The Life in a Life (WIP)

by Joshua Ray
31st May 2022

The Life in a Life

O N E

***

We were hopeful

Sickeningly so

A slow breeze through the tufts of our hair

Smiles that could shatter even an inch of melancholy

And even when sad, there was a joy in it

We shared it all

Together

But growth does take what was

Once a present time

And crumples like foil

Into a memory past

The breeze feels cold now

The smiles waver, and end

Sheets of muscle pulled over

The mask of cheerful delight

Where I stay

Alone

I can’t see you in me anymore

Time made sure of that

Ticking away as it does

You decayed

Rotted into something else

Into me..

***

Something was off, this I knew. I had a knack for the discovery of ‘offness’ to be frank. Knowing a soup needed salt. Knowing the difference in body language. It was a good skill to have, if not entirely pointless to stick on a CV. I was always right however, and this wasn’t any different. Leaning back in the metal black garden chair, I gazed down at the open Google Docs app on my phone. I did most of my writing outside, as cliche as it was. I almost didn’t do it at first, the idea of feeding into the ‘teen poetry’ trope was enough, but doing it outside? I may as well upload them on Tumblr, go the full mile.

But I’m not a teen, I’m Twenty.

And outside was better. Calm, quiet, spacious.

Quiet.

I blinked in quick succession to snap myself out of this thought process. I had more important things to think about. What was the ‘offness’ here?

Then it hit me.

Jesus, it was something out of a fourteen year old’s My Chemical Romance covered notebook, The edge was almost enough to shave with. I thought about rewriting it, but I quickly shook the thought off. Even if it was more…heavy, than my other pieces, I had written it. It felt disingenuous to change what was already written. Like all the poems I've written, they’re spur-of-the-moment creations, made without thinking. They’re true parts of me.

But it didn’t matter if it was true. Even if it felt like me. I won’t fall into the cliche. I’m normal.

I sighed, another one for the drafts I suppose.

I tucked my phone back into my beige jacket’s breast pocket, the camera poking out of the top. I always hated this, it made me look like a creep. I quickly turn the camera inwards towards my chest, and from my other pocket, I drew a cigarette from its box, along with a crappy lighter I got from the local Bargin Booze down the street. With a few flicks, and a couple of muttered curses uttered towards it (why do they never light up on the first flick?), the weak orange flame sputtered upwards. Placing the cig in my mouth, I drew in a few quick breaths, and when the sickly flame passed its torch to the paper and tobacco, I flicked it off, and placed it back into my pocket (not the same pocket, I forgot where I pulled it out of). This had been my daily routine for about seven months now. Wake up. Go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. Scrunch my hair a few times and say “good enough” knowing it had made zero difference to its bird nest-like appearance. I didn’t mind though. Mum did, but I didn’t. I thought it added character.

After this I would hobble down the stairs (at this point I had already changed out of my pajamas), a thin piece of plywood with two stumps on each bottom corner we used as a ‘gate’ to stop our dog from clambering up and down all day, in my hand. She wasn’t up yet however, so I place it in the dining room, to avoid the inevitable high speed collision of dog to wood.

From here I would fill the kettle up with fresh water, and as it boiled, do any dishes that were in the sink from last night. I’d say that was my main job around the house, which thinking about it, was a little pitiful. But my sister enjoyed cleaning, she had a groove to it. It’s not like I never ask “is there anything else that needs doing?” I just let her do what she likes to do.

By this point, as I’m pouring the boiling water into my mug of instant coffee, I realize I haven’t taken my antidepressants. This is usually followed by a sigh and a quick “fucks sake” under my breath, before making my way back up the stairs, and starting a small archaeological dig in my top Chester draw for the box, of which I normally found straight away.

Five left. I should put my prescription in soon. I sigh.

I drink my coffee in the living room normally, curled on one side of the sofa, swiping through TikToks with the occasional sip. I try not to let the thoughts of existentialism start this early in the morning. Then again, I suppose existentialism has no concept of time does it?

