P – Putting off that piece of work by doing every menial task possible beforehand
R – Reading tweets instead of homework questions
O – Overeating on the entire contents of the biscuit cupboard
C – Checking Facebook. Again. And again. And one more time.
R – Reading more tweets
A – Asking when lunch is ready and deciding you can’t possibly start your work properly before you eat
S – Sighing about how much work you have before returning to the internet
T – Trying on different outfits and deciding what would look good next summer
I – Ironing. Because anything is better than doing work.
N – Nearly starting the work by picking it up and flicking through the pages before putting it back down again in exhaustion
A – Asking what time dinner is and deciding you’ll just have to have a packet of biscuits before then
T – Timing how long you’ve been avoiding homework and starting to panic before realising The Big Bang Theory is on
I – Instant coffee number 3
O – Ordering clothes you probably can’t afford online
N – Nightime. Sleep time.
For every sunshine there’s a breeze
For every cough there’s a sneeze
For every poo there’s a wee
And with a hug for you, there is me.
A Sunday dinner without gravy in a British winter,
Is about as satisfying as your last bit of Magnum falling off the stick and onto the floor,
And makes the thought of Monday morning all the more grim.
In the near distance, destruction still sounded. I couldn’t unravel my arms from around my knees, frozen by the horror of what I had just witnessed, so I stayed there crouched in an abandoned doorway. It all played over in my mind in jagged flashes with every crash from the neighbouring street. I had been outside the cafe that morning with some of the other boys from the town. We were kicking a football about despite Mr Raja coming outside several times waving a dish-cloth at us, telling us how our ‘loitering’ looked bad to his customers. I had just been about to complain about Paresh deliberately tripping me just as I was about to score a brilliant goal when suddenly, everyone seemed to have lost interest in the football game. All the boys were looking towards the road that led out of town where all the men went trading. Surely we hadn’t played so many games that they were back already? No. We never took notice of the working men coming back into town. Then I heard it. The commotion of screams and shouting, and something else that I couldn’t quite fathom. A sort of deep rumbling. People started emerging on the road out of town, arms flailing above them and their mouths wide open in ‘O’s. The non-working men had emerged from the cafe, staring in confusion. ‘What the bloody hell is going…ohmigod’ Mr Raja muttered, almost to himself. Because just as he had started to ask the question we had all been thinking, the source of the deep rumbling emerged behind the running men.
Towering at eleven-foot, the charging elephant made the men look like little toy soldiers, tiny and incredibly vulnerable. It also made them look terribly slow. Somebody grabbed my shoulder and told me to ‘stop gawping and run for dear life’. My feet automatically started to run away from the advancing bedlam as my mind still reeled over what was happening. I had no sense of direction, no clue how to save myself from the path of an enraged elephant. I had only ever seen images on the news of wild animals running riot in towns that had spilled onto wildlife habitats due to the bustling population. It never occured to me that living in one of the largest towns meant that we had been in this great danger. Daring to look behind me, my fears were confirmed as I watched people still running for their lives as they were taken underneath the elephant’s feet. I would never outrun it. Whipping my head in all directions, frantically looking for some place to hide away from the current path of destruction, I found an open door to a block of apartments.
Hurtling into the doorway, I crouched and clung to myself. The elephant had been running with such speed, I was surprised by how much time seemed to pass before it appeared. A figure appeared from the block of flats across the street. I recognised it as Abu Bakul, the body guard of one of the big hotels in the town centre. He seemed pretty calm for someone whose home was about to be bulldozed. It wasn’t until his eyes suddenly bulged and his jaw dropped that I realised this was the first he had heard of the elephant. Almost as soon as he had become paralysed with fear, he was thrust on the floor by a four and a half ton weight. I also became paralysed with fear as my mind refused to watch what was going on in the street outside, yet my head would not, could not turn. What must have been half a minute seemed to last for half an hour as I watched someone I used to walk past several nights a week be trampled to nothing. Each thud of a tree-trunk leg on the ground sounded in my ears like the blasts of war bombs. I feared our town would look like a war-zone after today.
Several minutes later, I was still here. Just waiting. Listening to my town being pounded by an animal of the wild, confused and angry at the humans that had driven it out of its home and forced it into a smaller space to make room for the growing population. Just like the elephant, today was a day that I, along with the rest of my town would never forget.
