, the explanatory phone call to his mother: 'Hi ma,' (voice trembling) 'I'm currently wasting as much time as possible before I return to my cell to be buggered by a big tattooed man,' etc. He was back inside now, trying to calm his breathing and heart rate, with steady exhalations and forced images of tides crawling up golden sands. The first call for impending boarding tore him away from his created zen-state - the announcement of reality was now out; no turning back now. He glanced at the large entrance through to the boat; two chubby men stood weith arms folded, looking casual, sharing a joke about something or other - perhaps vaseline covered arms - looking like two people who'd been through the motion of checking boarding passes a million times before. The jovial scene relaxed him somewhat; people like him were small fish to these guys - the blood only got pumping when they apprehended big players, not naive arseholes with a lump of ganje lolling in their mouth. They'd merely check his pass, shake their heads at the sorry sight of yet another hapless dope in search of pastures green, and wave him through. Being thought less of was a far more attractive proposition than being thought ill of, so he pondered every facet of this role to while away the little time remaining pre-board. Maybe a little tragically it was treading old ground - perhaps an indication of his sorry level of self-confidence. He had wondered frequently that if he'd gone for it, committed to something he had believed in - usually in the guise of a song he'd written, or a book idea he had had - whether he might be sitting in the study area of his big huge eight bedroomed country home right now, rather than sweating over potentially getting nabbed for a little under seven grams of probably poor quality doobage. It was the frustrated wonderment of a million other over-thoughtful tossers he reasoned - for all the people in the world, it was likely that regardless of whether or not the thing they held in high regard was more than likely not the thing that equalled millions in the bank anyway. That was always something anyway - who was to say the direction life had taken owing to the decision not to pursue didn't offer the best possible outcome anyway? What if he had gone for it, and it had earned him wealth and fame and whatever else...maybe he'd be getting stabbed by an obsessed fan right now, or getting shot by a rival - who knows. Maybe the reason he was here right now was because it was where he was meant to be - the higher power or whatever dicated life-direction was holding him on ice right now for the moment of beautiful golden dream-like amazingness later on, only attainable by sacrificing oppurtunity up to a certain point...up to a point where his mind would tell him 'Yes - yes.' The call came  - he got to his feet with a large exhale, picking up his bag and began moving towards the two chubsters.

[lukas989]

The wodge of gum-wrapped ganje lolled uncomfortably in his mouth, prospering discomfort in equal measures regardless of the position he let it rest momentarily. He was aware of the sizeable lump in his cheek it pushed out if left to reside in either side, so he decided to juggle it with his tongue in the middle of his mouth trusting fate to spare him any prolonged conversation with the two overweight obstacles that barred his path. He eased his way in behind some people who were forming a loose line. He stared eagerly up ahead, to gain an idea of the protocol; easy enough it seemed - momentary pause in stride allowing the fattys enough time to take in the necessary info presented on the ticket facing, a nod, and onward to the next stage. He realsied at that moment he didn't have his ticket in his hand - a seconds panic, then self-mocking as he remembered it nestling in his inside coat pocket. He dropped his bag in front of him, edging it forth with his foot, thus freeing up his hand to reach in and get it. The line was moving quickly and incident free, the worry easing away from his mindset the nearer he got. Wasn't much required here for success after all really - just avoid the temptation to shout out an obscenity or spit at them...or any other random act of unnecessary defiance, and he would safely be on his way. The ticket now safely clutched in his hand, he again picked up his bag, to aid swift manoeuvering. The moment was coming at him faster than he'd anticipated - but he was going with the flow - the pace actually assisting his focus rather than hindering it. The couple in front of him exchanged some small talk with the guards - forgotten almost as soon as it was said - then it was him. He struggled slightly raising his hand with the ticket and his bag to allow visual ease for the two behemoths...and that was it. He was in. Panic potential over - no suspecting glance, no wonderment at the contents of his mouth...nothing. Adrenaline surged through him, bringing with it effort to suppress a yelp of glee. Such was the ease at which he'd wandered through, he started imagining a blossoming career as a drug trafficker; The Gum Smuggler they'd call him...forever etched into the pages of history amongst fellow traffickers as the guy who made his money with the assistance of juicy fruit, paving the way for other combiners of chewing and supplying. In all honesty he knew the quantities he could safely slip through undetected with probably didn't amount to a vip pass into the elite drug trafficking club, but it wasn't about that...it was about the obstacles he was to hurdle on his way to a new life; a new place to find himself. Test one was dealt with - just a short hour or so aboard this big metal tub, and rinse repeat at the other side. Easy.

[lukas989]

