I'm angry. I'm stressed. I'm tired…and it's all on me to be happy. 

My name is Carmine. It's Tuesday at 3:06, and I want work to last until midnight, I really do. 

When I go home, it's just not mine anymore. The bed I sleep on feels lumpy. The house is darker, colder. I don't relax when I'm there. I lay down, I play games, I read, but I don't relax. 

I…I changed. 

The people I once knew can't find me anymore. I left that life behind. 

It's funny isn't it? You can kill for good reasons but killing is bad. I used to shoot wife beaters, people who hurt kids, all sorts. 

My favourite was the self righteous guys who think being ill mannered is charming. The type that thinks they're a threat until someone half their size twats them in the eye, and knocks their shitty market stall shades off. 

You're not a bouncer, you're not a hard man, you're a prolapse who thinks an insincere apology is gonna make your wife forgive you for verbal abuse, drinking and watching football all day. 

There are many good examples of people to kill. 

I shot a teacher who did some blue things to a young boy. She kept talking about it as I loaded the gun, and well, I didn't like what she said so I said goodbye. 

I know I sound cruel, but when a company denies you health care, the killer with the briefcase and corner office isn't any less of a murderer. 

Your 20s really teach you how cruel the world can be, and I'm not done with them yet. 

I won't lie, I was angry then. A different type…. but I was angry. I joined a gang because I felt lost. No work. No hope. The two are sold together. 

Home was good enough, sometimes anyway. 

Ughhh. They say you date your Mother or father at one point or another. I ended up with a girl like my Mum. She couldn't say sorry. She isolated me from my friends. She was mean, insults and my own pain tossed at me like darts. My dad died and she used that in an argument. 

And after all I could take…I left her. 

You don't need an intro to my mother now, and I haven't seen her for nearly a year. 

I…I struck it lucky with a good job. I'm an assistant to Roger McClaire, a literary agent for Memory Books. I sort his appointments, his emails, I deal with influencers. Get his lunch from the ocean everyday. He takes live cod, eats it as he sits in his office. No plate, no napkin. Raw. 

Things don't make sense here, but where do they usually anyway? 

This job makes me feel purposeful. When I'm at home it feels like I'm frozen and burnt at the same time. She lingers in everything. I'm free but I can feel the pain of old wounds. 

So, as I sit at my desk and write a few emails, I think I smiled for the first time in months. 

“Carmine, come to my office!” 

My boss was sitting at his desk, typing away and when I walked inside he gestured toward a seat. “You want a change of pace?” 

“Erm…what do you mean?” 

“Jack Tracey, you know, the pain in the arse, I want you to do me a favour”. 

“Anything, boss”. 

Jack Tracey was represented by my boss. He wrote poetry, short stories - he reflected on life a lot, and his latest book “Five minutes” was causing my agency some headaches. The release of Tracey’s book had been delayed three times, and he was costing us a lot of money. 

“Can you spare three days?”

“Always”. 

“I need you to go down to his house. He’s not answering his emails, or his phone, and if I don’t get his final, and I mean final revisions soon, we’re in for it”. 

“I’ll head down today”. 

“Good…oh, a word of warning. It’s a long journey. Pack a bag”. 

That night I boarded a 9 hour train to Marshall district. People always said there was something in the air there. They were weird folk, cut from the same cloth as everyone else but the cloth had been made in hell. 

Just before dawn I arrived. I stepped off the train to a giant green field. Nothing growing, hell it even looked kind of nice here. 

The sky was clear, and for once my mind was positive. Nobody was around. Just me. One step at a time, carmine. One step at a time. 

***************** 

You know that feeling, the one that creeps up when you try to be happy after a long period of depression? It’s like a sentient knife. It follows you and when you start to smile it pokes you in the back. You don’t get cut but you feel the pressure, the memory of pain. 

It’s familiar. It’s a friend in a way. It cares enough to keep bothering you. 

I’d been walking for about an hour now, this field seemed to go forever. I was heading north, following a paper map that told me, without doubt, that I would have a full day's journey ahead. 

I wouldn’t need to sleep out, but I’d be knackered by the time I arrived. 

And as I walked, one step after another away from a train I couldn’t ever see in the distance anymore…I felt utterly shit. Why do I try to do things like this? Why do I try to move on? 

In a place like this you think. I don’t listen to music, I don’t whistle, and all I can think about is…her. The blonde woman. I used to call her beautiful but when I look back at her now, I don’t know what I found attractive. The new context on someone you loved turns them into an enemy quickly. The joy of being around her, the memories…they have no sound anymore. A picture show of a gut feeling that makes you slightly queasy. 

“What the hell?” 

From the sky, a wooden sign slowly descended. It dug gently into the ground. 

“Do you still love her?” it read. 

What the hell? 

For some reason I said “no” outloud. 

Another sign descended. 

“You think of her a lot to not love her”. 

I kept walking. 

*Thunk* 

This sign landed with some attitude, It wanted my attention. 

“You want her company”. 

“ I don’t” 

Another sign fell. 

“You still think about her body”. 

“I miss physical touch. I don’t miss her touch”. 

Another sign fell. 

“You sometimes see things she used to like, and think of what you would say to her”. 

“Get lost”.

I walked for another hour. Nobody appeared, no more signs appeared, but my mind was rotten now. I wish my ex would die. I know it’s cruel to say but when I think of her in any affectionate manner, I say this to ground myself: 

“She chose to hurt you. She knew it was wrong and would always manipulate her way out of it”. I started to feel a wetness in the air. Not rain, but a mist. I checked my map, and I should be coming by a lake soon. And like a present covered in bird shit, another sign fell. 

“You don’t want to not think of her…then you’d be truly alone”. 

“Get lost!” 

Another sign fell. 

