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Rain fell. It was July and voices came from down below.

Are you ready yet?

Pressure seized control of his body, squeezing the last bit of breath out of him.

He closed his eyes and thought of the week that had passed. Weakness wobbled about him. The world spun. Rain lashed against his bedroom window, smearing droplets like razor blades. It was grey outside and the rain clouds were spinning like a ferris wheel. He saw a pigeon on the roof opposite, its outline against the sky. It jumped up and flew away. I wish I could fly away, he thought.

He closed his eyes again, willing them to stay shut for longer. The pressure built and he remembered lying there on the floor next to the body that was leaking life at an eternal pace. His head was becoming puce and he had never seen human flesh like that and yet knew that this was the colour of death and destruction. The dark eyes had stared back, haunting: lifeless and clinging to life. The lips grew blue. Each breath a labour; a rattle at its end.

He sat down with his back to the wall and felt its cold hardness.

There was a knock on the door. A hollow noise. He heard woodpeckers, carpenters, a saw blade, the noise of an aeroplane taking off, the sound of a serrated knife on bread.

Come on.

The voice was a ghost without a body. The sound lingered in the air.

It’s time to go.

He sat there looking dead at the front of the church. He stared ahead and listened and half-listened, wearing an expression of boredom. He didn’t want to be here. Not because he was sad, but because he didn’t want to be there.

He walked to the back, unwilling to make eye contact with the others. Then he had to stand and wait as the rest came past and offered vacuous words of goodwill; all words that he didn’t care to imbibe.

It’s time to go.

Yes - time to go.

I don’t want to come.

OK.

Why not?

I don’t care. It’s boring.

Curious eyes. Curiouser sighs.

He went back home alone in the pouring rain, glad to be free from the burden of being surrounded by people he didn’t care about, expressing feelings he didn’t feel or ever care to ever feel. It was over. And he was glad. He walked and felt the rain drench his clothes. Let the rain dribble across his face and cool his body. Ahead he saw a car race past and smash through a puddle and spray water five feet into the air.

If I was a child again, I’d wait by that puddle all day, waiting for a car to soak me through.

If I was a child again, I wouldn’t beholden to act in the ways preconceived by society how one should act in such at such a time.

He got home and took his clothes off and had a shower. The house was quiet but for the rattle of rain pelting the windows. He put jeans and a t-shirt and trainers on and found a Mahler symphony to listen to. Then he fell asleep.

Wake up you oaf. Wake up.

The door rattled and banged.

The rain had washed away.

Late afternoon mottled sunlight came streaming through. Blue skies peeked in between doughy clouds fringed grey and soft mauve.

What?

Are you coming out?

No.

Why not?

Because I don’t want to.

Well I’m coming in, then.

Conversation spiralled up and down. He shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes speak of reassurance.

It’s just another day.

It’s not just another day, though, is it?

Yes it is. Look.

He pointed to the window.

Look - the sun rose this morning, rain fell, the rain eased, and now the sun begins its hasty retreat. Then tomorrow: repeat.

Fuck off.

He heard the door slam, but didn’t see it.

He didn’t want to descend the stairs - but he was hungry. And he wanted to go for a walk. He put his headphones in and walked through the crowd into the kitchen. He took an apple and a banana from the fruit bowl, turned, and left. All the while, Mahler kept him company. Keys. Out the door. Gone.

The air outside was cool and fresh. The summer heat had been pushed off by the morning’s rain. The trees were soggy and puddles still remained. He walked to the beach and turned the music off and let the sound of the tide wash over him. He watched it fall in and out, the repeated rise and collapse, the froth and flow, the bubbles and hush. A man and his dog. A woman and a friend. A son and a daughter. A child and his mother. He watched the sun set and left, his hypersonic brain soothed by the world.

Oceans flow. Atoms rise and congeal and separate. Noise travels and is consumed by the material of life. We are born; we die. We don’t exist; we exist; we don’t exist. From the depths of the ocean, we are insignificant - so why imbue ourselves with such importance? He looked at the risen full moon and wanted to jump high enough to land on its empty surface where he could sit and be happy in the void. We are nothing and everything. We are noise and silence. My blood is cold and my heart hasn’t moved - I am cruel and not cruel. I seek the truth; and my truth is a lack of love for the forgotten; this: the denouement: my dearly beloved, gone.