He thought about his dad; performing this exact sequence of events, lump of doob wrapped in gum in his mouth, hair slightly too long, earring glinting in the sun, gold-rimmed sunglasses on, top two buttons undone on his checked shirt. It frustrated him greatly that this side of his dad had even existed, when the only version he'd ever been privy to, was the short-tempered, arrogant closed-book one. He'd learned of the alternate, adventurous version during sun-kissed afternoons at his dads favoured vacation cafe, situated on the resort they visited yearly...a looser, fun-loving version of his father presented himself; willing to divulge stories of his youth, no holds seemingly barred, such was the freedom with which he spoke...it was never lost on him the bitter sweet element to the experience - this was a limited view of his dad, and was soon dissolve to be replaced by the areshole once more. It struck him at these times also, that it would be for the benefit of everyone if his dad was to, move out to France permanently, and thus make the transition to this elevated version of himself a more frequently visited one. It then transpired this was with high level of possibility; his dad proceeded to purchase a villa on the resort with his new wife, making the destination a staple in the calendar - sometimes three times in the year for his dad and step mother. They then began looking at cottages further down the coastline, actions which prompted hope within him he would finally receive in his life a father who wasn't a total prick in the higher percentage. Looking back on these trips down his fathers memory lane, he realised how simple his needs were, not to mention the urge he had within himself to witness the growth within his dad...he was well aware there had been troubled times aplenty throughout his dads life; like everyone else the benefit of the doubt had to be allowed for - noone was perfect etc etc - and well, he was his dad for fuck sake. If you cant make allowances for family, who can you make them for? It was the purity of the belief he had that better times were ahead, that made it all the more cold and bitter when the relationship finally did dissolve. He'd had a glimpse of what could be, and instead it went the other perhaps more inevitable direction. Thinking of what his dad made of what happened, he had no doubt that he probably felt it inevitable too...he recognised an inability to make good on what society taught everyone a good father son relationship was, and chose the easier option...to point fingers and piss and moan about the other parties failings for the remainder of his life. He wasn't the only one to feel this brunt.

[lukas989]

It dawned on him the irony of being right here in the thick of an act that mirrored one his dad had been through whatever amount of years ago...the man whom he had so much pent up disdain and frustration for; the very man whos' methodology in parenting had prmpted a vow to do all he could not to repeat in kind. It was the determination despite himself to cling onto something; a response to all the naysayers who scoffed at him when he told the tale of him and his dad...'But he's your dad', they'd say, 'You can't just shut the guy out.' He retort with a scoff of his own, a 'You don't anything about it,' type thing - but it was a sentiment he recognised; the hint of ridiculousness in the very nature of shutting out of his father wasn't lost on him. It was an effort to replace the actual spending time with him...instead he would pay tribute/mimick/pay non-direct reference to him when the possibility allowed itself to. He felt pulled in opposing directions, guilty for different reasons either side - guilty for his father being without his presence in his life; guilty for his mother living through the torment of being his partner then being positively thought of in spite of it. That fucking man...if he could find a way of presenting an argument that would have his dad see past his own selfish bullshit, he'd usher it forth in a second - in his mind at least. He could think of no structuring of words that would allow this to happen however...not without either fuelling the argument his dad no doubt spewed forth about what an ungrateful cunt he was, or to the other end, devastating him and sending him spiralling into an inescapable well of self-loathing and regret, bringing with it the abandonment of whoever was left as an everpresent in his life...his brother for example - who after time had being reached out to and had returned to the fold. It was a far clearer bond the pair of them shared than he did - with either of them to be honest. Any fallings out they had had, was underlined with a short term essence of huffiness - once the clouds had cleared, they'd be back, lives intertwined, getting on with the business of being father and son. A few years before, whilst sharing the same roof, with his mother and stepfather, his brother had handed him a letter his father had written - an olive branch prospered to rebuild the bridge. His brother at the time was a little over thirteen years old - perhaps an age his dad saw as the sort of age where a new level of respect was due (hence the letter), and this was alluded to within the writings. He read it awkwardly, mostly because of the personal nature it was written no to him, but his other son; his awkwardness dissolving upon the discovery of the mention of him in the letter - brief it was, but devastating it turned out to be. It slipped into the sentence suddenly 'I've already lost your brother, I don't want to lose you,' he read, prior to abandoning the rest of it and handing it back to his brother. His brother laughed and said,'He's always got to be so fucking serious.' He half-laughed back, watching his brother walk away, shouting something at their mother in the other room. It was in truth the real moment when he gave up on his dad. Many a night was spent thinking deeply about what had contributed to his dad thinking that...then writing it in a letter to his youngest son - apparently with the foreknowledge there was a good chance his eldest son would read it. It felt like a fuck you...a catalyst from which a definite direction could be taken. Maybe it was written with the intent he did read it - but then from it take the stance of 'Wow...I must make more of an effort with my dad.' It was that thought that pushed him into placing a time limit on things - act like nothing had been read. Things would continue as normal for now, but attention would be paid. It was his dad who was to make the effort.

[lukas989]

The knowledge of the letter acted as a weight against any dealings with his father from that point on; a weight which doubled as it turned out as a timer on their relationship. He would often catch himself staring at his dad through firelit eyes, following him round a room, thinking expletive laden thoughts at his apparent disregard of his existence, not to mention abandonment of any hope to mend things. A few occasions in which his father grew impatient with him for whatever trivial reason brought forth a rapid rising of anger within him...the very excuse to hurl the knowledge at him in a tirade, and dump all blame onto him. But instead he would leave the scene at its very onset, knowing the act in itself would end things. He often thought in these extremes - where his actions would provoke a sequence of events where he had to be sure he was willing to carry things through to a potential extreme conclusion...which would then itself act as a reason to back down before it ever got a chance to reach there. This mindset had cost him a lot - a fact not lost on him....countless times where he wished he'd pushed the envelope, thrown back into the face of injustice and issued comeuppance to those who deserved it. Rationale in general society afforded many who deserved their just desserts - hence why they were the people they were; and it was this generalness that provided him with the zen he required to let go and not get too bogged down in the regret. On the face of things, he'd much rather be recognised for things of a more diginifed manner than jumping up in peoples faces at every oppurtunity...which was a more positive way of saying he was scared of the unknown reactions to his actions - if he did call his father a gutless spineless useless cunt, what would happen? Sure it was possible his dad would say 'Woah...you're right son...I'll try harder', but it was also possible he would snap, and before he knew it they'd be wrestling on the floor grabbing and clawing at each other, reaching desperately for some kind of instrument to bludgeon the other - a claw hammer or something that happened to be lying on the coffee table - a brief seperation; a violent swing...then life in jail reduced to 14 years for good behaviour. Fuck that. Better to just sigh, move out of the room and trust karma to help things work out. Ridiculous sure, but you never know. He had spent years scratching his head at many of the life decisions his father had made - more than enough for him to not assume anything he did. The recurrance of 'why the fuck did he do that,' as a response to his father was now almost a natural reaction. Sure it bled into other areas of his life - but he was alive and well, safe from any obvious sign of threats uponhis existence - the nutty bastard had taught him survival skills. Maybe deliberately...maybe all this bullshit was a test, and one day he'd finally put his arm around him and say, 'Well done son - I'm proud of you. Your brother wasn't up to the challenge - but you...you're ready.'

