4.45 a.m. Black. Silence.
6.13 a.m. Grey. A car passing.
9.22 a.m. White. A kind voice.
Chalk taste. I remember:

I sit. The blue cushion is soft and still warm from the old man with his brown coat and squeaky shoes. The rest of the chairs contain blank faces, a man, a woman, a man, a man, a man. I stare at the assistant but she is busy opening and closing drawers, reading prescriptions and smiling. The white coat she wears makes her look pure and clinical, part of the room, efficiently moving. Not efficient enough for my liking. Bored of her conservative beauty I glance around at the stacks of modestly labelled healthcare products and garish beauty items. Bright pink shampoo dominates one shelf. My eye is drawn to something familiar; I gaze at the stack of shavers and the memories flood in. Which was it I used last time? I think it was one of the Gillette ones, marked with an outrageous airspeed. I had to use a knife to take it apart, and when I grabbed the head and handle to split the plastic I accidentally drove the razor into my hand. Christening the blade. Which one would I choose now? I scan down the price tags looking for the cheapest; with no work my account is three digits into the red. As I empty my wallet out onto my lap, rhythmic squeaking catches my attention. I see the old man returning with a plastic bag, his shopping done; he stands and stares waiting for someone to give up their seat. I’m far past niceties now and I go back to my counting. Two pounds forty and some coppers, enough for a pack of disposables.
“David Cole?”
I stand and the old man looks hopefully at me, I quickly grab a pack of blue disposable razors and step up to the counter as my seat is filled.
“Address?”
“12 Maybury place” I mutter into my shoes.
“These as well” I add, pushing my razors across the counter.
“Sorry sir?”
“These. As well.” I push them again. “Please” I add, but he’s already turned to the till. I stuff my anti-depressants into my jacket pocket. I drop my cash into his palm and a loose coin rolls onto the counter. I return it to him. He meets my eye. He knows from my prescription that I’m on anti-depressants and it’s not like disposable razors are an impulse buy. I force myself to look down, cursing my stupidity. I feel the eyes of the old man burning into my back. I breathe hard. No one must know. I mutter something about hurrying up to the cashier. He glances up. I glance away. Just act normal, but don’t let them know. The old man is still looking. I spin. He’s staring into his bag. Breathe. You’re normal. The cashier chirps a thank you and I snatch the razors. Outside now. I’m a functional human being, I’m a functional human being, I’m a functional human being, I’m a functional human being, I’m a functional human being. I stop on the street.

9.30 a.m. White window. Cold chair.
10.12 a.m. Yellow screen. Warm chair. Voices.
11.42 a.m. Grey rain. Grey window. Rain.
Drops on window. I remember:

No regrets. That’s how I live my life, a regret is useless thing. Things happen, and after they’ve happened they cease to exist. No regrets. That’s why I had to wait for the rain. I didn’t want to regret my choice, it had to be on the right day, the right weather. It falls around me and on me, it runs down and around me. The rain is heavy and loud as I stand in it. I love the rain. It drowns out all things. Its cold, angular wind makes all stoop to my level and with its cold hard drops streaming down my face there are no tears. As a child I would stand in the shower with my fingers in my ears and my eyes closed. With the sound resonating around my head I would pretend I was waiting in the yellow of a streetlamp, cars buzzing along the wet street behind me. I was waiting, a long trench coat covering me, waiting for a door to open. I wasn’t angry that I was waiting in the rain, or nervous about what would happen. I was content to take this moment in which time stopped to think. I created an existence outside this door, happily waiting in the rain for it to open, waiting for time to start again for my other life. Standing shivering in the street I try to return to that fantasy, but it has been long corroded by my life and little of the feeling remains, just the yellow light and the rain. I wander a little further and watch a business suited man steam past, clutching his well worn briefcase. I’ve always marvelled at the way in which our internal lives are separate from the world. I feel as if my world is washing away yet the outside world just ticks by. There’s no screams and no explosions, just the constants of time and change running other lives. The man’s eyes are vacant.

12.07 p.m. Cold seat. Warm food. People.
12.32 p.m. Warm seat. Cold food. People.
1.15 p.m. Warm seat. Woman’s question.
“Did you try to kill yourself?”. I remember:

The bed is soft and warm but I can’t feel it. I’m sitting. I still can’t find the razors. I found a knife in the kitchen, I find a knife in the kitchen, I will find a knife in the kitchen. I watch the dust spiralling through my fingers. The room is cold and the light is harsh. Inside my head I remind myself why I am doing this. I remember the pain. Realising I’m less than human. Reactions placed between confusion and fear. Crying. Screaming. Living. You’re better off dead. You were worthless. You will fail. You bring only pain. You were a piece of shit. You will die. I wince at the pain as the knife bites into my wrist. A thin red line forms. It grows. It stings. The blood gathers slowly. It isn’t deep enough. I cut again. Again it grows slowly. Again. Again. Again. Again. My arm blurs crimson.

5.00 p.m. Yellow. Soup.
5.42 p.m. Yellow. Cold window.
7.09 p.m. Yellow. Faces.
Blurred faces. I remember:

Not enough. In the bathroom I stare in the mirror. I stare back. I cry. Searching now, looking for something to finish the job. Clattering onto the ground. A glance at my arm burning red. Doors swinging. White tiles reflect in the mirror. Blood runs around the sink, around the sink, around the sink. Draining away. A bottle. A handful of white pills, a mouthful of water. More pills, more water, chalk taste. My face fades out. Pain fades out. Blue. I see the razors on top of the cabinet. I smile. Watching the red again. Tired. Rolling down. Tired. Drips from my elbow. Tired. I’ll just lie down. I fall. Breathe. The red pools near my head. Tiles. I fall a little further down.

8.02 p.m. A friend. I can’t tell who.
8.24 p.m. A doctor comes to talk.
8.30 p.m. Yellow light. I overhear.
“He’s lucky it didn‘t kill him”. I remember:

Red. Red blurs with red. Blue. Howling sirens. Fade. Yellow. White. Yellow. White. Blurs surround me, uttering prayers. Fade. Pain. Fade.

Awake. Brain grows, crushing inside my skull. Scream. Fade. Awake. Voices mutter, I grasp words. “Live”, “Blood”, “Vision”. Fade.

Awake. My head throbs clearly. I see white. I wait for focus,  wait for anything but colour. White. I strain. White. I feel a bed below me, sheets tightly wrapped. I sit up and look around. White. Yellow seeps in at the edges. I stand. I stumble. I feel something cool and hard. Metal. I push myself up and pain sears in my arm. Yellow. White. I see a black shape, a rectangle. I stumble to it. An opening. I keep moving now. Black. Yellow. Black. Yellow. Still waiting for clarity. A voice.
“Matt, come on now, back to bed”.
“Where am I?” I manage to squeeze from my throat.
“Somewhere safe.”
“What time is it?“ My speech cracks. A shape just nods. I try to repeat myself but there’s nothing left. I fall into something. So tired now. I feel hands on me. The bed. I try again to speak but I wretch and cough. Footsteps lead away. Tired.
“What time is it?” Louder now, the footsteps lead back.
     
3.43 a.m. Black. Warm. Fade.