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The End of the line - Something I wrote a while ago, didn't think it was particularly good until I had it marked and Kyle read it. So yeh, enjoy.
As I sat on the dark, messy train opposite a young teenager on the phone and with a cigarette in the other hand, I wondered what the world had come to. When I was young, I used to spend all my time on the village green playing with my friends until dusk. Today’s youth sit around chatting on their mobile telephones or smoking in dark alleys with their mates who say that ‘smoking is cool’.
The teenage girl got off her phone just before we reached the stop Chinkwell, where she abruptly got off. I was really glad of this as not only did it mean there were only three stop left until mine, but it meant I had space to enjoy my last few hours.
I turned to look out of the window and all I could see were the graffiti covered walls running along side the train tracks, and the litter that made it almost impossible to see the ground around the tracks upon which I was riding.
As the train pulled into my stop I arose from my chewing gum covered seat and walked over to the sliding door. I slipped my hand into my pocket to check it was still there. It’s sharp edge confirmed to me that it was, and I stepped off the repungant train onto the platform. This was the end of the line for the train, and soon to be the end of the line for me too. The sky was grey and it looked as if the rain would start any minute now, so I quickened my pace towards my destination.
I walked out of the station and turned right, onto the Broadway. This area was very familiar to me, as I was brought up here during my childhood before I left home and decided to pursue my intended career in London. Now that had failed I was returning to my place of birth to make amends for all the years I had been away.
As I walked through the streets I realized how much this place had changed, mainly for the worse. I remember these streets being lined with trees and other shrubs. I remember little children riding down the road on their new bikes that Santa had delivered for Christmas. I remember mothers walking along the roads with their shopping baskets; passing comments at every one they passed, politely saying ‘hello’ or ‘nice to see you’. Now, it was nothing more than a dump.
Instead of the trees lining the edge of the road, there were rubbish bins, many of which had been kicked over and were sprawling rubbish into the street. Instead of the children riding bikes, there were youths in tackily decorated, blaring cars with their heavy metal music turned right up loud so that the whole street could hear it. Instead of the chatting old mums, now the only people walking down these dismal streets were young men swearing and yelling at each other, over who won the football last night or some other ridiculous reason.
As I continued my walk I passed an old time favorite newsagents of mine, which used to be run by a very nice young lady called Mrs Harpal. I decided I would pay a visit for old time’s sake, and pushed the door open. To my utter most surprise, it was the same ageing Mrs Harpal sitting behind the counter reading an old edition of ‘OK!’. I picked up a four pack of Fosters out the fridge and went up to the till. Again, to my surprise she recognized me under my lengthy beard and asked what I was doing ‘back in this area’. I mumbled some rubbish about visiting old friends, paid for my drinks and left hastily, not wishing to get involved in a long conversation, as the more I put this off, the less courage I would have to do it.
I walked out of the shop much to Mrs Harpal’s displeasure, and stalked purposefully along up the street towards my old house. I rounded the corner, watching a sullen looking bird sitting on a telephone wire. When I used to live here the birds would fly around cheerily chirping a happy tune to which we would get on with our day. That particular bird then flew off over a run down house with boarded up windows, towards the canal.
As I walked over the next hill I saw my old house sitting there between two other identical ones, almost as if they had been created as triplets. I walked up to the front door and gave a large rap on the knocker.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice from within asked.
I couldn’t do it, not after this long so I turned and fled up the path and down the street. I heard the door open behind me but dared not look around as I ran up the road and hid behind a giant dumpster. I peeked out and saw a man standing there in his sleeping clothes and dressing gown, obviously in his early 50s. This was the brother I had not seen for over 30 years. He was unshaven like myself, with a long stubble protruding from his chin. His very distinct red mop of hair lay long on his head, and a broken pair of spectacles on his nose. I hid quietly behind the bin until I heard the door slam shut, which was my signal of his departure from the street.
I got up from behind the bin and brushed myself down, took a sniff of myself and decided that it was not worth me removing my horribly smelling jacket so I walked on. I had decided where the deed was to be done for it was a place very close to my heart.
