On Doomsday!

PREFACE—This is a terrible post and will most likely be taken down in the near future. Sometimes I just want to write, for no good reason other than finding the act therapeutic.

My phone rang at 22:38, but, before that, many things had already happened to bring me down.
    In the days between Christmas and New Year’s, the seafront is far busier, as families – and their dogs – seek to stretch their legs, walk off large lunches, get out the heat of their wintery homes and then return to them refreshed. A middle-aged couple with their car parked next to the grass throw old bread to the gulls that fight and swoop. It is cold. I had left the house in a kind of rage that, although kept private, was unreasonable and needed to be chased away with fresh air; so I walked & walked. The young man in the cornershop was very ditzy and cheerful with it so that I found him amusing, wishing each other a happy new year, and I continued. Although it was cold, the weather was good, and the pale clouds streaked across the blue sky formless and faded. When I returned, my family had eaten a large brunch and already kicked off their New Year’s Eve festivities.
      Not eating was my first mistake.
    Instead I made myself a pot of coffee and played chess for a couple of hours. I tried to make conversation with my opponents – Palestinian, Norwegian, Scottish, Canadian – but they were not interested. I went upstairs and began to fool around with my guitar equipment, fiddling with the dials, and listening carefully, but I did not think it sounded good, so I became more irritated. This was my second mistake. I should have let it be. I kept on trying next to the window’s draught. My plants are dying, as I have forgotten to water them. They are fragile, losing their colour now and going brown. There was nothing to be done with the equipment; all the cables and wires lay tangled in the middle of the room; I had made things worse.
    Downstairs my parents were on their second cocktail and offered me one, but I declined. I took a beer and sat down with my book, yet could not concentrate with the terrible music that was playing. There seemed to be food everywhere, but none to eat, or when I went to eat it I discovered that it had been thrown away, so I just drank.

    I drank my fill of beer. If I am unhappy, I either drink until I am happy or I have forgotten that I was unhappy in the first place. It is one of my worst traits. This was my third mistake. As miserable as I felt, I carried on drinking. Ring in the New Year! I am finished with this one! Once I had drank all the beer I could get my hands on, I offered to make cocktails. The cocktail had a lot of alcohol in it, so for very little swallowing effort I could become much more drunk. I drank three cocktails then I drank some red wine with my father. By the time dinner was served at nine o’clock, I had before me a pint of beer and a large glass of red wine. The food was not quite to my liking, and I was focused on the drink, so I prodded the food with my fork and moved it about the plate. After dinner and the red wine was finished, I went searching around for another crate of beer to get started on.
    My phone rung at 22:38. I went outside to take it. It was Kwame. Our greetings were brief as he rushed to tell me—‘Did you hear MF DOOM is dead?’ I did not believe him. ‘Yeah, it’s a rumour at the moment. I’m trying to find out whether it’s real or not.’ We spoke for a bit, then I returned inside and started to look on the internet for whether it was true. It was. As my family chatted and the music played, I felt my throat tightening and my cheeks becoming sore. I hurried out the room and upstairs, sat on the edge of my bed and wept. I bent over and felt the tears fall on my jeans. After fifteen minutes I attempted to regain my composure and went downstairs, where I sat in silence, until the thoughts could no longer be ignored and I broke down again. My family looked at me, confused. I explained, blubbering, what had happened. My family looked at me, confused. I wept openly and shamefully. I sobbed and wailed! Eventually my mother came over and put her hand on my back. I explained that his brother had died when he was younger, and his son had died earlier this year and now he was dead. I said that it was all so awful, so sad. I do not know how much time passed as I struggled – and failed – to control my crying, thinking that I looked very foolish and was ruining everyone’s evening.
    The countdown is very vague in my memory. When I awoke, first of all I felt that my tongue was as leather, then I remembered that he was dead. A part of it seemed as though it had been a dream. It was no dream. I did not want to get up. When I came downstairs, nothing was mentioned of my episode nor its cause, just that I had drunk too much and made a mistake by not eating. When I started to dwell on things, or read tributes, I found myself weeping again, so I distracted myself and shook my head. I made myself a coffee and sat in front of the television for the rest of the day. It was a new year.