[lukas989]

The walk to the boat was made unnecessarily slow by the high percentage of both the elderly and families with young children amongst their make-up, thus causing a breakdown in the smoothness of the journey. It was a curse and a blessing for several reasons....the pace suited his exhausted and stoned state, allowing him time to think about what he was doing. On the other hand, he was forced into close proximity with several other people - none of whom were paying any attention to him - but the fact that they might negated any relaxation he gained from the gentle pace. It was the youngsters who worried him most; feeling no embarrassment to suddenly take time over assessing him and notify their parents as to his existence, asking questions such as 'Mummy, why does that thin tired man keep licking his lips and have sweat all over his face?' over and over until finally, people were made uneasy enough to alert authorities. Then, hands forcing their way into his mouth, retrieving the gum and then who knows what. He stared at the back of a small boys brown hair covered head and thought 'Just dare to turn round and do that shit you wee prick and see what happens'. The head never looked round; it was too busy trying to crane upward over the level of the windows above head height to see the water. Eventually after a few promptings the boys mother (hopefully), stopped momentarily to pick him up, and continued onward with the child secured at her waste, excitedly talking loudly about how far the water was. It moved him to sneak a look at the water himself - it was the first time he had done; and it struck him how real this was all getting. Under two hours away from the purest form of physical isolation from his home ever...a total commitment to escape and branching out. The strategy of going to Ireland was twofold - namely he spoke the language and the celtic bond between Ireland and Scotland. Growing up he observed in popular culture the kinship the two countries felt towards one another...they looked out for each other in a way. He hoped for this in abundance upon arrival...especially in the beginning. Help and warmth offered to aid him find his feet and quickly shake the angst being in this poisition for the first time in his life caused. Naive sure - but also a nod towards the ideals most human beings would aspire to - that in their hour of need, others would be there to help them. Only natural the chances of this occurring are raised when leaning on people history has taught are theoretically more likely to help. Other Scottish people sure - but to other Scottish people hes exactly that - just another Scottish person. Over in Ireland he'd be a rarity; something to behold. This oracle sent from a far away land from which people can gain knowledge and understanding of alternate practices, and in turn pass on their own knowledge. Together they'd provide each other with the muse they had sought for so long, and thus would create and love and inspire together. He loved thinking this way - when the bubble burst, he would always realise how easy it was to rid his mind of fear and paranoia. These moments weren't for concern - the world was his proverbial oyster...it was up to forthcoming reality to either allow his hope to blossom, or to crush it. Until then positivity was to be wallowed in.

[lukas989]

The wodge in his mouth hung heavily in his mouth; he dreamt wantonly of a comfortable seat, by which he could leave his bag, freeing him to retreat to the bathroom and relocate the mary jane to an alternative dwelling. The impending nature of this transpiring roused impatience in him; ruing his position in the tortoise-paced queue of people. He felt the stiff cool breeze of the outdoors hit him in the face, as the first few filtered out for the short stretch to the massive ship that was to transport them to the Emerald Isle. He gasped at the force of the breeze, his mouth dry causing stight struggle to catch his breath. He toyed with the idea of navigating round the slower folks in front of him...but thought better of it. Evasion of eye-catching behaviour that would not be. Up ahead came a sudden shriek; he then noticed a purple hat skipping along the concrete towards the water. The hat put into context the strength of the wind as it spun along pausing briefly, before taking off again. A crew member stood between the hat and impending doom, and he watched interestedly as the crew member readied himself for a plaudit earning save. It looked abc stuff: the hat was coming straight for the crewman, albeit swiftly. Then at the last second a sudden gust whipped it from his grasp, sending it spiralling past his left ear. There was no saving it now...the crowd watched as it flew beyond the perimeter of dry land, out to sea. He suppressed laughter as people murmured around him, trying to get a glance at the victim of mother nature. The queue had thickened up ahead - presumably around aforementioned victim, offering condolences for her loss. It was a perfect happened he reasoned, at least for him...all focus now on the owner of the ugly hat, perhaps quelling the urge to laugh themselves at the absurdity of her upset. Maybe it was a hat passed down through the generations; worn as a symbol of respect to a patron previous; bringing a tear to the eye at memories whilst picking it up to don it. He preferred to think it belonged to a drama queen with a horrendous taste in hats however...it made him feel less guilty for the mirth at their expense. Fates way of paying them back for being an arsehole. It was by no means a disaster - just a subtle reminder that behaving arseholishly, caused upset in the grand scheme of things, and thus recompense would be brought down upon them in any variety of ways...unexplained dents in cars, the loss of an important document, the whisking away of a hat. He always enjoyed when karma paid a visit to the arseholes.