And that’s what leads me outside, and to where I am now, leaning back into a cold metallic chair, breathing out the multitude of blindness-cancerous-baby-killing toxins from my lungs, trying not to beat myself up over another failed attempt to stop myself from falling into yet another bout of existential dread. It hadn’t worked for seven months. This day was no different.

“Up early aren’t we?”

I slightly jolt and turn to see my sister sitting on the back door step, dressed in some gray joggers and a hooded jumper with ‘Harvard’ written in bold red along the middle. She never went to Harvard of course, we lived in the middle of England. Not to say she wasn’t intelligent, as she was quite academic, but I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be surprised that she travelled six thousand miles in a day and was still back for tea, without me even knowing.

“You know how it is” I reply, gesturing my lit cigarette towards her, “gotta have my daily dose of chemicals”.

She chuckles slightly, pulling out her vape from her jumper pocket.

“I know the feel” she replies, taking a deep breath in, and exhaling a cloud of flavoured vapor. Watermelon I think. I didn’t think to ask.

We spoke about regular daily things, what we were up to, our plans for the day, university essays, things like that.

“I don’t know how you finished them so quickly” she laments, letting out another flavoured exhale, slightly more stressed than before, “this last psychology essay is going to be the death of me”

“I don’t think mum would be pleased if you up and died El” I reply.

We both laugh.

I take another cigarette out of its box and light it. “Besides, English is much more…well it’s just ‘read book and give opinion’, definitely a lot more straightforward than reading paper after paper of brain shit”

“Brain shit?” She recoils sarcastically, “do you think of my education choice that lowly Mark?”

“Oh do forgive my tongue miss” I reply, slowly bowing, meeting her sarcastic levels. Her smile tells me I succeeded.

“I suppose you’re right” she begins “but even still, you also finished your creative writing pieces quickly too!”

I chuckle

“You give me too much credit y'know?” I take another stiff drag from my cig. “At least you have an end path with it all”

El leans in, a curious expression now resting on her face.

“End path?”

“Y'know, an end path! A ‘this is what jobs I can get with this’ path. I doubt putting ‘wrote poetry in university’ on my CV will get me anything more than a position as a McDonald's cashier…” I trail off. Is that what this is all leading to? A grey shirt with a highly saturated M embroidered on it, shouting out order numbers to wrangle up the owner of a large Big Mac? My chest tightens at the thought. It's only upon the realization of the now worried shuffle of my sister on the step beside me that I snap back with a quick smile and retort, “besides, you’d be more suited for that position anyways”.

“Um, excuse me?” El turns with a grin, half joking around, with the other half being ‘you seriously suggested that?’. I can only laugh.

“What? You could be on the front lines, reading body language and the amount of stress wrinkles on a person's face to give the cashiers a heads up! You’d be a valuable member of the team!”

“I do psychology Mark, I’m not Sherlock fucking Holmes”

We both laughed, for what felt like the twentieth time in five minutes.

“Right”, El tucked her vape back into her pocket, slapped her hands on her knees and stood up, “I better crack on and bang this essay out, wouldn’t want to miss your big night!”

“Big night..?”

Oh.

Oh shit.

One of my poems was recently accepted into a university curated anthology, and I was set to read it out in front of other poets and novelists at the publishing event. But, that's today? Jesus I knew I was scatter-brained, but this truly takes the cake. I thought it was in July! Fuck, does that mean it is July? Do I need a print-out with me? A speech? Reading it out will be bad enough, but the social aspect is going to-

“Hey”, El knelt down to my eye level, her hand gently planted on my shoulder. She takes her index finger and presses it against my forehead. “Get out of there, ok? You’re going to do great”

I give a nervous smile.

“Thanks El”.

She smiles back at me, and stands up again before walking off.

“Oh, and change out of those clothes!” She adds before leaving. “You know how mum feels about smoking”.

T W O

I submitted it on a whim. ‘It’ being the poem. The email came across in my student inbox around nine months back, I think. I was busy scrolling through past emails about deadlines for my first semester essays, when upon refreshing, the titular email came up on my screen:

Dear Students,

A new Creative Writing Anthology is coming, and we would love you to be a part of it! This is a great opportunity to have your work published in a collection that will be on display and available to buy. We would love for all our Creative Writing students to send in work for consideration.