I walked on through the streets and in front of me arose what we used to call simply ‘The Green’. It was a very simple name but one which was very significant when we used to come out every day after school, or all day at the week-end to play our games whatever they may have been. There was one afternoon we decided to have a vote for the renaming of this square of grass. I opposed it being changed and the whole thing turned into an election with speeches and campaigns. I eventually won after five hard days of campaigning, and ‘The Green’ kept its name much to my delight.
As I approached The Green it was my disgust to see what had happened to it. Where there used to be pure lush green grass there was now sloppy mud with skid marks all over it. Where there used to be pretty flowerbeds around the edges, there were weeds and rubbish. Coke cans and crisp packets littered the whole area and the goal posts were lying on the floor at one end, and seemed to have completely disappeared at the other. I walked around it, every so often bending down to pick up an empty crisp packet or mars bar wrapper and throw it in a nearby bin. I was totally disgusted with what my eyes saw, how could anyone let a place look like my poor Green did now?
It was then I remembered I had a four pack of Fosters in my left hand, so I broke one off and snapped the top open. I took one huge swig and went to find a tree with minimal mud around it under which to sit. I sat down making sure not to sit on the object in my pocket upon which I would soon be calling.
The moment I sat down the sun came out from behind a cloud and as the sun covered my face, I closed my eyes to remember me playing football here as a small child. I had come down with three other lads my age and we were playing a new game called ’60 seconds’. I was in goal because I had touched the ball last within the sixty seconds, and as I was diving for one of the shots I bashed my head against the post. I was immediately knocked out and the next thing I knew I was laughing in hospital because of the ridiculousness of what had just happened.
All these old memories of this green as a beautiful play area for us whenever we were bored drowned away and in it’s replace, a dirty run down littered piece of land upon which I wouldn’t let my dog play, let alone my children.
As I started open-mindedly across the green I heard children’s voices, complaining about not being allowed out to play. I felt sorry for them, even if they were allowed out, what would they be faced with? This. Then I thought that even though to me this place was a mess, to some it would be all they had. I had the luxury of a childhood here when this place was actually a green. These poor children probably spent their lives running round here, just like I used to because it was the best they had.
I reached out and grabbed another Fosters, at the same time drawing a cigarette from my pocket. I lit the ciggy and pulled the ring off the can before taking a huge swig. Being back here had brought it all back, the great childhood I had, but then leaving home to become a failure in London. I should have stayed put.
I looked back up at what this place had become and sighed. In those few split seconds, I convinced myself that this was all my fault. It was my fault this town had becomce what it has. My fault I had not spoken to my family in 30 years. And my fault that I had become a failure.
I sunk my hand clumsily into my pocket and withdrew the knife I had been carrying around all day. In my carelessness, I cut myself and when I withdrew my hand it was already covered in blood. There was no going back now. I drew the knife cleanly across my vein diagonally and sat there. Waiting, watching the children now allowed out run around with a football as my mind drifted out. It reminded me of my childhood. It reminded me of the real me. This was the end of the line…
As I sat on the dark, messy train opposite a young teenager on the phone and with a cigarette in the other hand, I wondered what the world had come to. When I was young, I used to spend all my time on the village green playing with my friends until dusk. Today’s youth sit around chatting on their mobile telephones or smoking in dark alleys with their mates who say that ‘smoking is cool’.
The teenage girl got off her phone just before we reached the stop Chinkwell, where she abruptly got off. I was really glad of this as not only did it mean there were only three stop left until mine, but it meant I had space to enjoy my last few hours.
I turned to look out of the window and all I could see were the graffiti covered walls running along side the train tracks, and the litter that made it almost impossible to see the ground around the tracks upon which I was riding.
As the train pulled into my stop I arose from my chewing gum covered seat and walked over to the sliding door. I slipped my hand into my pocket to check it was still there. It’s sharp edge confirmed to me that it was, and I stepped off the repungant train onto the platform. This was the end of the line for the train, and soon to be the end of the line for me too. The sky was grey and it looked as if the rain would start any minute now, so I quickened my pace towards my destination.
