After The Rain (1/3) By Joe Hakim

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3),

He noticed there was another crushed snail by the doorstep. It was the third one he'd found this week. It was funny because he could never recall standing on the snails, but there they were. He opened his back door and lit a cigarette. He'd been in this place for a month now, but it still didn't feel like his home, just a place he was staying in for a while. Boxes cluttered up the rooms, boxes that he just couldn't be bothered to empty. He'd taken some time off from work after having an outburst. He didn't mean to; he thought he was over it, but all it took was one comment and everything he been keeping inside came out.

It was an ugly thing, and most people don't know how to deal with the sight of raw emotion. He remembered everyone's faces as he was led out, their eyes unable to meet his as the tears poured out.

He felt embarrassed by it now. He'd let his guard down and put all his feelings out on display. Deep down he knew he couldn't go back. They had something on him now; they'd seen him for who he really was. He picked up the paper and idly flicked through the jobs section, but as usual there was nothing there. It was only early but he decided to have a drink. He looked in his fridge.

A few bottles of beer, a couple of eggs and some sour milk. He pulled out a bottle and flicked the lid off with his lighter.

It was the boredom which was the killer. He'd been ok at first, his mates came round and they went out and got drunk. At one point, he'd even convinced himself he was having fun. But as he stood there looking at all the girls and boys drinking and dancing, he slowly began to feel hatred towards them. They all seemed vacuous and superficial. One night a girl approached him, asking him this, telling him that, but he couldn't hear her words. She was good looking, and was probably a nice girl, but all he could think was: who's at home tonight wishing you would take him back?

Eventually his friends got tired of his moods and stopped asking him out, which suited him fine. He was happy to be with himself and drink and count dead snails on the doorstep. But late at night was when the voices began to talk to him. He had essentially split into two people. When he woke up the first voice told him everything would be ok, it would just take time. But under the surface, the faint murmur of the other voice began to get louder.

Continued...Next Page (2/3)

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