Did you hear about ______?

I pissed the bed whilst steaming, and now my phone is broken. Always a nightmare, man. Wake up, and everything is fine one slight movement, and then you realise….damp…cold…..PISS. A bummer. Anyway, I'm drifting my way through my day at uni. Brain clouded after getting off anti-depressants two weeks prior. Starting to be a human again. Fortunately, the wifi on my phone was working fine; I just couldn't text or phone people. Immensely enjoyed it, to be honest. Long periods without wifi meant, maybe, a massive swarm of notifications once you get home. The closest thing as an adult you'll get to experience the excitement you had as a child on looking under the tree on Christmas Day. All those gifts; a like on Instagram, a tinder match, a Facebook MESSAGE just for you, man just for you. Quite a chill day at uni, from what I remember. Back in the days where you had several close friends in all your classes. All of us sitting down getting ready to watch some fucking shite film for our course, in a cinema that looks comfy but truthfully, it isn't. Anything red seems like it would be comfortable.

WIFI. Enough looking people in the eye, I have my phone back! Fucking shit tonne of messages.

"Did you hear about _____?"

I actually enjoy the bus to work; truthfully, I enjoy buses in general. You still have the social expectations that accompany the outside world but, the expectation is to do nothing. Sit and do not talk. Don't fucking talk to me, you weirdo. I am willfully trapped, and it doesn't matter. Forced to chill out. Unless you're part of the old granny crew, get your earphones in and look at your own reflection. The southside will always be a nostalgia trip despite its continual visitation. The backshift is shite; you get the routine of a nightshift worker without the long hours. Give me three ten hours instead of five-six hours yano? I'm getting closer now. Once you've passed bridge street, you're basically there. I'll get one final song qued up. Get the data on as well, see what folk are saying to it as this will be the last minutes to myself for a while. Fucking shit tonne of messages.

"Did you hear about ______?"

Never have my eyes been so open, yet my vision so blurred. It was like they were wearing sight cancelling headphones. Clogged. They say that life flashes before your eyes when you die. Well, when someone you love dies, life sorta stops. I mean, you still move about, and your eyes still scope out your proximity. But your person is missing. I wouldn't say you go into autopilot. It is more like the plane has gone off the radar. It comes back though, it is just the passengers now don't know what life means or if it means fucking anything. That sunny vacation to Malta has disappeared.

A cycle home in the snow. Got dark fast. Falling over didn't seem so scary now. I welcomed my head smacking off the ice. Knocked out, wake up, and it is all just a nightmare. Na, no escaping this.

I arrive home. A big hug. We stare at each other, smiling. What the fuck is this. One cries, one doesn't. One cries, one doesn't. Taking shifts. An unfillable silence, an unforgettable void.

"Where are you ______?"

First-ever funeral. Working the next day, so surely I won't get wrecked. Aw, who am I kidding? Let's get destroyed because where the fuck are we? We are all here, but where is _____? ______ should be here. He'd love this, all of us crying over him.

I can't take my eyes off the parents. The moment I see them, my face drowns. Clenched fist between every inhale. Just cannot stop. His brother recites a poem called 'The Dash' by Linda Ellis. The dash between your birth date and your death date is what counts. 25/02/1996 - 26/02/2018. Not much of a dash, is it? His dash lives in my head, though in the heads of many. Almost daily, the dash pops up. The dash might only be the length of twenty-two years, but you best fucking believe we're taking that into our sixties. Extended by us…will it ever fade?

A wave of blood settles through the crowd. Only stains a few. Most shake it off, dry and colourless. Red-tinted hands shaking. Blood on blood. Some brighter, some duller. Spreading the virus around. Collectively painting sorrow and regret.

Will the stain ever be removed?

Yes.

Your hands heal. The colour runs away. Your mind forgives. Some faster, some slower. Truthfully, there was always more blood on the walls than on our hands that day.

"Where are you?"

Cheers