Granite skies watch a man bundle himself into his home. The steam of the bath melts the frost on the inside of the windows. He lowers himself into the water, arms shaking a little. His back hurts. His ribs hurt. His muscles ache. He is too old for this kind of work.
He baths in the twilight, not wanting to turn on the garish bulb that swings from his ceiling. Colours blur into shades of mauve and the water and the steam dissolves the boundaries between solid and liquid. This bathroom is the mesh of reality soaked into indistinguishable gruel. He likes it here. Here he is not himself. He is the water. The tub. The window and it's odd light.
He feels himself drifting. He winces with the effort of extracting himself from the tub. Wouldn't do to fall asleep and awake in the absolute dark, freezing cold and directionless. He gets enough of that sensation in the course of a day.
He sits in his towel on his bed. The radiator gives the room a metallic toasty feel. He lets himself dry without making effort to speed the process along. He does not think of much. He does not feel that much. He just lets himself be. He lets his body and his mind recover with the passing of each unforgiving minute.
He turns on a soft lamp. Puts on fresh pajamas. Crawls into into the comfort of the sheets. He reaches for his headphones. Finds a new book on his phone. And listens as the narrator begins to speak.
His mind does not settle on the dread of the next day. Or the day after that, and after that.
Instead he finds himself transported elsewhere. A world colder and darker than his own. People crueller on the surface, but more or less the same underneath. He sees the ills of the world exaggerated in this false reality, almost comically. He sees the author's moral panic and insecurities in the strange twists of character and story. It reminds him of the human at the other end of the line, the one who doesn't know who he is or that he is even listening to this tale. Like looking at a familiar photograph he's never seen before.
He takes his headset out as he starts to drift. He'll have to listen to that bit again.
The moon waxes yellow. The traffic washes in the distance. The stars peek out against the orange streetlights. He thinks of the eight small hours between now and consciousness.
Then he dreams, and is happy for a while.
Paddy Dobson
1st October 2021