down to the river (ip)

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I am tired. So tired. And cold. The icy mist clings to my hair, my beard, my face. I just don’t care. Too tired to care anymore. Yes, I know I could go across. I think that’s pretty obvious. I’m not stupid.

Yes I also know what they’d all say. Your whole life ahead of you. A bright future. January the bleakest month – when people feel this way the most. January in Germany is even bleaker.

I just don’t want to try anymore. Haven't the energy. That was my last hurrah – the personal ad I put in the newspaper a few weeks ago. My heart wasn’t in it though. There were replies, but I didn’t bother to open any of them. I think I’d made up my mind by then. What’s the point? I just can’t see one.

I can’t be bothered. I haven’t brushed my teeth for months. That stupid cow who took away my best friend looked at me like I was mad when I told her it was too much hassle. I said I could always get false ones if these rotted away. That shut her up. Bitch.

That was when I stopped caring – when she arrived. It was allright before that – the two of us in the flat – two blokes from Yorkshire. Nothing funny mind – just friends having a laugh. We’d go out in the evenings, take the piss out of our students over a pint.

We lived off whatever they had cheap in the supermarket – potato salad, ham. Didn’t bother with cooking and all that – no need. When we ran out of shirts, we’d do a wash. Drape them round the flat while they dried. We weren’t bothered.

Then she turned up. That’s the first thing I remember – her walking round with that disapproving expression on her face, picking shirts off chairs. Snob. Southern bitch.

John didn’t notice. He was smitten. Couldn’t see beyond her face. I didn’t matter anymore. Not that I said anything. You don’t. I’m not gay or anything funny like that.

I didn’t say anything but I wrote it down. Every slight, every disapproving glance. I wrote it all down in my diary. I hope she reads it one day. Bitch. Then she’ll see what she did.

Wasn’t long before things began to get uncomfortable. John noticed –well, I say that – what I really mean is she made John notice – whined and whinged in that stupid soft voice, and then he left. Moved in with her. Left me alone in the flat.

Couldn’t afford the rent on my own. Teaching doesn’t pay enough, Had to get a room in a house – a bedsit. I didn’t care, but I missed the company. Still saw them every day at work. Wouldn’t look her in the eyes. Wasn’t going to let her know she’d won. Bitch.

Went to their new flat every week with my washing – they had the machine we all rented together. I liked invading their comfortable little arrangement. Liked watching her squirm when she saw me. That was my last treat – one last load, earlier this evening. Leaving things tidy like. Said I’d be back in the morning for it.

I prepared other things too. Brought the paracetamols back here after Christmas. Special offer at Boots in Yeadon. Want to make sure I do it properly. Got the wine here. You get more for your money. Wrote the note. Wonder when they’ll find it? I don’t really care. Too tired to care. “Down to the river” it said. To remind him of the song we always played.

Not thinking straight now, feeling numb. Got to concentrate. Yes I know it’s not too late. I could carry on, walk across the bridge. I'm not stupid. But I’m not going to. Now, where’s the best place?