[lukas989]

The furore following the hat loss was inexplicable; as if a human being had plunged into the murky depths. The now hatless woman was crying theatrically, as a forlorn looking man - presumably her husband - tried in vain to offer solace. He felt the need at that moment to shout out 'Its just a stupid hat for fuck sake!', frustration gatecrashing his mind at the sudden standstill the group as a whole were experiencing. He stared at the man more, imagining with every incident like this regret built and built. There was no doubt he yearned for some kind of interest shown in him from a member of the opposite sex, but at the same time he never wanted to make do, or turn a blind eye to glaringly obvious short-comings. The man was a picture worth placing next to a definition of 'the problems of making do'...tired looking, resigned, withered. He structured the scenario in his head: the man growing up through his teens, college or university, degree achieved, the hunt for a job, moving from flat to flat, town to town...all the while keeping an eager eye for a young lady to partner him on his journey through life. He finds one - the perfect girl; things seem great - but then disaster...she moves away/finds someone else/dies...hes left distraught. Left ruing the boldness of her, the price he has been forced to pay for her vigour and ambition. Never to make the mistake again and once more to be left devastated, he lowers his expectations; seeks now a safe girl - one who will never leave him and will depend on him to forge her life as well as his own. He gets randomly introduced, they chat - she makes it way too easy for him to pounce...blah blah blah engaged married house...nothing of note - just the pillars of generic life goals, achieved at regular intervals along the way. The life drags the man further and further down....sapping away at his character and drive, leaving behing a shapeless lump...too tired, resigned and withered to produce the magic he once did. Instead life becomes about making sure things don't get out of control, making sure theres no reason for complaint. And with it a lifetime of what ifs, and what could have beens. He recorded the image of the defeated man in his mind - a motivation for what not to do. At least being alone left options - kept the fire of hope burning.

[lukas989]

Finally the forlorn looking mans continued yet tired efforts made enough of an impact, and the bare headed whinging bitch was on the move again. He smirked at the twitterings around him; mothers scalding children when they audibly queried what had happened, and why the 'old lady was crying'.The skies were turning more hostile; the brevity of the wind apparently whisking badness from somewhere recently far away, bringing with it higher winds and the first smatterings of rain. The boat - although huge - still held enough of a vulnerability in his eyes to perhaps succumb to some kind of distasterousness...a white squall (or some other kind of extreme weather phenomenon he hadn't heard about in a movie) could descend upon them, whisking them upside down and with it screaming, pain, horror and ultimately, death. He remembered the map though - this was no trip to the Americas he was about to undertake; vast hugeness of ocean...several miles from any hope of solstice - this was a swift expedition across the comparatively tiny expanse of the Irish sea. The increasing anger of the elements was hurrying people along, clutching each other and the hoods of their coats further down on their foreheads. Dock workers were tugging the zips up on their all weather jackets, masking the urgency to haul ass through controlled sensible commands, 'Straight ahead please,' 'Keep it moving folks' and the like. The head of the line were now at the entrance to the inner sanctum of the ship, the envy of everyone else. He was suddenly aware of the nagging in his stomach - yearning for some kind of savoury combination of food: meat potatoes, vegetables adroned with a generous amount of gravy....steam rising off temptingly, a pitcher of some kind of cool liquid sat in front with which to rinse down the mouthfuls. The image brought with it a renewed sense of impatience and the temptation to mutter 'move it you fucking prick' at the back of the head of the dickhead in front of him. He hoped for the head to give him a reason to label it a dickhead - it was completely unfair. The head was a model of queue professionalism however, swallowing up the space in front of it as soon as it became apparent. He felt bad for his earlier accusatory descriptive and apologised to a potential higher power - the only witness. He always ridiculed the idea of religion, but had a respect for a belief in a higher power. Each to their own was his take - for use of self-judgement...people knew when forgiveness was required - it was whether they gave a shit or not was the overriding factor. All a priest knew better than him was the inner-workings of his own chosen faith, which had no bearing on him. He would take on good advice welcomingly, but it was tough to do so when the advice became entwined in what he considered bollocks. He remembered being a naive fourteen year old - becoming more and more influenced by music in particular; in the main heavy metal and many of the sub genres. It was a time when the more blatant messages of things like dark and satanic subject matter was coming to the fore - which gave him a more focussed reason to dislike the preaching he was being subjected to during the core days spent at a church like Easter. It pretty much boiled down to hating being subjected to stuff he didn't really give a shit about, whilst immensely enjoying the output of people who offered completely opposing viewpoints. He never did go wholeheartedly after religion, or attempt to influence others with a more passion filled disdain of it, but it did inject a sense of 'why should I?' within him...what was the point of enduring something he didn't enjoy, that offered absolutely nothing in return? It wasn't like cutting the grass for hours for his grandmother...it was sitting listening to stuff he was bored to shit by, then going home. He reasoned that he was all in all a good guy, a considerate guy...he didn't need the blessing of a vicar to tell him that. His conscience aided him just fine in such matters.