I walked out of the station and turned right, onto the Broadway. This area was very familiar to me, as I was brought up here during my childhood before I left home and decided to pursue my intended career in London. Now that had failed I was returning to my place of birth to make amends for all the years I had been away.
As I walked through the streets I realized how much this place had changed, mainly for the worse. I remember these streets being lined with trees and other shrubs. I remember little children riding down the road on their new bikes that Santa had delivered for Christmas. I remember mothers walking along the roads with their shopping baskets; passing comments at every one they passed, politely saying ‘hello’ or ‘nice to see you’. Now, it was nothing more than a dump.
Instead of the trees lining the edge of the road, there were rubbish bins, many of which had been kicked over and were sprawling rubbish into the street. Instead of the children riding bikes, there were youths in tackily decorated, blaring cars with their heavy metal music turned right up loud so that the whole street could hear it. Instead of the chatting old mums, now the only people walking down these dismal streets were young men swearing and yelling at each other, over who won the football last night or some other ridiculous reason.
As I continued my walk I passed an old time favorite newsagents of mine, which used to be run by a very nice young lady called Mrs Harpal. I decided I would pay a visit for old time’s sake, and pushed the door open. To my utter most surprise, it was the same ageing Mrs Harpal sitting behind the counter reading an old edition of ‘OK!’. I picked up a four pack of Fosters out the fridge and went up to the till. Again, to my surprise she recognized me under my lengthy beard and asked what I was doing ‘back in this area’. I mumbled some rubbish about visiting old friends, paid for my drinks and left hastily, not wishing to get involved in a long conversation, as the more I put this off, the less courage I would have to do it.
I walked out of the shop much to Mrs Harpal’s displeasure, and stalked purposefully along up the street towards my old house. I rounded the corner, watching a sullen looking bird sitting on a telephone wire. When I used to live here the birds would fly around cheerily chirping a happy tune to which we would get on with our day. That particular bird then flew off over a run down house with boarded up windows, towards the canal.
As I walked over the next hill I saw my old house sitting there between two other identical ones, almost as if they had been created as triplets. I walked up to the front door and gave a large rap on the knocker.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice from within asked.
I couldn’t do it, not after this long so I turned and fled up the path and down the street. I heard the door open behind me but dared not look around as I ran up the road and hid behind a giant dumpster. I peeked out and saw a man standing there in his sleeping clothes and dressing gown, obviously in his early 50s. This was the brother I had not seen for over 30 years. He was unshaven like myself, with a long stubble protruding from his chin. His very distinct red mop of hair lay long on his head, and a broken pair of spectacles on his nose. I hid quietly behind the bin until I heard the door slam shut, which was my signal of his departure from the street.
I got up from behind the bin and brushed myself down, took a sniff of myself and decided that it was not worth me removing my horribly smelling jacket so I walked on. I had decided where the deed was to be done for it was a place very close to my heart.
I walked on through the streets and in front of me arose what we used to call simply ‘The Green’. It was a very simple name but one which was very significant when we used to come out every day after school, or all day at the week-end to play our games whatever they may have been. There was one afternoon we decided to have a vote for the renaming of this square of grass. I opposed it being changed and the whole thing turned into an election with speeches and campaigns. I eventually won after five hard days of campaigning, and ‘The Green’ kept its name much to my delight.
As I approached The Green it was my disgust to see what had happened to it. Where there used to be pure lush green grass there was now sloppy mud with skid marks all over it. Where there used to be pretty flowerbeds around the edges, there were weeds and rubbish. Coke cans and crisp packets littered the whole area and the goal posts were lying on the floor at one end, and seemed to have completely disappeared at the other. I walked around it, every so often bending down to pick up an empty crisp packet or mars bar wrapper and throw it in a nearby bin. I was totally disgusted with what my eyes saw, how could anyone let a place look like my poor Green did now?
It was then I remembered I had a four pack of Fosters in my left hand, so I broke one off and snapped the top open. I took one huge swig and went to find a tree with minimal mud around it under which to sit. I sat down making sure not to sit on the object in my pocket upon which I would soon be calling.