“You made a mistake by leaving”. 

This one made me stop dead in my tracks. I was quiet for a minute…but then I raised my foot and shattered it. “Fuck off”. 

The field seemed endless, but on the horizon I could see the lake. 

With shit like this in your head all the time, sometimes you have to be instinctual. Don’t reason with the bawking crow in your mind. It has only two modes - alert and calm. 

I kept walking…and the mist hit me again. It kinda hurt this time. 

***************** 

At the lake, I looked at myself. When I usually do this I hate it. I insult myself for no reason, a learned bit of bullshit implanted into me by you know who. 

The mist hit me again, and this time it hurt badly. 

“Ahh”, I yelled. 

It felt like a slap, and it smelled like her. 

When they rose up, they didn’t have a face. They had two arms and two legs, but they were muddy water walking. What stressed me out the most was that they didn’t say a thing. They pulled me towards the water, dragging me slowly. I clawed at the ground, trying not to panic… but I was scared. As my feet hit the water, I could hear her. Our fights. 

Her crying as she faced a wall over something she started. I could feel the want to be closer to her when she sent me a message after weeks alone. 

But then, like an animal, I fought back. 

I’m not there anymore. I can breathe again. 

I started to throw clumps of dirt at the water, and when it hit one of their heads, I moved in slower. I kept throwing dirt, splash shattering fingers and arms and chests. 

They seemed to let go at one point, and when I got up and ran away, I saw a shadow speed over me. A floating ball of water, muddy and three feet wide pinned my hands behind my back. 

What the hell do I do now? 

I couldn’t bat it away, or throw, so with panic shooting through me, I went instinctual. 

I fought, jumping in the air and throwing my full weight back on it as I lunged towards the ground. The water burst, and as I coughed and the sparks in my vision flew over me, I heard her. 

Her cries. 

Those childish cries over her not being able to get her stupid way. It was like I was back in her bedroom. The water sped back to the lake, and as I looked at it from a distance, rubbing my aching hands, I heard the echo of her voice.

Still crying. 

After all this time…she was still that crying child in her head. Hoping this routine would make me act her way. The mist shot at me one last time…The pain wasn’t as bad this time 

***************** 

My feet ache…it feels like they've been aching for too long. 

People walk through life without feeling a great deal. I think I feel everything. I feel more now anyway. In a blazer pocket, a big one I used to hold a sawed off in, the book Sat. It was surprisingly dry, a plastic transit bag covering it. It wasn't ripped open, and when I looked over the book itself…it was pristine. 

“I'm not going back for another copy. Fuck that”. 

The book felt warm. No, it wasn't my body heat, it was like an old burn. I opened the pages and it was just words and that new book smell. The heat got more intense as I moved to the final page, but the book was just that…words. The coal people were a spec in the distance now. I missed them. 

After a few more steps I came upon the front door. The house was old and needed work. It felt tired - surprised itself that it was still a liveable space after how it looked. 

“Come in. The doors unlocked”. 

I saw Tracey through the shaded glass of the front door. He looked like he was melting. A smile drooping, eyes oval and smudged. 

I was nervous, but I went in…slowly. 

“Sorry about all this. This isn't my place, it's my Mothers. Thanks for coming all this way though”. “It's my job”. 

Tracey offered me tea but I just wanted to go home. I'm always tired but when I thought about going home, I actually wanted to be there. 

My place wasn't good for much, but when I thought about walking here, journeys as a whole…I felt happy like the madness wasn't that crazy anymore. 

I thought about the day after - that moment when the work day ended. It didn't feel like that much of a chain on my leg anymore. 

The weight lingered but I had more energy to live with it on me, to try and forget about it, move forward. “Would you follow me to the basement?” 

“Don’t try anything. I will end you”. 

He smirked and patted me on the back. 

“Come on”, he said. 

The basement was cold. It smelled of rotting wood. I couldn't make out much. Nothing was in here but us two. “Pass me the book, please”. 

I did as he asked. He flipped his hands through it like I did, and on the last page he pulled something from thin air. “What the hell?” 

I think it was a star. Nothing else shines that bright. It was silver and gold and hot orange and they all danced together. The room switched into something magical. There were mirrors everywhere, and in the mirror Jack illuminated himself, holding it close to his mouth. 

People don't really strike you as different if you're kind, but Jack was different. A middle aged guy, native American, thin build and…worn down. 

He looked tired, black bags under his eyes. But his mouth…that scared me. Up to the top of his jaw bone was frozen. His lips and the skin around it were so cold I shuddered.

Everything worked. He could talk, he could move muscles, but he was a breathing winter. Yet as the star stood close, he began to drip. 

Gold so strong, orange so fierce…it illuminated his smile so bright that I could barely see! 

“Are we safe?!” I screamed. 

I heard a crack, and then all I heard was tears. 

He was free. 

*************** 

A Month later I found myself sitting at home. It was six pm, a normal start to my evening for once…and I felt hopeful. Ever since I got home I kept feeling this chill on my face. I looked in the mirror every morning and I kinda got scared. My expression didn't move. I don't think it could. Yet I felt lighter every day. 

Six months went by and I didn't think of old thoughts that much anymore. 

I go to the cinema a lot more. I met friends. I eat better. I don't think of her. 

She's a memory now…just a memory. 

And…well memories can be repackaged. 

When I wake up every morning, shave and get dressed, get to work, I feel happier to be happy on a bad day. My eye lids aren't that heavy anymore. 

I hope that when I go to the mirror…I hear a cracking sound. 

I loved her. I really did treat her well. 

I know good and I always showed her it…but I deserve to be happy. 

I…I deserve the full package. A smile that works for me. 

My ears… they’re ready for that sound. 

…I hope I feel cold tomorrow.