In Profundis

The story I am to tell is one which inspired another of mine: Malheurs à Deux. They have numerous similarities and themes. Such occurrences sink to one’s profundis, like the isle of Atlantis, and are revealed through the unconscious when scribing. Having prefaced the context, let it be known as a dedication to whom I am grateful to.

At the time of this event, I was no older than sixteen years of age. Troubled was my mind beneath the surface. People saw a muse for mirth - a jester who clowned for the pittance of laughter - but I knew myself to be stung by sorrow. At parties, to be gay and lively I depended upon debauching: alcohol brought smiles to an otherwise sullen or sad frown; whereas drugs warped what ruffled waters were invisible to all save I. They falsified my internal turmoil, and numbed me from having to confess my infelicity. 

Youth is an anomalous period in one’s life; to think that, for the debauchery in question, we had all agreed to commune on Wimbledon Common, in the late evening. The fact of it having been March is deceptive, when knowing it to have happened in Britain. Whether it is winter or spring, the malison over Britain means that almost all of our seasons muddle into one disappointment. Britain is, alas, always in retard; this bleeds into our vogues and habits also. For example, we were tardy when beheading our King, for France had pioneered regicide aforetime. Resuming our initial point - it can be June, and still the rain soddens, or the wind chills. This is plumb what transpired for, within an hour of being on the Common, we were assailed by an unabating deluge. From the girls being in flimsy dresses, they shivered ad nauseam. Instead of quitting homeward, we moved to be under a bosky tree. How we had conceived of this to be availing, I know not. To worsen the ordeal, in a matter of minutes, the temperature, too, had degraded to being gelid. A roaring gale mussed the girls’ hair, and distorted the speakers which were blaring pop melodies. In efforts to warm ourselves, we took to wassailing frosty vodka, aurous beer, whiskey, or rum. The baseborns in attendance were fixed on cider - Darksome Fruits, to be explicit. Some valiants were even indulging in Guinness. Being sixteen, those who drank the lattermost must have been feigning enjoyment. One could decipher this by how their envious eyes stared at all the other liquors. Why they chose Guinness, to begin with, is but explicable by attributing it to a self-flagellation of some kind, so as to raise their social status. I am omitting a vital detail: the drugs in circulation were cocaine and, for the horses amongst us, ketamine. 

For hours we stood, snaking from person to person, speaking on inanities concerning subjects we would forget when the morrow came. As the night aged from young to elderly, people either swooned upon the miry grass, or fared home. For some reason or another, I looked around at what pandemonium I was partaking in, and a sensation, most akin to shame, stole over the specious happiness I had been in. I had talked to many, gulling them of my veritable state of mind by entertaining them. How? - from pouring drops of vodka into my retina, directing needless scurrilities at someone, and, in general, jestering the fool for the sake of others having fun. Swamped by this revelation, voices from within awoke to deride me.

“How have you stooped to be so pathetic?” said one.

It is easy to be all alone, when amidst a rowdy crowd, or even when living in a city such as London. A slip from confidence, and one can travel inward a steep hole to solitude. Having done so in these moments, tears dispersed, and cooled down my cheeks with ruth. Appalled at what I deemed cowardice, I redoubled my insobriety till I believed my derisive monologue to have drowned. The cocaine, whereof I favoured, invigorated me through its penchant for aggressive behaviour. Per contra, vodka acted as my truant in palliating this, and having me reach the medium of a blank canvas. People would see, chat, and laugh with me, all the while an unquiet murmur echoed its want of freedom, and confiding in another.When intoxicating myself, the norm would be for an effect that lasted. On this occasion, however, it did not. Soon, the derisive monologue had been revived, and I could feel pestilent gnaws as I was amongst those still on Wimbledon Common. So aggrieved was I that, by and by, I recoiled toward the lunar pearl, cocooned in a veil of ghostly clouds. Intermittent stars flickered through, where they were blunted by the black nocturne. There was scarce enough wonder for enlivenment. Unawed, I sank profunder.

I glanced back at those carousing and, from the pang of a whim, I hurried away with some whiskey by my side. Whither was of little significance, so long as I escaped what charades I was engaged in. Fleeing, as if a lunatic from his asylum, I ran down the length of Wimbledon Village, where, unlike mine, none’s soul stirred, and I arrived at the bottom of the hill. Being now in the centre of Wimbledon, noises emerged as the number of individuals grew. Most had that face of silent resignation; the one which coincides with inebrious torpors when an eve must end. Others were in denial of this, and groups paraded themselves in an uninhibited volume; oftentimes, littering cans or glass bottles, and spitting on the pavement. The mercantile Goliath - that is Elys - electrified lurid beams from its advertisements. Cars drove by me, revving their vehicular din, thereupon vanishing into the offing. The stench of petrol weaved its way through my nostrils, and sickened me. There was, moreover, another odour: a self-hatred so vehement that I released it into the atmosphere. 

