The High Cost of Pride

Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Nothingness. The ill fitting flowered

curtains, thin and frayed, danced sadly in the wind as the old man

slipped in and out of his vacant dreams. His wrinkled, grey expression

remained inert and morose. Time goes by and his sizeable feet land on

the ground and pace the carpeted floor without excitement or purpose.

His toes guided him towards the stiff, upright chair similar to its

electric variety. From where he sat he could see a narrow strip of the

tussocky land outside. Legs running in and out of view. A dog. A

child's bicycle. Litter blowing aimlessly over coarse grass. This at

least distracted him from the thin floral curtains. His limbs bent and

ached into a sitting position. Slow fingers gripped ordinary shoes.

Shoes that didn't attract attention. Layer upon layer of starchy

cotton engulfed his sagging skin like a body bag. Ringless fingers

that declared to an uninterested world that he was alone, dropped onto

the brass door handle, which took him into a happy, mocking world.

"Why Mr Bleaney, on time as usual! Why do I ask! What can I get ya

lovey? The usual? Okay porridge no sugar, tea no sugar? Ya don't need

it, you're sweet enough aint ya!

Attempted conversation was Mrs Valentine's speciality. Her over made

face and pink and green frock glared at the old man. "Please" he

repeated monotonously. He stared at the brownish wallpaper as if

hypnotised until his landlady brought his bland breakfast to him. He

ate his meal in a habitual manner and at exactly 8:34am, he left for

his place of work. Time passed him by, gurgling babies, squealing

children, grinning teenagers, giggling married couples, s...

... middle of paper ...

...staring back at me through the window. Looking closer I

wasn't taken aback when I found the old man to be myself. I was Mr

Bleaney. I had let my children and wife slip away from me. Since

losing my family, a bed-sit existence was all I knew. I was stuck in a

dead-end job; I wasn't good enough to succeed as a writer, or as

anything. My pride had cost me everything I ever loved.

The four yellowing walls were moving, moving closer, the room was

spinning; I could hear Mr Bleaney laughing. He was laughing at me. Who

was I to criticise him he bellowed. I began to feel very warm. The

room was silent apart from the slow tick of Mr Bleaney's clock. A

slow, deliberate sound that put one's teeth on edge as a copious

reminder that my life had slipped away. That life is short and has

passed. The room was aflame. This was my Hell.