Incorporeal Just Doesn’t Sound Right
Intangible, unable to be touched or having no physical presence, an unusual way
to describe yourself, but it’s been strange since I lost my mind. I’d like to
introduce myself, until I lost all physical form, I was known as Neville, Nev
or to a select few Wraybies. It’s a play on my surname, rather than an allusion
to any illnesses, or at least that’s what I thought previously.
I’ve always thought that losing one’s mind
would be a slow thing, an occasional voice whispering and influencing me or the
gradual buckling under the weight of external pressures, but for me it was more
a Eureka moment, no warning, no alarm bells, just, bang. Intangible.
Looking at the pollution covered walls, my
train rolling under Birmingham city centre, butterflies performed their usual
jig in my stomach, but this time both tempo and duration felt more manic.
Embarking into one of the UK’s ugliest train stations, my strut left nobody in
any doubt they were in the presence of a returning hero. Armed with three
A-Levels and having survived the alien culture of Windsor for the past 2 years,
I was back to make my fortune. Employers didn’t know yet, but they were about
to get “it”, “it” being completed in a competent manner, by a conscientious
18-year-old without experience.
***
If returning to Birmingham always brought
out euphoria, I never felt truly home until I reached Edward Road, which acted
as a highway running through the area I had spent my formative years. With
three churches running down the centre, the dome of a huge mosque visible off
to the east and both a gurdwara and a synagogue ensconced in its borders, any
visitors could be confused into thinking they were visiting a holy place.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Whilst prostitution had been
eradicated through the camping out on street corners and strangling the local
demand for services of a carnal nature. If you scratched the surface, the
area’s true nature became clear. Groups of young men loitered around street
corners, occasionally giving elaborate handshakes through the car windows of
transient visitors. Pubs and shops all had one thing in common; barred windows.
When you saw the obvious poverty, you realised why various religions had
decided that the inhabitants of this place required saviour, but this was all
if you looked at things as an outsider.
To me this place was home, many of the
drug dealers were friends, just looking to make an honest living the only way
they knew how. Outsiders saw poverty and danger, but to those on the inside,
that poverty created a real community, it was us against the world and I was
delighted to be back. Saying that I hoped to make it a fleeting stay. I was
going places and with all that lovely money I was about to make. I was positive
that in no time at all I would soon be living in one of the gentrified areas
that surrounded my childhood home. It was two nights later that my plans were
thrown into chaos.
***
It happened as I was out with an old
friend, Kev, Kevin or Kevweiler to a select few (well one actually, only Kev
refers to himself as Kevweiler). We’re having a few beers in a beer garden, as
I’m celebrating interviews I’ve lined up. Suddenly Kev starts going on about a
nightclub that he’s going to on Sunday. In his own staccato way, he says:
“greatest club ever”, “Sundissential”,
“banging hard house”, “sweet crowd”, “Andy Farley”, “at The Church”.
That’s the thing about Kev, he always
talks in bullet points; no filler, no flow, just pieces of information fired at
100 mph. He blames it on being from Cork, but I’ve always suspected that it’s
the amount of amphetamines he does.
“So, what you doing Sunday then? “, “I’m
thinking”, “footie”, “few Jars”, “pub crawl” “Sundissential”, “Yeah?”.
The question was always coming, but now
I’m torn. Two interviews on Monday, but football and some Hard house on a
Sunday, in a place called the Church, seems like a great idea. As I hear myself
saying,
“sounds good, not too messy, as I’ve got
some interviews lined up”, I also hear myself say,
“Sounds great mate, but I’m not gonna be
able to make it. Interviews Monday and I want to get an early night. Anyway,
fancy another?”.
I had to do a double take, did that just
happen? Had I answered the same question simultaneously, with different
answers. Three beers can’t create this much confusion, so when Kevin replied.
“Shame”, “your loss”, “soon then”,
“Guiness please mate”. I’m not ashamed to say I descended into a state of
panic.
“Kev, have you spiked my drink?”, no
response, “Kev, did you hear what I said?” I reached across the table to shake
some answers out of him, but I noticed the strangest couple of things; firstly
my hand seemed to disappear through Kev’s chest, and looking behind me, I could
still see myself sitting in the chair. Like I said, my insanity moment was very
sudden.
To be honest the next few hours were some
of the weirdest of my life. Do apparitions even have lives? I had somehow
become disembodied from my physical self, quite a disconcerting feeling all be
told. What would you do in that situation? Well I planned on reattaching myself
as quickly as possible. I followed myself around the pub, trying to mirror the
exact same position as the physical me. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I
tried, every time either form moved, we separated. I decided to try my luck
with other patrons and walked round, at least I wasn’t bloody floating, trying
to touch or speak to numerous people, each time with the same outcome.
Intangible.
***
This all happened to me years ago now,
although it feels like only yesterday. I spent the first few months never
leaving my tangible self’s side; I was at every interview, every night out and
every date. Initially I was proud of tangible me. He lived up to the
expectations I had set out for myself, he aced his interviews and got the job
he wanted and immediately started impressing his new employer. Over time he
started seeing less of his “real friends”, as they didn’t fit with his new
image. Whilst I suppose making new
friends and outgrowing old ones is part of life, his new choice of
acquaintances wasn’t really to my taste. I did enjoy watching his love life
unfold though, all the visuals, with none of the pressure. The longer I spent
with him, the more we seemed to differ. The more success he achieved, the more
his arrogance and ego grew. I can’t tell you how disheartening it is, watching
yourself become someone you despise.
At a loss and needing something to take my
mind off the arsehole my tangible self was becoming, I decided to start
following Kev about. I remember the shock I felt when I saw him again for the
first time after the split night. He’d always been slim, the amount of nervous
energy he burned wasn’t conducive to putting on weight. Now though he looked
almost skeletal. It became clear why when I followed him to Sundissential for
the first time.
The music, as he had told me was banging,
beats jackhammering into the crowd’s brains at an almost unimaginable rate.
Walking around, watching people take dabs from wraps of white powder and
popping pills gave me an incredible thrill. Even with the chemical help, people
still couldn’t keep up with the beat. Instinctively I knew that this was where
I should be, clubbing, taking drugs and going to afterparties that lasted for
days rather than hours. Even watching the mental decline of the constant attendees,
as they pushed their minds further than they were supposed to go, I still felt
more comfortable with these people, than my tangible self.
I understood that I was supposed to have
gone to Sundissential, the drugs were meant to take their toll on me, the
ecstasy and speed was supposed to almost tear my mind apart. It was these
experiences that were supposed to shape me and with that added life experience,
beautiful and scary, I should’ve straightened myself out and got myself back on
track, wiser and kinder.
Unfortunately, that’s not how things
turned out. Instead, I don’t exist, I live on the periphery of the physical
world. Sundissential has closed, there is only so long an establishment can
stay open when everybody attending is doing that many drugs. I now actively
avoid my tangible self, as although he looks like me, I can’t stand to be
around him. He’s arrogant, yet insecure, deceitful and shallow, but hey, at
least he’s got a nice car. It’s been six months since I’ve seen him, the last
time I bumped into him, not literally obviously, he was asking someone “do you
know who I am?”, the weird thing is, he’s me and even I don’t.
Neville Wray
Neville Wray is an unpublished, cross genre writer of short stories, who lives in Birmingham, England. Having got back into writing after a two-decade dormant period, he realised he had a passion for creative writing. Aside from family and friends (not exactly a subjective audience), the only experience he has of sharing his work is via a small private writer’s forum, where he competes in a monthly competition. Having finally decided to overcome his cowardice and self-doubt, he has decided to see if he can get some of his work published.
Tags:
Short Fiction