London 13deg Celsius
The walk from the Central Bank to Moorgate was usually short but on this chilly day it seemed longer and almost pointless. The sun was out, which was more than he could ask for, and it bleached the buildings with its waning might. Autumn.
He checked his phone. No messages. He turned it off, it was almost out of batteries anyway. At university he sat himself down at a computer. After checking most of his mail and network accounts he decided to get up and find another computer, maybe in quieter surroundings. Corporation tax, that's what he had to work on.
Skimming through seemingly countless pages at varying speed, his eyes would occasionally blur, his pen would stop tapping. His brain wasn't slowing down, it was speeding up. Images flashed. Composites, mosaics. Images that came in different colour masks. Taking a deep breath, things began to slow again and the words on the page came into focus.
He changed his computer another 3 times at least. The air conditioning was too strong by the 1st. The Internet too slow on the 3rd.
At some point he realized it was time for class. Company law. Perhaps too simple to attend but how else would he kill time on this endless day. At his desk he stared right through his tutor and classmates. Nobody noticed of course - it was not like him to wear any sort of emotion on his sleeve. But as the day progressed his eyes would blur more and more frequently. Under the stress his memory divulged things it had kept private for 6 years. Their rediscovery did not aid his demeanor.
Later in bed that night, he turned on his phone. No messages. In a way, he was sort of glad the pact of silence was still honored. He couldn't help but wonder if things would have been any better today if things were discussed more openly, if (heaven forbid) feelings were shared. No, he thought, I'd rather not.
As he set his phone next to him in the dark room the light from its screen shone on the ceiling. As it went dark, his eyes saw the images clearer than ever. Sitting at his bed that afternoon, checking email. The sound of irregular breathing the next room. The way the sun pierced the afternoon air and the window screen, making its way into a room full of sadness and the anticipation of death. Tears, recital of scriptures. Yellow, yellow skin. Breathing as if an invisible hand had a firm grasp on her heart, pulling it out of her chest with all its might. The door-bell ringing incessantly as the news spread. White, red, green, blue masks covered the images.
Then the next day. Two, maybe three ladies softly touching him, nudging him towards the closed door to go say his goodbyes. Tears welling up in his eyes he enters the cold, clean smelling room. The room was flooded. He felt the water seep into his shoes as he walked towards the smiling corpse. The tears blurred his eyes, so that as he kissed her forehead, all he could see was a jumbled array of colours and light.
His insides were raw, his whispering in her ear quiet.
