Opening to my novel

James knew, as he had known for some time, that this day would come. He had waited, poised by the telephone for hours at a time waiting for it to ring. He got these feelings every now and again like some kind of cosmic power was warning him of what was to come but it never did. He had rehearsed every possible scenario in his mind and practiced his reaction carefully but it seemed no amount of practice could really prepare him, as when he finally got the call everything he planned seemed to dissipate and fade into nothingness. Stunned silence seemed to be all he could muster up and even then he could not understand why as that had never once been an option in his imaginary rehearsals. He also couldn't fathom such a response as it wasn't as if this wasn't on the horizon but still it seems it was all he knew how to do at that moment, and seeing as it was quite appropriate he didn't try to fight it. He just let it happen.

Once he put the phone down a whole new host of questions began to fill up his head. How should I tell mum? When should I tell mum? Should I help plan the funeral? What would he even want at his funeral?

His mother’s response was much like his own although it was hard to really tell what she was feeling. That’s the trouble when you can't talk face to face. Her tone lacked any kind of sorrow but there was an uneasy quiver in her voice that suggested perhaps she was trying to deny what she felt. It mattered little to James anyway. The important thing was he told her and that was a load off his mind. He mentioned in passing that there would be a funeral but he knew his mother would have little interest in attending. She had no connection or involvement with anything related to his father not even when it came to his death.

Once the call had ended James slumped down in his chair and tried to remember the last time he saw his father. It must be almost two years now. He hadn't even properly spoken to him in at least six months. He would regularly call his father, more as a means of being polite and feigning interest, but his father had begun to act paranoid and there was a constant sense of ill ease at the other end of the phone. James decided to shorten the calls and ring less frequently to avoid being pulled into his father’s web of delusion until eventually he just stopped calling.

“He'll only leave you hurt and brokenhearted. Don't get involved.” The words of his mother echoed throughout his mind. Don't get involved. The way she said it left an uneasy ache in James throat. The emotion she so often repressed came spilling forward as she instructed her only child to keep far aware from his own father. He knew it must be something serious, something he could not understand and so tried hard for many years to sever any emotions he had for his dad.

Sat alone in his chair James began to feel a tremendous amount of guilt for simply turning his back on his father instead of trying to help. Perhaps if he had intervened he wouldn't have to attend his funeral now. He scrambled around in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. Two years smoke free. An achievement that now held no merit as the flame illuminated the darkened room and gave birth to the first intoxicating wave of smoke that rushed around James lungs. His muscles began to ease slightly and his body sank further into the chair until soon he felt he had become one with his surroundings. He had merged into the aged fabric; his bones as creaky as the wooden legs that supported him, and with the numbing of both his mind and body could no longer differentiate where he ended and the chair began, until he was suddenly flung from his trance by the burning of the fallen ash on his stomach. Frantically bashing his hands on his abdomen he rose to his feet and in doing so caught a glimpse of his reflection through the smoky haze. He’d never really noticed much of his father in himself but as he gazed into his own crystal blue eyes he saw all of the misery that had resided in his fathers the last time he looked upon them two years ago. He carefully scanned his whole face from top to bottom searching for any details that mirrored his fathers, surveying any tiny movements in his muscles, the corner of his lips to how his nostrils flared to the deepening frown lines above his brow. The more he looked the more he saw until he wasn't sure if he was making it all up or if the reflection he saw really was portraying that of his fathers. It was something James felt both happy and fearful about. He felt a sense of pride that he was starting to look more like that man that had taught him well but scared beyond words that he might actually become him.

There was little that could be done now. All James could really do was embrace the situation, learn to accept it and move on but the silence that occupied the space around him began to breed noise in his head that, try as he might, he could not extinguish or ignore. Alone, in the darkness of his living room, he waited ever patiently for the first pink-hued ray of morning light to clear away the shadows of his mind.