Something I've been writing to get rid of my writing block recently...'bout a group of friends who meet up again. Promise it won't be boring. Still very very raw so rip it apart if you want. Ta ra.
I don’t want to go up to my room. There are things in there that remind me about how much a waste my life is becoming. Ignoring the age old mess of beer cans and dirty clothes lying unceremoniously in the corners, or the crumbs, or the sleeping unit that doesn’t quite deserve the name “bed”, or the littered papers and paraphernalia that flood what was once a desk; the aspect that really kills me the most is distinct lack of anything whatsoever. There are no books on the dusty shelves, there are no posters stuck on the walls, there is no stereo distributing melodic noise, there is no television to be absorbed by, no photos to remember the good times by, no pointless notes reverently left untouched in their original place. It is an empty void, and whenever I go up there I feel like every drop of blood is sucked from me, every emotion drained and I am nothing but a shell of a human, similar in appearance, but inside, dead.
Next week I’m moving out of my parent’s house and into a flat with three of my oldest friends. Even though I know why my room is empty, it does not make it feel any less so. The window is constantly open too, so the wind races in like an unwanted stranger and throws papers across the floor and my hair into my eyes. The dust flutters up too. I’m there now; I said I didn’t want to come up but some things are necessary. Something to look for that I forgot to pack.
Its image is fixed permanently in my mind – a battered old photo, with turned-in corners and a creased texture, showing nothing less than four best mates stood together in Italy. Yeah – we went on holiday together. I don’t know why that photo was ever special. It just seemed the quintessential pose of us all: happy, relaxed, with something to look forward to. Where did all those days go?
I feel under the bed, but my hand simply scratches the carpet surface, or gets tangled in formations of dust, or finds nothing but a white dice. Casually, I toss it to the side, where it looks like it would fall on a six, before glancing the wall and rolling onto a one. I check again, following the cold edge of the wall until I come across something. Looking at my hand, I see the photo – but not as I remembered it. It is torn into four, each of us with our own part, smiling, relaxed, but all on our own.
* * * * *
Gary was always the leader. Equipped with a sharp mind and determination, he was the one who always made the decisions, or organised it. He argued everything that was against his way – always. Too stubborn to admit he was wrong, or too clever to ever be wrong. Regardless, a good friend to have, especially since he was always one of the popular kids at school – although he always stuck with us guys throughout. And his Harley – there was no Gary without his Harley. He loved that bike. Rode it into college every day like some sort of God, skidding into a parking space; loving the looks he got from all the girls.
I remember one time when he was in an accident with that bike – got smashed into by a car coming out of a drive. Threw him right across the road, onto the opposite pavement. It was just outside college, I’d just said bye to him and turned round – before I heard the impact. I ran over to him with everyone else.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Somebody check my bike. Somebody check it’s okay,” Gary had said.
Someone reassured him there wasn’t too much damage. He smiled vaguely, and then fell unconscious. His leg was bleeding pretty badly but all he was thinking about was the bike. Same old Gary.
And then there was Matt. The brawn of the operation – 6’5” and built like a young bull. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had grown horns. He wasn’t stupid, but he was never as quick as Gary. None of us were though, really. Matt saved my neck on more than one occasion.
There was once when I was totally cornered by a gang of big lads, just outside school. I had stayed afterwards because of extra English work. I had checked my watch and it had only just gone 5 – but it was winter and the sky was dark as ever, split only by the last rays of sunshine making solitary clouds glow orange. I was rounding a corner when I stumbled into one guy, a bit taller than me. He decided to make a case of it and before I knew it I’d been struck on the side of the head and was on the floor being kicked heavily.
Then suddenly, it stopped. I looked up and saw Matt, madder than I had ever seen him, knocking them off their feet left, right and centre. They scattered after just seconds of the raging punishment. I never forgot that day.
Joe. Joe was the rebel. Long hair, chain smoker, alcoholic, and druggie. Sometimes it was hard to put up with his bad habits. But he had been our friend since we were young, and we never abandoned anyone that easily. He overdosed once and we were shit scared, but he survived. After that we got him off the drugs. He never stopped smoking, but he cut down on most of the drinking and became a better guy for it. The girls always liked him too, for some reason. They like a bad boy, I guess.
Lastly, there was me. The average guy. Nothing special. I was just a loyal friend and hoped I was always there for my friends. They had all been there for me one time or another. Because we were best mates.
I put the four photo fragments in my pocket, and left the room, without glancing back.
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