He comes home, the clamour of the city snapping down to a muffled growl with the click of the closing door. In the kitchen the tap drips. The kids are glued to their screens and two separate entities scream out their constant astonishment to a parade of laughter. The radio is on and the wife is singing a tone-deaf mimicry alongside the track. Each step creaks. The door hinges squeal. Upstairs the extractor fan hums and makes occasional splutters. The radiators gurgle. The bed lets out a ripple of complaints as he sits down.
He takes the helmet from the dock. It slides down over his head, covering him down to the neck. Darkness. He runs a finger along the depression on the side. A beep.
Silence.
He remains in this void for hours. Feeling the flow of blood in his veins. The steady drum of his heart. Little else. He is suspended in formless black. The noise of the world cannot touch him here.
Until his wife shakes his shoulder to call him to dinner.
Paddy Dobson
4th September 2021