[lukas989]

The line finally started to disperse as people broke off on their own paths within the confines of the boat; the varying requirements of food, bathroom visits and preferential seat allocation divided in everyones thoughts. For him, it was seat allocation...the urgency was to offload his bag, then stride purposefully to the bathroom to retrieve the illicit goods stored in his mouth. Then stuff good value food in his watering mouth. He stuck close by complete families; in his mind reducing the risk of some piece of shit boldly browsing through his possessions and retaining whatever they thought of value (although he could think of no reason why anyone would want colour faded band tee shirts, or well worn in jeans). Better safe than sorry though. The height of ridiculous possibility was never far from his mind...say he shat himself; possibly the ferry food was ill-prepared, stomach churnage, desperate effort to get to the toilet, but slightly too late...then soiled underwear; maybe a little slipped beyond the confines of the underwear material and soiled his jeans - then there he'd be miles from familiarity sans luggage with a midriff adorned with faeces. Fuck that. A nice wholesome husband and wife donning matching tracksuits, with a couple of well groomed kiddies were the very ticket - reliable, trustworthy, and always willing to help a young man heading out into the big wide world. 'Sure!' they'd say in chorus, 'Consider your bag watched young fellow me lad! Care for a boiled sweet?' Which he'd of course have to refuse owing to the intrusive lump of doobage in his stupid face. The folks around him - seemingly with the same pan as him, i.e. get the seats first, other shit later - were plentiful in their percentage of families. It would be harder not to end up alongside the mental representation he had created than not. Thankfully, the abusive, angry stereotype seemed non-existent amongst the faces....his low value possessions were in apparently safe hands. With this, the intensity of picking the right region to situate himself dissipated somewhat; and instead he focussed on position rather than people. Off to the side against a wall was always the preference in such circumstances...only one direction for any potential attack to occur, and a solid surface between himself and his valuable. He sat and waited for a brief while to allow the seats around him to fill to a satisfactory level, and made his way to the toilets. The imminence of ridding his mouth of the intrusion created euphoria within him, and he almost broke into impromptu song on the way. Much like the feeling one might get upon the final few yards of escaping jail or suchlike he thought. He was free at last! 

[lukas989]

He pushed his way into the mens facilities, immediately met by a wall of humanity, in varying forms of urination, hand washing and cubicle exiting/entering. The public toilet was his least favourite place to share...urinals were a complete no-no unless absolute emergency was apparent - standing next to a person for the purpose of emptying his bladder, for some reason caused his body to forget how to do so, and many an occasion had seen him stand there awkwardly staring at the wall, trying vainly to tell himself to relax...think of a nice calm environment; the sounds of water cascading...until finally he pretended to waggle the last couple of drops from the end of his penis, zip up his trousers, and walk away dejected. Thus after a few repeats of said turn of events, he was a cubicle only kind of guy - pissing or shitting. The comfort of a locked door between himself and any possible pervert allowed him the confidence he needed to let the yellow flow go. Shitting however - perhaps as vulnerable as a person can be without being taken hostage and strapped to a bed naked - was an occasion he preferred to enjoy out of earshot...solstice took the form of lining the water with a layer of toilet paper to offer a cushioning effect, and therefore lack of water noise. This also doubled up as a way of avoiding the dreaded public toilet water rebounding up his asshole - the very thought of which brought forth all manners of horrific possibilities and dread...the doubt caused by what the last fuck utilising the cubicle was up to, meant all precaution was necessary. From insane bouts of diarrhea, to hard drug consumption, to bizarre sexual fantasy realisations - you never knew what sort of fluids or disease or whatever was left behind; or for that matter how much of a shit the resident cleaner gave about creating a welcoming environment for patrons. The happy song playing in his mind was instead replaced with expletives and negativity - the wad was to remain present in his mouth; a realisation that was met with a pang of dull pain through his lower jaw. The trick was to now allow enough time to pass to make sure anyone in the proximity didn't see him return to this very mens-room; sure he could assume that everyone didn't give a shit, and would just write it off as a guy with a weak bladder or whatever...but that wouldn't be the act of a master criminal. That would be the act of a future prison-dweller. Time to see what delights the rest of the boat held.

[lukas989]

Maybe the expectancy of the pending removal had told his jaw that it need not offer any further resistance, as now the pain he felt offered little by way of alternative outside of biting the bullet and removing the intrusive lump. Weighing up the options in his mind he decided that taking the chance of actually removing it, was on equal footing, if not more advantageous than leaving it where it was. He thus strode purposefully to a secluded corridor, hunting through his pockets for a an article with which to wrap the sweaty wodge in. As luck would have it, he wasn't the sort of guy to discard leaflets or receipts eagerly, choosing instead to retain until a proper refuse facilty became available. A glossy leaflet adorned with tour dates for a band he'd never heard of, was then promoted to the new residence for his cargo. He waggled his jaw back and forth, assisting it with one hand, in an attempt to knead life back into it. He followed the route of the corridor rather than doubling back to avoid suspicious manueverings, and soon was thrust back into the slow moving parade of folks exploring the options the boat offered them. He reached for his neck; the strain on his jaw had spread down the muscles into his upper back. He rewarded himself with the satisfying thought of sitting casually in some fictitious place in Dublin, inhaling deeply on a spearmint tinged joint - the taste of success. The aches and pains battle scars from a mission of daring and cunning. The image dissolved in his mind at the sudden intake of wondrous smells....eggs, bacon, sausages et al - the dining area was visible off at the end of the current walkway. Saliva filled his mouth at the prospect of stuffing it full of breakfast paraphernalia. There was just the small matter of the multitude of arseholes obviously with the same intent, between him and a plateful of tasty goodness. He fell into line, staring at the back of a fat mans head. He reasoned, that as hungry as he was, this fat fuck was on par if not moreso, so he could thus use him much in the same way as an automobile operator could follow an ambulance tearing through busy streets to save himself time - not to mention absolve himself of any blame for shoving through, 'Oh apologies - I was just following this over-nourished prick,', he'd retort to protests of queue jumping. Fatty didn't disappoint - the aromas seemed to act as a trigger in his brain - fuck manners, I'm hungry - as he proceeded to shove his was past any who dithered for any length of time. Exactly as planned, the pained looks of begrudgement were levelled at fatty, some muttering half-hearted words of protest; but still he was directed through with aplomb. He wanted to reach out and clap the big behemoth on the shoulder, in an act of gratitude - but he resisted; aware of the possibility of being fingered by the victims of the the misdeed, 'Heyyyy - that skinny bastard behind the fat prick is also worthy of our pathetic whimperings!' Instead, he remained satisfied with the advantage he gained - and continued to gain. Soon, hash browns and baked beans would be nestling on a warmed plate - that was reality. A potential respect-giving session with the greedy fat bastard that had lead him there, was neither required or even part-way guaranteed to be met with positivity.