Thankyou for giving me bear hugs that squeeze all the air out of me, for laughing your head off at me when I walked face-first into a door, for always being there with the tissues before the tears have even spilled, for lending an ear when I go on for hours about the pettiest little thing and for doing it all without question.
Again, he stumbled into the person in front as people drove into him from behind. Corridors between classes at college were always solid with the traffic of students making their way to next lesson and he looked apologetically at the back of the person in front’s head. The head never turned round. Nobody ever turned round, they never noticed he was there. He’d grown used to being invisible since he first started school, soon learning that making friends was a hopeless task; somebody more interesting always came along for the other person to talk to. And that was why nobody would notice him slip into the sports store room away from the bustle of the corridor that morning.
He had planned it all out in the last week, impressed with himself. Now in the darkness of the sports cupboard, he started to feel shaky excitement. Never before had he done something that would make people stop and take notice. If being friendly and polite wasn’t enough, there was no doubt in his mind that what he was about to carry out would be. He had considered taking his life in here last week as he sat alone and ate his lunch as always. The thought of people crying at his tragic and unexpected death gave him a sense of elation. Maybe people would care about him once it was too late, perhaps that was the way to make people notice him. But then he had realised that he would never know whether people were crying for him or at the shock of a suicide in college. That was when it hit him. The realisation of what he had to do instead. Yes. He had seen ‘Bowling for Columbine’ and read the news articles and decided it was to be done that Wednesday morning when he had a free period.
Getting hold of a gun had been easier than he’d imagined. He’d visited the fire arms shop at the bottom of town and no questions were raised as to whether he had a license or proof of age. The shop owner looked as though he was always only just on the right side of the law. The gun was kept under his pillow when he was at home and in his coat pocket whilst he was out. He felt safe as long as he knew where it was. He took it from inside his coat now and felt a buzz. He couldn’t remember feeling this high in his entire life. He felt…powerful, something he had never experienced. It rippled through him, electric.
And then he left the sports cupboard, back into the daylight, gun in hand. He was going to make headlines. The world would notice him. He saw it now ‘Quiet Student Turns Killing Machine’. The busy receptionist missed the CCTV image of the teenage boy walking past lockers with the black gun in his hand looking directly into the camera and laughing to himself.
Image via Wikipedia
I can’t sleep. Again. It’s 3 am and I’ll be going to work in the morning over tired as always because I can never sleep anymore. The worst thing about being awake in the unearthly hours of the morning is the restlessness. I become fidgety and often end up waking my wife Jenny next to me, creating two irritable adults at the breakfast table. Holding my breath, I roll over away from her to face the rest of the room. He’s there.
He’s always there and yet I’m never ready for it. I have to cover my mouth with my hand as I gasp and all the air is taken out of me. I enter a state of paralysis, unable to look away. There he is, curled up and pale on the rug in front of the door. For someone who didn’t know he could be sleeping comfortably. But I know. I know because I see him everywhere; in the mirror on the bathroom cabinet while I’m brushing my teeth, at the kitchen table when I’m eating my porridge and Jenny’s still doing her make-up in the bedroom. He dips in and out of all my day to day scenarios and there’s one place I can always be certain he’ll be waiting without fail. The very same place he was the first time. At the end of the drive at 8 am on a Monday morning when the shutters are still pulled down over my eyes and the coffee’s only just starting to kick in. I roll down the drive slowly and start to turn. There he is. Running into the road just as I pull out, we see each other too late. He looks directly into my eyes the moment he collides with the bonnet and he opens his mouth to scream. It only rings in my ears after he’s been knocked down, a piercing, haunting scream. Every Monday morning he runs into the road and I have to stop the car, get out and check even though I know he won’t be there. That was only the first time. Now it’s just my brain playing tricks and taunting me, a prisoner of my own guilt. So I get back behind the wheel and cry into my hands, shoulders shaking with the sobs and wondering whether it will ever end. All my life consists of is him unexpectedly appearing, reminding me of what I did whether he’s at the coffee machine in the office or on the opposite escalator at the mall and I don’t know how much more of it I can take. Then I think of Jenny and I know I have to pull myself together and drive, act like nothing is wrong or I’ll be late for work. I have to clear my head of the little boy I killed with my car bonnet three months ago on his way to school as always, carefree and not looking where he was going.