At first, I paid it no mind. In fact, I scoffed upon first reading it. The image of reading out my work in front of other university students and their parents was enough discomfort to make me laugh nervously at the thought. Plus, where would it get me? In a book which parents brought to show they cared about their kids choice, of which would then be shelved and forgotten about? Maybe it would be brought up every now and again, a quick “I remember this night” as its glanced at from across the room, before its again left behind for laundry, or dishes.

It wouldn’t need to be remembered.

It needs to be remembered.

I don’t know what made me change my mind. Perhaps if I knew that I would be getting my eyebrows thumbed by my mother in an attempt to look ‘well kept’, my response would have stayed in the drafts.

Alas, hindsight is always 20/20.

“Much better!,” My mum states, a proud stance now holds her body, “at least now you don’t look homeless”

“I doubt the shape of my eyebrows would indicate whether or not I live surrounded by cardboard mum” I reply, sarcasm still dominating my speech since my early morning conversation with El. I adjust my eyebrows back to their previous shaggy formation in the living room mirror. I turn to see my mum’s disapproving stare.

“If you hate it that much, you can always fetch me a cardboard box from the recycling outside,” I say, “I’m pretty sure those two HelloFresh boxes would keep me nice and snug through the night”.

She sighs with a smile, and gives me the ‘what will I do with you?’ eyes which I had grown accustomed to throughout my teenage years. I smile back, and follow her into the dining room, where my sister sits on one of the chairs set around our small circular dining room table. Or just ‘table’, since we always ate our food in the living room. Can’t watch Car Share if a wall and a doorway is blocking your view.

El sits leaning forward, one hand scrolling through some app on her phone, whilst the other rests on her leg, which has been tapping non-stop since we entered the room. Mum immediately crouches down, and begins whispering to her. Unfortunately for her, my mum hasn’t got the best ‘quiet voice’ in the family, so I am able to hear the faint “are you sure you’re able to go to this?” that she utters to El. El responds with “I promise”, followed by a big sigh before, like this morning, slapping her knees and standing up.

She didn’t have to go for me. I would understand.

“All ready Mr. Shakespeare?” El jests towards me, putting on such a posh drawl that she would be mistaken for a Tory supporter, if not for the plethora of Pride badges and piercings on her.

“One doth believes he is” I reply, grabbing either side of my jacket, before standing up straight to mirror her sudden change in political party.

The truth however, is I’m not ready.

In fact, I’m shitting myself at the thought of tonight. My accepted poem was written during a very tough period of my life. Breakups are hard, to put it bluntly, and though my writing style holds that emotion to me, my mum was quoted as saying “I have no idea what it's about, but it's bloody brilliant”. The idea of it being lost in translation is…heart-breaking to me, and I’d rather not suffer through another one of those.

“Right! Shall we head off then?” My mum cuts through my thought process and grabs the car keys from the table, asking El to put Kiki in the kitchen as she does. When El leaves to do so, mum comes up to me and gives me a big hug.

“You’re going to do great Mark” she says, before suddenly looking up at me with an intense stare, “but if I smell smoke on you again I’m taking your damn debit card off you”.

I became extremely embarrassed, able to only utter a “y-yeah, thanks mum”, before realizing I hadn’t changed my shirt from this morning.

Before I knew it, we were in the car, driving to my university, whilst my sister held the radio hostage with Yungblud. Not my music taste, but I don’t complain. If it helps her to be comfortable, I’d blast it everywhere we went.

We park up, my mum giving a happy “yes” under her breath when finding out that parking was free after 5PM.

“I’m proud of you Mark, y’know that right?” Mum asks seemingly out of nowhere, as we walk, “I mean this is amazing! My boy finally being treated like the talent I always kne-”

“I know mum, thanks” I cut in, returning a smile to her.

Don’t say that.

Don’t set yourself up for disappointment. Please.

I sigh, and pull up the document my poem is written on to take one last look over before entering the university hall.

God.

Why did I send that fucking email?

***

The moon glistens gold.

Before war,

The parties meet in joyous union,

Smiling, honey covered,

Naive love outside the Abbey.