[lukas989]

He wandered to an available table using the premise of 'If you don't make eye contact, there is no problem,', sensing the disdain he was being viewed in by others still waiting for their food. He opted for a window seat - the perfect distraction to alternate views. The smell of fried eggs, sausage and bacon was fast turning him ravenous; he slid excitedly onto the cushioned bench, pulling the plate towards him. The first bite....it provoked the same thought every-time - he would approach food in the same way from now on; i.e. go as long as possible without it, then tuck into a large meal such as this. Never did food taste better. Of course this was much harder to do when food was mere seconds away stored in a cupboard or fridge - the act of sitting trying to tell yourself to resist and wait until starvation set in, was both an act of idiocy and pointlessness. It was hard to turn his back on the fact he was generally a big bloated bastard when it came to food - selfishly and slyly tucking into more than his fair share in group settings, and greedily polishing off complete packets of biscuits in one sitting when alone...he generally avoided whenever possible buying biscuits or chocolate any more for this very reason - the image of his face nestled in an untidy jowly fat head disturbed him enough to remove the temptation altogether. As a child he turned the art of pilfering sweet delicious treats an art-form....sneaking along the corridor from his bedroom, tiptoeing past the living room door where his parents were (doing who knows what - according to them tv ended at seven thirty...coincidentally the time he was sent to bed), into the kitchen, carefully pulling open the cupboard, teasing the lid off the metal tin that was easily three times older than he was, stacking the home made baked goods three high, then one-handedly repeating the process in reverse, before returning unhindered to his bedroom to taste the sweet taste of victory. That was until one night, upon reaching the living room, his parents swung open the door, his mother theatrically exclaiming 'What are you doing up at this time??' His reaction provoked fits of laughter as he threw himself to the floor turtling up to protect himself from whatever followed. The laughter turned the fear to ridicule, and thus he hopped back to his feet and sprinted back to his bedroom, tail between his legs. From that night on, theft only occurred when he was absolutely certain he was alone and not to be disturbed...the event had him certain that following his departure to bed, his parents then spent the rest of the evening in silence, listening out for suspicious sounds. The thievery required longer term planning - a box previously home to lego, now became his stash box - home to whatever he laid his hands on....biscuits, cakes, dog snacks - although not as delightful as say, a piece of shortbread, a dog biscuit filled a hole when necessary.

[lukas989]

As stealing a dog biscuit denotes, the thrill of the crime was perhaps a big part of why he did it. Although in saying that, he remembered vividly a routine sense of despair whenever he gazed upon the selection of cereals or was regaled with what his mother planned fro dinner that evening; a cocktail of healthier adult cereals with 'Wheat' or 'Oat' in the title (he would listen jealously to kids at school who would gloat knowingly about stuffing a second bowl of chocolate something-or-others down their fat faces), and liver, brown rice and some kind of tomato laden concoction slopped on the side for the evening meal. It was realised as a man of more senior years that he became institutional to the mindset that certain ingredients meant potential vomiting; he recalled hungrily scoffing a chicken pie his mother had prepared, asking her what was in it besides the succulent chicken as he received an extra helping. 'Mushrooms' was one of the ingredients his mother replied with - and as quickly as that, the meal became inedible...childishly he began bemoaning having to finish it, he was suddenly 'full' and so on - his mother merely rolled her eyes and dismissed him as a weirdo. It was a sobering moment...he was a fucking weirdo - susceptible as anyone could be to certain pressures and ways he believed as being paramount ot being viewed as 'normal' - only the cool kids do this or that. It belied his very existence; the family home was a couple of miles on the outskirts of the village he went to school...in other words, worlds away from a social scene of any consistency, meaning there was a precedence set on creating his own fun, thinking his own thoughts. He would spend hours creating characters within his head acting out competitive scenarios involving obstacle courses he would navigate on his push-bike; repeating it over and over in the various guises he had created - each one committing fewer penalties as the last until the final rider - himself - would navigate the course perfectly, and thus lift the trophy. There was no memory of anyone else engaging in these activities with him; they were a guilty pleasure only for him; much like masturbation. Highly enjoyable, but very much too embarrassing to discuss with someone. He reasoned this acted as a catalyst from which the core of his defensiveness sprouted from - cards close to his chest, silent in the background looking to support whatever the more extrovert people chose to explore. Many a time happenings would occur where thoughts he kept to himself were acted upon by others, whom then would reap reward and plaudit for bringing attention to the subject, and as such he would endure a lengthy period of self-loathing for not biting the bullet and just pushing the envelope himself. It wasn't lost on him however there would be a severe loss of impact if the thing of intrigue was presented by him....it wasn't expected of him and thus wouldn't be met with anywhere near the level of enthusiasm. If he said 'listen to this song/watch this tv show' it would be met with apathy aplenty; the same pushed by a more recognised peer and it was 'Holy shit that's amazing!' as far as the eye could see. Cunts.