The moment I sat down the sun came out from behind a cloud and as the sun covered my face, I closed my eyes to remember me playing football here as a small child. I had come down with three other lads my age and we were playing a new game called ’60 seconds’. I was in goal because I had touched the ball last within the sixty seconds, and as I was diving for one of the shots I bashed my head against the post. I was immediately knocked out and the next thing I knew I was laughing in hospital because of the ridiculousness of what had just happened.
All these old memories of this green as a beautiful play area for us whenever we were bored drowned away and in it’s replace, a dirty run down littered piece of land upon which I wouldn’t let my dog play, let alone my children.
As I started open-mindedly across the green I heard children’s voices, complaining about not being allowed out to play. I felt sorry for them, even if they were allowed out, what would they be faced with? This. Then I thought that even though to me this place was a mess, to some it would be all they had. I had the luxury of a childhood here when this place was actually a green. These poor children probably spent their lives running round here, just like I used to because it was the best they had.
I reached out and grabbed another Fosters, at the same time drawing a cigarette from my pocket. I lit the ciggy and pulled the ring off the can before taking a huge swig. Being back here had brought it all back, the great childhood I had, but then leaving home to become a failure in London. I should have stayed put.
I looked back up at what this place had become and sighed. In those few split seconds, I convinced myself that this was all my fault. It was my fault this town had becomce what it has. My fault I had not spoken to my family in 30 years. And my fault that I had become a failure.
I sunk my hand clumsily into my pocket and withdrew the knife I had been carrying around all day. In my carelessness, I cut myself and when I withdrew my hand it was already covered in blood. There was no going back now. I drew the knife cleanly across my vein diagonally and sat there. Waiting, watching the children now allowed out run around with a football as my mind drifted out. It reminded me of my childhood. It reminded me of the real me. This was the end of the line…
and again....pop
pop
Strage - it's easy to fault and predictable, yet I found it gripping and enjoyable to the end.
Well done.
Well done.
very good i like the part about the sharp edge comforting you
Thanks Paradox. :-D
T'was rather enjoyable. Nice suicidal ending.
All good.
All good.
The End of the line - Something I wrote a while ago, didn't think it was particularly good until I had it marked and Kyle read it. So yeh, enjoy.
As I sat on the dark, messy train opposite a young teenager on the phone and with a cigarette in the other hand, I wondered what the world had come to. When I was young, I used to spend all my time on the village green playing with my friends until dusk. Today’s youth sit around chatting on their mobile telephones or smoking in dark alleys with their mates who say that ‘smoking is cool’.
The teenage girl got off her phone just before we reached the stop Chinkwell, where she abruptly got off. I was really glad of this as not only did it mean there were only three stop left until mine, but it meant I had space to enjoy my last few hours.
I turned to look out of the window and all I could see were the graffiti covered walls running along side the train tracks, and the litter that made it almost impossible to see the ground around the tracks upon which I was riding.
As the train pulled into my stop I arose from my chewing gum covered seat and walked over to the sliding door. I slipped my hand into my pocket to check it was still there. It’s sharp edge confirmed to me that it was, and I stepped off the repungant train onto the platform. This was the end of the line for the train, and soon to be the end of the line for me too. The sky was grey and it looked as if the rain would start any minute now, so I quickened my pace towards my destination.
I walked out of the station and turned right, onto the Broadway. This area was very familiar to me, as I was brought up here during my childhood before I left home and decided to pursue my intended career in London. Now that had failed I was returning to my place of birth to make amends for all the years I had been away.
As I walked through the streets I realized how much this place had changed, mainly for the worse. I remember these streets being lined with trees and other shrubs. I remember little children riding down the road on their new bikes that Santa had delivered for Christmas. I remember mothers walking along the roads with their shopping baskets; passing comments at every one they passed, politely saying ‘hello’ or ‘nice to see you’. Now, it was nothing more than a dump.
