Second Chance

I’m on a bridge. The bricks aren't red any more. They're faded. A dusty orange. Dark green, shiny leaves, ivy I think, have replaced the crumbling mortar and formed a kind of symbiotic relationship. The road arches in the middle and it’s littered with potholes and loose stones. All around me is white and the ambient temperature matches my own. Like every muscle in my body is poolside, sipping a Moscow Mule. That constant, acute pain that rips across my annihilated, cancerous belly and makes it hard for me to breathe, to think, is gone. And the taste of acrid, fetid faeces that have rerouted themselves from my intestines up through my oesophagus so that I’m forced to vomit my own shit, is gone. It’s not how they tell us. There's no bright light or long tunnel. But I know where I am. I would’ve expected someone to greet me. Old, wise, long white beard. There’s no-one. Nothing. This is where I'm assessed, isn't it? Well, I’ve worked my nuts off to give Jessie and the boys a good life. Swimming pool in the garden. Holidays in Florida. We were a happy family. At least I thought we were. Shit. Are you really going to pull me up for that? Is that why I got sick then? Because of a couple of dalliances. Once in London with a temp from HR and once in Leeds with Barney Saunders' wife. I can remember the crap stains on the toilet and the frayed edges of the once-white pillow cases, but I can't remember what they look like. They were just cheap fucks in cheap hotel rooms. It meant nothing. To me anyway. Come on then you judgemental old bastard. Where are you? Haven't I suffered enough? I'm not crossing, am I? I feel as light as air but my legs are rooted. Maybe this is where I'll be forever. Like in Waiting for Godot. Just waiting. Maybe it's punishment. Being left here with my thoughts. My guilt. 
   I wish I could have told Jess how much I love her. I never could show my emotions. Wish she knew it was her I wanted. Just looking at her gives me a boner. Breasts with nipples like dust caps. The boys used to call them boom booms. And her smell. Orange blossom bath oil, candle wax, fresh herbs. She never knew that before we met I used to drink a litre of vodka a day. That when I was six I leant into my baby sister's crib, lifted her out and carried her to my mum. I can still see the little pink rabbit on the white fleecy blanket. Embroidered around the edges, making sure it didn't run away. I thought she was asleep. I didn’t know she was dead. Mum didn’t get out of bed for weeks. Her eyes were scared and had red rings around them. They reminded me of pigs eyes, like the ones I saw at the school farm. I thought she was going to die too. Dad said I hadn't done anything wrong but I thought that if I hadn't picked her up she wouldn't have died. It felt like mum thought that too. I wanted to talk about my sister but I couldn't. Not to mum. Or dad. Like the smell of baby poo catching in my throat, was never in the house. And like the sound of giggling when I tickled her, was never in the house. It was like she never existed. I used to put my head under my pillow so that I couldn't be heard and say her name over and over so that she didn't disappear. I maybe should have told Jess that. And that when dad died and mum cried herself to sleep every night, propped upright on her pillows, I imagined her red, piggy eyes as I blocked her out by playing Leonard Cohen full-blast on my headphones, swigging Grey Goose until mum's wailing and my guilt sank into oblivion. I didn’t know what to do. I maybe should have told Jess that too. I thought it would make me seem useless and weak and that she wouldn’t want me. Fucking joke that. Can’t get much weaker than being spoon-fed pureed carrots and having shit stains wiped from my arse. Who'd a thought the Big Man had such a sense of humour. Maybe if I’d found it easier to talk to Jess and the boys I could’ve stayed home more. Just that I couldn’t handle the boys crying. So I left it to Jess and booked another business flight. Poor Jess. I want the boys to know that they’re lucky to have her. That she'll always look after them. Like she has me. I want to tell them that I love them and I’m sorry for not being the dad they deserved. I want them to understand why I want to stay here. It’s just because of the pain. So much pain. What’s happening. Jesus, the noise. Oh God, the fucking pain. Ah, Jess. JESS. JESSICA. She can't hear me. Warm hand on my forehead. Stroking. Wet falling on my face. Salt. Tears. I'm sorry Jess. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I tried by best. She's talking to me. Telling me they love me. They forgive me. She's telling me to go if I want to, if I've had enough. They understand. 
   I’m on the bridge. Everything's the same. He’s still not here, that old bastard. But I can hear Zac and Daniel giggling, like when they were little. Wetting each other with the garden hose as the sun bounces off the spray. Orange blossom permeates the air and Jess is telling them to stop: although she's laughing and none of us believes she means it. The spray from the hose damps my face and the laughter rises and falls as I lift one foot off the ground.