Tuesday 12 July 2011
He stares at the floor. The tins are at his feet, Tennent's Lager, two of them, bound together in their plastic collar. A tear rolls down his face and is lost in the jagged pile of the carpet. Everything is suddenly a mess; finished. He has to do it. The next thing he knows he is in her corridor, like he's walking on water. His heart is thudding. He knocks on the door. Silence. Blood pumps through his chest. He is still alive. More than alive. He wants everything to be fine, to be like it was, to be like it should. He knocks again, even though it's clear she isn't there. He wedges a note into the wood, something to do with his past - hopefully, she won't think he's dragging things up. He feels like a criminal. He leaves quickly, the tins of beer gripped in his hand.