Instead of the trees lining the edge of the road, there were rubbish bins, many of which had been kicked over and were sprawling rubbish into the street. Instead of the children riding bikes, there were youths in tackily decorated, blaring cars with their heavy metal music turned right up loud so that the whole street could hear it. Instead of the chatting old mums, now the only people walking down these dismal streets were young men swearing and yelling at each other, over who won the football last night or some other ridiculous reason.
As I continued my walk I passed an old time favorite newsagents of mine, which used to be run by a very nice young lady called Mrs Harpal. I decided I would pay a visit for old time’s sake, and pushed the door open. To my utter most surprise, it was the same ageing Mrs Harpal sitting behind the counter reading an old edition of ‘OK!’. I picked up a four pack of Fosters out the fridge and went up to the till. Again, to my surprise she recognized me under my lengthy beard and asked what I was doing ‘back in this area’. I mumbled some rubbish about visiting old friends, paid for my drinks and left hastily, not wishing to get involved in a long conversation, as the more I put this off, the less courage I would have to do it.
I walked out of the shop much to Mrs Harpal’s displeasure, and stalked purposefully along up the street towards my old house. I rounded the corner, watching a sullen looking bird sitting on a telephone wire. When I used to live here the birds would fly around cheerily chirping a happy tune to which we would get on with our day. That particular bird then flew off over a run down house with boarded up windows, towards the canal.
As I walked over the next hill I saw my old house sitting there between two other identical ones, almost as if they had been created as triplets. I walked up to the front door and gave a large rap on the knocker.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice from within asked.
I couldn’t do it, not after this long so I turned and fled up the path and down the street. I heard the door open behind me but dared not look around as I ran up the road and hid behind a giant dumpster. I peeked out and saw a man standing there in his sleeping clothes and dressing gown, obviously in his early 50s. This was the brother I had not seen for over 30 years. He was unshaven like myself, with a long stubble protruding from his chin. His very distinct red mop of hair lay long on his head, and a broken pair of spectacles on his nose. I hid quietly behind the bin until I heard the door slam shut, which was my signal of his departure from the street.
I got up from behind the bin and brushed myself down, took a sniff of myself and decided that it was not worth me removing my horribly smelling jacket so I walked on. I had decided where the deed was to be done for it was a place very close to my heart.
I walked on through the streets and in front of me arose what we used to call simply ‘The Green’. It was a very simple name but one which was very significant when we used to come out every day after school, or all day at the week-end to play our games whatever they may have been. There was one afternoon we decided to have a vote for the renaming of this square of grass. I opposed it being changed and the whole thing turned into an election with speeches and campaigns. I eventually won after five hard days of campaigning, and ‘The Green’ kept its name much to my delight.
As I approached The Green it was my disgust to see what had happened to it. Where there used to be pure lush green grass there was now sloppy mud with skid marks all over it. Where there used to be pretty flowerbeds around the edges, there were weeds and rubbish. Coke cans and crisp packets littered the whole area and the goal posts were lying on the floor at one end, and seemed to have completely disappeared at the other. I walked around it, every so often bending down to pick up an empty crisp packet or mars bar wrapper and throw it in a nearby bin. I was totally disgusted with what my eyes saw, how could anyone let a place look like my poor Green did now?
It was then I remembered I had a four pack of Fosters in my left hand, so I broke one off and snapped the top open. I took one huge swig and went to find a tree with minimal mud around it under which to sit. I sat down making sure not to sit on the object in my pocket upon which I would soon be calling.
The moment I sat down the sun came out from behind a cloud and as the sun covered my face, I closed my eyes to remember me playing football here as a small child. I had come down with three other lads my age and we were playing a new game called ’60 seconds’. I was in goal because I had touched the ball last within the sixty seconds, and as I was diving for one of the shots I bashed my head against the post. I was immediately knocked out and the next thing I knew I was laughing in hospital because of the ridiculousness of what had just happened.
All these old memories of this green as a beautiful play area for us whenever we were bored drowned away and in it’s replace, a dirty run down littered piece of land upon which I wouldn’t let my dog play, let alone my children.