[lukas989]

The removal of any influences - whether they be inspirational or aspirational - was one of the major reasons for this...'escape'. Thrusting himself into a position where it was of paramount importance to make independent decisions; to make clear cut choices about direction, free of any worry that history belittled him...the slate was clean - his past was shrouded in mystery. People he would encounter would only have perception. Info could be drip fed to anyone he wanted if at all. The challenge was to stay strong. He was well aware of his inexperience, but also confident in his will power. He would often justify his lack of social standing up to the current point in his life, by the fact it wasn't worth the effort. The small grouping of folks he was surrounded with through school, via family, chance meetings - whatever; none of them really inspired much of a reason to divulge much - and if anything ever was he regretted it; not through embarrassment, but because it was wasted on the person he had opened up to. It was merely a case of wallowing for so long in the pool of built up thoughts, emotion and belief had caused a spillage where by he had to find a receptacle to tip the overflow into. He reasoned this was due to the lack of anything else to concentrate his efforts on...many many teenage days had been spent sitting and waiting for...something. It was a long period of gathering up information and observing - his influence tainting nothing other than his own thoughts. That lengthy a spell dedicating himself to such things had created this desire within him to explore, whilst retaining that ethic - things dismissed by others were lapped up by him; things generally seen as irrelevant was anything but to him. With the scope complete relocation offered - no allies, no enemies, no previous experience - coupled with the desire to explore, excited him. The way he had been up to then was inconsequential - he was an odd one out in a field of three to four hundred...but three to four hundred was nothing from a total population of billions. Any doubt he had was squashed, owing to the confidence he had in the belief that life had tossed him to the wrong place...fate had sent him somewhere where the for-grantedness would be squeezed out. It would prepare him to respect value and honour, to pay attention to decency...to recognise goodness. Anything dismissive made him angry - not just on a personal level - whenever a lack of respect was demonstrated in any way, he would feel that rise of ire within himself. Life up to that point had created that. His experiences, bad and good had created a high level of decency in that respect. This was an exercise in discovering those who would provide the muse he required - and hopefully in return, he for them. Single figures of people would do - he wasn't greedy. Surely amongst the billions, he could be provided for.

[lukas989]

There was a strange sort of conflict in moments such as these - whereby a hearty meal could be so nourishing...the enjoyment from the simple act of eating was so great, it made the state he was in prior to tucking it away worth being in, just so the level of heightened appreciation could be experienced. On the other hand, it was a sobering moment realising how miserable he had felt, compared to the comparative Eutopia he was in now. At this point in his life drug consumption was still exciting, still a motivating world to be a part of. He had barely experimented right up to he age of eighteen - an age that coincided with leaving home for college - and then for the two years between then and now, it was a steep ascent up to the point he was now; i.e. being woken up by the alarm clock, and reaching for the rizlas'. It wasn't yet apparent to him that this was in any way a problem - college was only a three month old memory - daily practice hadn't yet had enough time to really become in anyway altered. what had become the norm for the previous year or so, which was basically sharing a dingy flat with four other like-minded, yet more experienced young men smoking dope every day - and when not smoking dope trying to find a way to get more - would not stop being his life immediately. It was the first time since he was in the single digits of life he really felt like he belonged to something. He remembered judging those who found themselves immersed in a mirky world of drugs and addiction and hopelessness...but the last year had taught him it was an easy place to end up. It was by no means on the scale of those he judged, but it gave him an appreciation of the slippery slope. You place your trust in others you are surrounded by , they likewise, and the fight for survival becomes a shared responsibility...betrayals and acts of selflessness are amplified based on the level of desperation...everything is just so much more important. The period had seen him kick up the speed of growing up to the nth degree - he left far wiser and more respectful of life and people in general. In saying that, he was never really in any doubt that that would be the result - respect and awe was deep-seated within him...it was more a fear of not have that reciprocated, which was a fear that became more and more diluted as time went on. Leaving was a strange moment owing to the realisation. He knew he was immensely grateful and proud of the events...but by fuck he was happy to get out of there. Leaving behind forever (of that he was quietly confident) the people who had been in his life for the previous two years.

[lukas989]

The college he ended up attending was not set in stone until a mere three weeks prior to starting; there was hope to attend another more prestigious establishment, but he saw the writing on the wall when his port folio of work was held up in the light of day against would be colleagues. He was aiming for a career in architecture, which was downgraded to media production given his lack of qualifications achieved. The interview at the place he would eventually attend was far more within the realm of his comfort zone; the other potential students seemed far more at his level, which - owing to the complete lack of self-confidence at the time - he deemed more of an insult to them than himself. The two interviewers - Mr. Jenkins, head of the Video Production wing, and Ms. Moore, head of the Media Studies wing - were suitably impressed with his work, glossing over the apparent artistry of his pencil drawings, and the neatness of his technical drawings. He was proud of them, and rightfully so it seemed. They relaxedly probed him on his desired direction, ambition and his perceived areas of expertise...it was almost by the end pressure-free - the weight lifted from his shoulders upon being met with the positivity aimed at his work was exactly the start he needed. There was no doubt he was good at art - but looking back it always dawned on him that perhaps he was better suited elsewhere - more matter of fact vocations, involving maths and accountancy and stuff that was right and wrong. There had always been a lack of conviction in him up to this point in his maturer young years, and he did not doubt for a second that the direction he had gone in was far more based on what he thought people wanted him to do rather than what he was actually 'born' to do. His mother had grown up a frustrated artist, career path halted abruptly upon being interrupted by the meeting of his father, choosing then to drop out of university and raise a family. An attempt was made to resurrect on numerous occasions, but the desire had gone almost...arguably owing in some part to having the motivation drained from her by his cunt father. There was no doubt she was very much her own person - that much was extremely apparent upon being freed from the shackles of marriage; but by then it seemed, priorities had changed, she accepted chances had passed her by. This seemingly provided the fuel to her not so subtle hints to him to undertake art, 'You were always really good at that,' 'Why don't you look into this' etc. etc. were phrases peppered into every conversation about his after school career. He was convinced but not confident...indeed his mind was more filled with what life would be like away from home for the first time; what people would be like, what they'd think of him, what would happen...the potential jobs or opportunities created by successfully achieving a certificate in college was an afterthought - something that wasn't that important even. As he shook hands with Mr Jenkins and Ms Moore, he was already imagining being here every other day, gazing at the four walls for the next couple of years, breathing the air...this is where he was going to be. Walking out he found himself staring at people he wandered by, as if to introduce himself to them - they were after all now his colleagues.