Glimpsing at my phone after wiping my eyes, I noticed the hour was three o’clock. There was a message from my mother, and some friends I had deserted, asking whether all was well. I put my phone to sleep, and prowled for a shop which might replenish me with more alcohol. My plan, born out of shame, was bidding the night on the streets. Doubtless I would reap no rest, though I cared not for such luxury. I was meritless in being kissed by Morpheus. 

At length I found a twenty-four corner shop and stormed within. I met a genial man, who inspected me as I riffled through the aisles, debating the quantity desirable to me. At intervals, I would stifle a sob from being audible, which sounded like retching hiccups. Grabbing two shoulders of Russian vodka, so cheap that it would scorch my throat, I paid and exited. Something to mix it with would have been impenitent. I had a perverse joy in being the martyr to its acidity. 

Entitling myself the village vagrant, I nestled in a caliginous alleyway, as an attempt to avoid the captious scrutiny of those who may pass by. I imagined people to be reproachful, when, in actuality, they would have fretted over why I did so. From my faculties being aslant, my perspective was askance. 

Dumb, I reclined against the brick wall behind me, cracked my nape, and looked up again at the veil of clouds, which now swathed the lunar pearl in full. The dreary rain had me believing the skies to be reciprocating my emotions - it was how they showed their condolences. Isolated at last, I unleashed what tears and sobs I had so suppressed. The travesty being that, between the rheumy mucus teeming above my lips, I quenched my thirst. I would taste what salt brined the rims of the bottle, which, to a degree, diluted its acidulous potency. Contrary to hitherto, the cold was not repelled, and so I shuddered upon the concrete. As I whispered sweet derogations to myself, my teeth chattered as those of the Nutcracker do. A disgust of heart roiled me, as I hunched in a foetal position; once more, cowardice peeked from below. My mask was fading - why was I so frightened by the idea of displaying what I felt? - was I so distrustful as to discount the aid from others? - what value have I, if I cannot communicate that which despairs me? The patter of feet hitting puddles disturbed my introspection. 

“What are you doing here?” asked a man, in sincerity. 

Startled by his intrusion, I scotched all signs of me having wept. Then, averting my attention to be on him, I smiled, notwithstanding how it was belike imperceptible, and said: 

“Nothing,” pausing, I designed it best to delude him through humour, “Just wallowing.” I sprinkled some conclusive chuckles, though the man was impervious to them. He saw through my masquerade, and recognised the tint of tristesse. 

“Don’t pretend,” he responded, with tender severity. “Tell me why you sit here, alone, and drink to your problems.” 

Starting for honesty, I stammered in retreat, and assessed whether I wished to be so truthful as to disburden. The man was a stranger, after all. A bold one, at that. 

Remarking my reluctance, he crouched and tarried at a distance from me. By doing so, he had broken a physical and mental barrier. I stuttered and floundered at thwarting the anguish brimming inside me. I tried to eschew the man, before my defences altogether surrendered:

“I would rather you leave me be. I don’t know you.” 

“The fact of us not knowing each other is irrelevant. Why should I, or anyone, ignore someone’s cry for help? That would be inhumane.” 

Rendered defenceless, I wailed in my comfortless posture. 

“Personally,” continued he, “we are unacquainted, though we are all of one race.” Unjudging, he waited for as long as I shed sadness. When I had finished, he extended his arm towards me. “May I take the alcohol from you?” 

Examining what had purported to glad me, I temporised over whether to unthrone it from its unrighteous sovereignty. Drying my eyes, I looked at the man’s mystical silhouette, whose height towered over me. This giant, however, had spoken such kindly words that I could not vilify him as being malicious or vicious. 

“Here,” answered I, as I handed him both bottles of vodka, with one having been depleted. Once in his possession, the man emptied the alcohol and laid them aside, somewhere in the dark of the alleyway. 

“This place is too gloomy for you. I think it would benefit you to go elsewhere.” 

“If you are insinuating that I return home,” responded I, now affronted by his parental demeanour, “then you are wasting your breath.”

“Why are you against going home?” 

Having been devoid of vocal or gestural hostilities, he softened me into being candid. “I don’t deserve to,” sniffling as I said so. 

Through a sigh he reconciled with me, and disavowed the persistence in this topic. “What if we went somewhere pleasanter. Before I formed an opinion, he interjected: 

“Anywhere would be better than here.” 

I nodded my accord, which prompted us to arise. My head, as if concussed, spun on a flexuous rotor from being still so stricken by intoxication. 

“What is your name?” I questioned, after stabilising myself. 

“Eddie. And yours?” 

“Max,” - smiling as I told him. With the dark occulting Eddie, I hoped that he, too, had beamed a passionate smile. Being cognisant of what he was called did not suffice to sate my curiosity. I was covetous of seeing Eddie’s appearance be demystified. My desire was granted but when we skulked within the entrance of a car park, where we climbed vertiginous flights of stairs to its summit. From a sulphurous light, I was able to appreciate Eddie’s ordinary though companionable features, with his mouth never drooping or desponding. His irises were brown, and his pupils were so dilated that they almost engulfed all of their circumambient white. With gaunt cheeks, and his hair tousled in snowy vines, I suspected him to be sixty, or thereabouts. 