As I started open-mindedly across the green I heard children’s voices, complaining about not being allowed out to play. I felt sorry for them, even if they were allowed out, what would they be faced with? This. Then I thought that even though to me this place was a mess, to some it would be all they had. I had the luxury of a childhood here when this place was actually a green. These poor children probably spent their lives running round here, just like I used to because it was the best they had.
I reached out and grabbed another Fosters, at the same time drawing a cigarette from my pocket. I lit the ciggy and pulled the ring off the can before taking a huge swig. Being back here had brought it all back, the great childhood I had, but then leaving home to become a failure in London. I should have stayed put.
I looked back up at what this place had become and sighed. In those few split seconds, I convinced myself that this was all my fault. It was my fault this town had becomce what it has. My fault I had not spoken to my family in 30 years. And my fault that I had become a failure.
I sunk my hand clumsily into my pocket and withdrew the knife I had been carrying around all day. In my carelessness, I cut myself and when I withdrew my hand it was already covered in blood. There was no going back now. I drew the knife cleanly across my vein diagonally and sat there. Waiting, watching the children now allowed out run around with a football as my mind drifted out. It reminded me of my childhood. It reminded me of the real me. This was the end of the line…
As I sat on the dark, messy train opposite a young teenager on the phone and with a cigarette in the other hand, I wondered what the world had come to. When I was young, I used to spend all my time on the village green playing with my friends until dusk. Today’s youth sit around chatting on their mobile telephones or smoking in dark alleys with their mates who say that ‘smoking is cool’.
The teenage girl got off her phone just before we reached the stop Chinkwell, where she abruptly got off. I was really glad of this as not only did it mean there were only three stop left until mine, but it meant I had space to enjoy my last few hours.
I turned to look out of the window and all I could see were the graffiti covered walls running along side the train tracks, and the litter that made it almost impossible to see the ground around the tracks upon which I was riding.
As the train pulled into my stop I arose from my chewing gum covered seat and walked over to the sliding door. I slipped my hand into my pocket to check it was still there. It’s sharp edge confirmed to me that it was, and I stepped off the repungant train onto the platform. This was the end of the line for the train, and soon to be the end of the line for me too. The sky was grey and it looked as if the rain would start any minute now, so I quickened my pace towards my destination.
I walked out of the station and turned right, onto the Broadway. This area was very familiar to me, as I was brought up here during my childhood before I left home and decided to pursue my intended career in London. Now that had failed I was returning to my place of birth to make amends for all the years I had been away.
As I walked through the streets I realized how much this place had changed, mainly for the worse. I remember these streets being lined with trees and other shrubs. I remember little children riding down the road on their new bikes that Santa had delivered for Christmas. I remember mothers walking along the roads with their shopping baskets; passing comments at every one they passed, politely saying ‘hello’ or ‘nice to see you’. Now, it was nothing more than a dump.
Instead of the trees lining the edge of the road, there were rubbish bins, many of which had been kicked over and were sprawling rubbish into the street. Instead of the children riding bikes, there were youths in tackily decorated, blaring cars with their heavy metal music turned right up loud so that the whole street could hear it. Instead of the chatting old mums, now the only people walking down these dismal streets were young men swearing and yelling at each other, over who won the football last night or some other ridiculous reason.
As I continued my walk I passed an old time favorite newsagents of mine, which used to be run by a very nice young lady called Mrs Harpal. I decided I would pay a visit for old time’s sake, and pushed the door open. To my utter most surprise, it was the same ageing Mrs Harpal sitting behind the counter reading an old edition of ‘OK!’. I picked up a four pack of Fosters out the fridge and went up to the till. Again, to my surprise she recognized me under my lengthy beard and asked what I was doing ‘back in this area’. I mumbled some rubbish about visiting old friends, paid for my drinks and left hastily, not wishing to get involved in a long conversation, as the more I put this off, the less courage I would have to do it.
I walked out of the shop much to Mrs Harpal’s displeasure, and stalked purposefully along up the street towards my old house. I rounded the corner, watching a sullen looking bird sitting on a telephone wire. When I used to live here the birds would fly around cheerily chirping a happy tune to which we would get on with our day. That particular bird then flew off over a run down house with boarded up windows, towards the canal.
