The Last Day

There would, I knew, be times when I would lust after death with a fervour that was almost irresistible, but death would continue to elude me, preferring to hold back until my circumstances were of a sort likely to make its intervention optimally unpleasant.

Death is no-one's friend; it hates to be welcomed with open arms, and never responds to invitations.

Only when life had lulled me into acquiescence, optimism and equanimity would death arrive, and, without knocking, force its way into the supposed sanctuary of my innermost thoughts, where it would stand, twice as large as life, grinning avariciously, barring my only escape route.

This I knew, with irrevocable certainty.

But there would also be times when I would forget, or pretend it was not so, or convince myself that death was just a myth, like God, or the equality of the sexes, or Father Christmas.

Consequently, when the Last Day in which I had endeavoured so ardently and for so long not to believe finally arrived, I failed at first to perceive it for what it truly was. There was no angelic trumpet blast, and God did not descend in majesty from on high on his throne of judgement, but the unleashing of divine wrath was in the offing nevertheless.

From the moment I awoke, I was conscious of a subtle difference in the atmosphere: the air somehow felt taut, as though being stretched to its limit like an enormous piece of elastic, and as the day went on this impression was reinforced as my physical surroundings seemingly began first to wobble, and then to flicker in and out of focus, as though in response to the strain. At some point – I knew, although not when – everything would snap asunder, releasing hell fire, or purgatorial flame – it mattered little which – to engulf, eviscerate, and purify.

During the morning I mucked around, or at any rate went through the motions of mucking around, because when all was said and done I was still a young teenager, and hence still not wholly committed to acceptance. When the removal lorry lumbered around the corner into our street, however, and disgorged a quantity of nameless, faceless men who proceeded to take away our belongings, denial became almost impossible, and although the air temperature was in the high nineties, I felt chilled to the very marrow.

That afternoon, there were two of me, one palpable and active, the other disembodied and disowned, watching from afar in a state of mingled bemusement and regret. It was the ghostly me who climbed into the car when the time came for the drive to Outer Harbour, while the tangible me regarded the process with detachment and, perhaps, a small amount of derision, before, finally, turning away and re-entering the building that would always, at least to most intents and purposes, remain home.