At the top, Eddie checked for any guard on sentinel, and, with none being present, he ushered me through a silvery door. A single bulb illuminated the farthest recess of a rectangular roof. Our shadows were disembodied by this, and transposed as effigies upon the asphalt ground. This had an adverse effect on me, for I apprehended it to stalk and menace me as I followed Eddie to the edge. 

Once beside him, he pointed to London, which seemed ever so remote from where we were. 

We saw the pollution of red dots, shaped as the eyes of a lynx, as well as those atrocious edifices and skyscrapers, which defiled the dignity of nature. 

Our espial was halted by a query from Eddie: 

“May I ask, again, why you are so adamant on staying out?” 

“To me,” keened I, as I shirked his field of vision, “home is where all of my failures accumulate. It symbolises the bane of which I regard myself as being to others.” 

“Why do you think this?” 

“I cannot express a logical reason. All I know, for certain, is that it lies within, brooding at all times, and always has.” 

“Does it influence you in any respects besides?” 

“Additional views have sprung from it.” 

Eddie motioned for me to elaborate. 

“In terms of it having established a doubt, which can, as a consequence, efface my faith in people.” Tearful, I unleashed my rue; “What sort of person struggles to open up to their own mother!” 

“Do you feel this effacement now?” replied Eddie, composed and gentle as ever. 

“No…” I drawled, for I realised how unusual this situation was for me. 

“What has rid you of this prejudice? As yes, I do see your doubt as being prejudiced.” 

Refraining from my avoidance of Eddie, I looked dead at him whilst I mused. After much deliberation, I had garnered a notion of the wherefore. “Trust, though I cannot understand why I have so much in you.” 

“Are all not justified in receiving what you have given me?” 

A stubborn seed wished to defy Eddie by saying it was not so, however, I would then be tricking both he and I. 

“Yes,” conceded I, “they do.” 

“And is it so unjustified for you to be a receiver, too?” 

“I am afraid it is.” 

“But why!” exclaimed Eddie, exasperated into deviating from his equipoise. 

“I look upon the things I do - drugs I take, drinks I consume, and voids I fill - with regret.” 

“You are allowing the past, that which is unalterable, to rule you. The present is where the course of one’s future is changed, or amended.” 

The while Eddie spoke I had enkindled the untoward to rise to my fore. My mind was awash with glimpses where regrets had developed. The most hurtful being the relationships - intimate, platonic, and familial - ruined from defects of incommunicability, distrust, and self-hatred. In juxtaposition to my mental ferment, was how the deluge abated at last, and the veil of clouds was frittering out as shafts of dim light permeated.  

“Let me recount my story,” said Eddie, “as it may help. I am fifty-six years old, and have lost most of what I have ever loved. From my mother and father - though this is inevitable - to the family I had created with my ex-wife. I neither was, nor am an angel; none of us are. She and I had a child together - a girl. It has been a decade since I last saw her, and this rift in time will increase and increase. Specifying the particulars of why is needless, but the essence is that I was a feeble father and husband. I was viceless, if you were wondering. In reality, having a vice is of no importance, for it is how we handle ourselves through our actions and deeds that matters. Whether we yield to our anger, griefs, regrets, troubles, or past is where we should be concerned. We must prevent these innate flaws from flawing our lives. In your case, there are different shades of doubt which must be conquered. Fight for what brings you true happiness, and is of true beauty.”

Having been listening in a trance, I had comprehended what he wished to convey through his anecdote; and all of his previous clairvoyance. My tears, sobs, and snivels had ceased. To impart my affirmation, I reeled my head back and forth. Of what talk ensued, I know not. Nor would Eddie. We had touched upon what had led to the Fates uniting us. All else was ancillary and friendly. 

By and by, the sun blossomed, and cast gilt petals aloft the heavenly azure. I recall smiling at Eddie; he smiled back, with golden hues enwrapping him. For a few more hours, Eddie and I’s souls basked in the dawn as those of others were rousing. Life went on.

Nevermore have I seen Eddie, and never shall I. Our encounter was predestined to be singular. That is what defines its import. In spite of what time has elapsed, though, I hold the memory of him dear, and I am herefrom indebted to Eddie for what amity we shared. His charity taught me a mercy seldom understood: the tact of treating another as a human, friend, brother, or sister. He fed me fruits of wisdom; salved my wounds with a tacit solace, still unsurpassed. For this, I am all the wiser. 

To some, a person in pity is loathly. To others, such scenes sorrow them to the quick and hilt. Instead of being a jilt, these compassionate ones see a pretty star, pulsing like a heart in ache, and dewing alabaster droplets. Ironic how, when stripped of our pomp and pride, we note that all descend from the same sapiens. The belief in being enlightened derives from those benighted, and nothing is as laughable as the ignorance of the latter.