in silence

I’d started the day losing three friends. I wasn’t worried about it. It was simply lightening the load. I’d been talking to one about finding it hard to meet somebody I’d like to be with. He had said to me, you know that I would always suck your dick. I punched him as hard as I could in the breadbasket and he collapsed. The next was a painter. They told me that my talent was limited to writing about alienation and the deprived. They had said to me, all you write about is being lonely in a wheelchair and loving women with big breasts. I said, well what about you. How many times can you paint shit without that becoming repetitive? They punched me but it didn’t hurt. It didn’t even anger me. All I could do was laugh. The third friend was a woman I’ve known for a long time. She sent me a text message telling me she would like to lick-out my arsehole. I told her I would send her a piece of shit in the post. She could lick that

The day was sunny and I could hear builders hammering outside. I pulled my hands out the bucket and said aloud, how long is this going to take? I looked at my palms and fingers. They looked like prunes. I dipped them back in and looked at the water. The water was turning rose. I am too tall to fit in my bath. That’s why I was using a bucket. I used the bucket the carers use for emptying out my urine at night. I didn’t wash it out first. What’s the point?

I looked down at the water. It was red. The bucket was almost over-flowing. I thought about emptying it until I realised again. What’s the point? I had looked it up on the Internet. The Internet told me to slit my wrists and then put them in tepid water so that’s what I’d done. Waiting to die was boring me. I thought to myself that I should have just pushed myself off a cliff. I didn’t push off a cliff because it would have scared me

The phone had rung earlier in the day. I saw it was a friend. I didn’t want to answer it but I did. I picked it up and told them I was going to kill myself. The person told me I should join a support group. I asked why? Because, they said, it might be helpful to talk to other people in a similar situation. They were wrong. Talking about it would be like sticking one finger in a sieve to stop it leaking. There are too many holes

Somebody had asked me when I was going to get a job earlier in the day? I asked them what they thought I could do? I told them that I spent the majority of the day in bed from pain and my short-term memory is ruined. They told me I could get a job in computers. I have a computer and it makes me so angry I shout at it. It makes me feel like a caveman. I’ve picked it up and thrown it out the window three times. It confuses me. The last time I saw my GP he said I was not ready to be declared fit to work. I felt insulted until I got home. At home I realised he was protecting me

My friend thought I was a bum. I am worse than a bum. At least a bum can stand up and swing a punch. I clenched my fists in the bucket and felt blood pumping out of the cuts. I smiled as I realised it wouldn’t take as long as I had thought. It was hot outside but I felt cold and was shivering. A split second of doubt crossed my mind. Am I doing the right thing? I looked down at my wheelchair. I smiled. Of course I was doing the right thing

The damage to my brain was considered severe. I am recovering slowly but no one knows it but me. The Neuro-Psychologist and the advocate both said I am high functioning for somebody with an acquired brain-injury. The advocate said that most people wouldn’t know how damaged I am to talk to me. She said that I am not socially awkward and appear to hold an intelligent conversation. The trouble is as soon as I’ve stopped talking I forget

One of my mates once told me I have a good long-term memory. He was right and he was wrong. On odd occasions I think I’ll remember something I’ve done in the past. I never know if it is true. Someone will tell me about it and I’ll get a flash. I told one of my friends that I thought I’d fucked a Maori woman one night. You did, he said, It was in Sydney. I was there with you at the pub when you scored her. She was hot. My brain didn’t remember her but my body did. Her hair was long black and curly and she squirmed under me. Every part of her moved as she enveloped me. It was like fucking water

My father had sent me some items in the post. There was a schoolbook from my first year at school. The book was full of drawings. I was a better artist at five years old when I didn’t try. I kept looking through the envelope and found some photos. The first I saw was of an old flatmate smoking a bong. I laughed when I saw it. I flipped to the next one and it was of me smoking a bong. I called my father and thanked him for sending the photos of me doing drugs. Was that in Amsterdam, my father asked? No, I laughed, that was in St Albans. My father said, oh, disapprovingly. I am too honest. I have become too dumb to lie

I’d thought about writing a will. I considered all of my possessions and decided not to. I threw everything I could carry out of my kitchen window. I saw two neighbours fighting over an expensive Cashmere sweater and I laughed. One was an obese woman and the other was a teenage boy. I called out to the woman that it was too small to fit her. She shouted back that she was going to give it to her husband. I called out to the boy to kick her in the shins. He did she squealed and dropped it. I saw her bending over to rub herself. I yelled out to the boy to kick her in the other shin. He did and she squealed again. I smiled as the boy ran away with it

I have told anyone who would listen that I was more suicidal before I had the accident. That was true for a long time. I spent over a year going out twice a week dancing feeling nothing but introverted. I was unable or unwilling to control my urges. I fucked so many strange women those couple of years that I’m lucky that my dick didn’t fall off. I was lucky enough to not even get an STD. All of those memories have been forgotten so they may as well of not happened. This is what I’ve been told. Now I fuck my hand

I’d put Mind/Art on. It reminded me that there is beauty even when you can’t see it. I’d listened to seven songs and the eight was playing. K groaned like she was sniffing glue. The song finished and I wanted to hear it again. I took my hands out of the bucket. I saw a towel but didn’t grab it, what’s the point? I pushed my chair into the lounge and pushed the button to skip backwards. The CD player sent a jolt of electricity through my arm before it exploded with a puff of smoke. I went back to the bucket in silence. There is no beauty for me

in silence

X           X

Andrew Stuart Buchanan