As I walked over the next hill I saw my old house sitting there between two other identical ones, almost as if they had been created as triplets. I walked up to the front door and gave a large rap on the knocker.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice from within asked.
I couldn’t do it, not after this long so I turned and fled up the path and down the street. I heard the door open behind me but dared not look around as I ran up the road and hid behind a giant dumpster. I peeked out and saw a man standing there in his sleeping clothes and dressing gown, obviously in his early 50s. This was the brother I had not seen for over 30 years. He was unshaven like myself, with a long stubble protruding from his chin. His very distinct red mop of hair lay long on his head, and a broken pair of spectacles on his nose. I hid quietly behind the bin until I heard the door slam shut, which was my signal of his departure from the street.
I got up from behind the bin and brushed myself down, took a sniff of myself and decided that it was not worth me removing my horribly smelling jacket so I walked on. I had decided where the deed was to be done for it was a place very close to my heart.
I walked on through the streets and in front of me arose what we used to call simply ‘The Green’. It was a very simple name but one which was very significant when we used to come out every day after school, or all day at the week-end to play our games whatever they may have been. There was one afternoon we decided to have a vote for the renaming of this square of grass. I opposed it being changed and the whole thing turned into an election with speeches and campaigns. I eventually won after five hard days of campaigning, and ‘The Green’ kept its name much to my delight.
As I approached The Green it was my disgust to see what had happened to it. Where there used to be pure lush green grass there was now sloppy mud with skid marks all over it. Where there used to be pretty flowerbeds around the edges, there were weeds and rubbish. Coke cans and crisp packets littered the whole area and the goal posts were lying on the floor at one end, and seemed to have completely disappeared at the other. I walked around it, every so often bending down to pick up an empty crisp packet or mars bar wrapper and throw it in a nearby bin. I was totally disgusted with what my eyes saw, how could anyone let a place look like my poor Green did now?
It was then I remembered I had a four pack of Fosters in my left hand, so I broke one off and snapped the top open. I took one huge swig and went to find a tree with minimal mud around it under which to sit. I sat down making sure not to sit on the object in my pocket upon which I would soon be calling.
The moment I sat down the sun came out from behind a cloud and as the sun covered my face, I closed my eyes to remember me playing football here as a small child. I had come down with three other lads my age and we were playing a new game called ’60 seconds’. I was in goal because I had touched the ball last within the sixty seconds, and as I was diving for one of the shots I bashed my head against the post. I was immediately knocked out and the next thing I knew I was laughing in hospital because of the ridiculousness of what had just happened.
All these old memories of this green as a beautiful play area for us whenever we were bored drowned away and in it’s replace, a dirty run down littered piece of land upon which I wouldn’t let my dog play, let alone my children.
As I started open-mindedly across the green I heard children’s voices, complaining about not being allowed out to play. I felt sorry for them, even if they were allowed out, what would they be faced with? This. Then I thought that even though to me this place was a mess, to some it would be all they had. I had the luxury of a childhood here when this place was actually a green. These poor children probably spent their lives running round here, just like I used to because it was the best they had.
I reached out and grabbed another Fosters, at the same time drawing a cigarette from my pocket. I lit the ciggy and pulled the ring off the can before taking a huge swig. Being back here had brought it all back, the great childhood I had, but then leaving home to become a failure in London. I should have stayed put.
I looked back up at what this place had become and sighed. In those few split seconds, I convinced myself that this was all my fault. It was my fault this town had becomce what it has. My fault I had not spoken to my family in 30 years. And my fault that I had become a failure.
I sunk my hand clumsily into my pocket and withdrew the knife I had been carrying around all day. In my carelessness, I cut myself and when I withdrew my hand it was already covered in blood. There was no going back now. I drew the knife cleanly across my vein diagonally and sat there. Waiting, watching the children now allowed out run around with a football as my mind drifted out. It reminded me of my childhood. It reminded me of the real me. This was the end of the line…