[lukas989]

It struck him just how diverse people were in comparison to those same handful of folks he had grown accustomed to for the previous ten years...just looking around offered more. It was easy to fall into the trap of believing that everyone who was styled differently from a very tight comfort zone, was a person to mock and ridicule...not that he had - but growing up he witnessed these very things happen; people would be his best friend one year before becoming a rude stranger the next, having been claimed by the group that the small school community afforded the most fearful respect...as if the only way to be part of the gang was not only to distance yourself from certain people, but to cause them mental and unfortunately physical torment. It was the perils of residing in a shut off small community - sometimes regardless of who you were, if you didn't luck out and share views, you either had to live a lie and pretend you did, or suffer for the crime of thinking differently. He had attempted both - he had arrived in the area with a solid background of popularity, and thus enough reason to believe he would be accepted much of the time. He played the game to begin with - reacting to others, not being too over-bearing, quipping in where possible, but it became apparent quite quickly a fair amount of adaptation was required; toning down on who he was and becoming enthusiastic about shit he couldn't care less about. It became a choice of embracing awkward chat and fake laughter, or distancing himself and becoming resigned to a life of solitude for the remainder of his time. He chose the latter - and over the course of the remaining four years of residence there was reasons aplenty to both feel regret and pride in his decision. The core of the in-crowd found themselves in almighty trouble with the law within the first year of his lack of involvement - the casual passing round of hash and pills was so blatant, it was only a matter of time before it became a police matter. As it turned out the supplier - an in all honesty quite tragic figure named Ian - had been splashing out the drugs on tick, keeping track via an un-coded list of names and amounts in a little black pocket book. It therefore didn't require the services of Sherlock Holmes to round up the folks documented in said book, from whom damning evidence was extracted in exchange for much reduced punishment. Ian as a result was completed thrown in front of the bus, going down for a spell of four years behind bars - a term he had reduced by confirming the names of suppliers and biggest buyers. For this, he was rewarded with the moniker of 'Grass' - within weeks of beginning his sentence he was attacked by three inmates, leaving him with broken ribs, a broken jaw and a dislocated shoulder. He used to think of this often - he had known Ian prior to all the debauchery; at that time he was an overweight outcast - routinely bullied and tormented, many instances of which he had witnessed...it was a horrendous existence, and one he had zero blame for Ian holding desire to move away from. It was these very turn of events, that in spite of his own lonely spell, had him in no doubt that distancing himself from the available community was a smart move.

[lukas989]

Those last few weeks between electing to attend the college he had felt the comfort with, and actually attending passed remarkably quickly; time seemed finite again given there was actually something to count down to; not to mention the nerves pulsating through him at finally having to put his money where his mouth was, and prove that he was more than what he was perceived as. Of course there was doubt - his tastes in things, his lack of experience, his urgency to be and do better, all added up to a lot of pressure. As it turned out, a girl - Jill - was to attend the same college. And, the same course. He wasn't sure of how he felt about this...he didn't particularly mind Jill - in fact he had been quite close to her at certain points through their school career, but she was quite the drama queen; best friends then bitter enemies with various people - always some kind of debacle surrounding her, and practically always completely blown out of proportion and made a much bigger meal of than necessary. He had floated in and out of her radar - depending on whether she was currently in a 'best buds' phase with whoever (meaning he was ditched), or alternately in a 'I hope she/he dies' phase (meaning he was required). He wasn't stupid - he realised she was a big fucking arsehole, but, well, he was bored a lot. He didn't mind listening to her nonsense - he had learned earlier in their relationship to not take things too seriously - even if whatever she droned on about indicated otherwise. He'd received the kick in the stones at around about fourteen years old; he freely admitted (to himself) that he was kinda crazy about her then. There was no doubt his blatant actions left her under no illusions how he felt, but it didn't stop her from slipping the tongue down the neck of many many a lad - often right in front of him. It was how wrong he was that struck him the most...he'd let himself be convinced that this was the one - this was the girl. He completely accepted her right to do what she saw fit, and there friendship was never dictated to by him owing to her actions, it was always based on her terms - they talked if she wanted to, hung out if she felt like it. He was told on more than one occasion - lectured even - that she was bad news, he would only get hurt etc. etc...which he had been he supposed; but it was like a splash of water in the face - a reminder that his over-cautiousness was apparent for a reason. He was bummed for the weakness he had displayed whilst at the same time kind of proud that he was right to begin with; the way he was would protect him; he just needed to be more aware. After that, it was easier - she came and went as she pleased, he relieved the boredom entertaining her rants. It was a dynamic that suited them both.