Silence

I open my crusted eyes and peer begrudgingly at my surroundings. The sprawling mess of clothes curled around my legs like the extremities of a tired beast. The semicircle of scattered notebooks spilling from the mouth of my open backpack. The mugs with lipstick stains adorning the rip with the pattern of an old-fashioned doily. The congealing takeaway container of… something? I squeeze my lids shut again – I’d seen enough.

               From my position, curled on my side with my knees drawn up to my chest, I could hear through only one ear. Funny thing was, this made little to no difference – there was almost no noise to be heard. I think I caught the tail end of a siren in the distance, or maybe a short wail from the new born two floors below, but neither of these sounds brought me much comfort. Groaning – ah, another sound – I haul myself to sit upright. From the feel of my aching joints I hadn’t moved in some hours. Realising I had no idea of the time, I squint at my alarm clock, not wanting to turn on any of the harsh lights. 11:15. Still morning, I congratulate myself. Not early enough, my grumbling stomach reminds me.

               Taking the time to look into each of the – one, two… five – coffee cups on my bedside table, I decide against taking a sip. Only one was starting to mould over, but I don’t fancy another bout of food poisoning. I’d only just recovered from the last one, some leftover quiche which had been left over too long. Dreading the touch of the cold wooden floors on my bare feet, I put off breakfast for another few minutes, closing my eyes and leaning back against the headrest. What did today have in store for me?

               Well, there is the state of this room for a start. How it managed to get this filthy when all I did was sleep in it is beyond me. I’ll scrape up the books, the clothes, bung those in the washing machine, the sheets could do with a go as well… Distracted, I open my eyes to look through the crack in the curtains, trying to see what the weather was like. Overcast, it seems, and, judging by the drunken sway of the pines opposite, windy as hell. Wonderful. Still no sounds of note, and the oppressive air with the heat emanating from the radiator by my side beckons me to sink back into sleep. Why not? I think, It’s not as if it will bother anyone. But my stomach has different ideas and, grimacing, I touch my toes to the hardwood.

               On my way to the kitchen I drag open one of the curtains. As I suspected, thick clouds, threatening showers later on. Terrific. What’s the point? I turn away, heading to the bathroom to relieve myself before shuffling into the kitchen. Ah. The kitchen. Immediately, all thoughts of getting my bedroom in order are abandoned at the state of the sideboards, hob and sink. Why had I tried to make a lasagne? I can’t cook. All I’d made was a mess. The failed end result sulked by the draining board, daring me to look at it, untouched from when I’d removed it from the oven. That explains your anger, I think, furrowing my brow at my empty, broiling stomach. The state of the room is just making me feel worse. Ignoring the growing ache for food, I slouch out of the door and collapse dramatically onto the sofa in the living room.

               At least this room was relatively tidy. I didn’t entertain much, so there isn’t a need to clutter the space with anything that other people might want. No board games (they don’t make many one-player ones, strangely enough), no games consoles (who has the time? who has the patience?), just a second-hand TV, one sagging sofa and a scraggly blanket to match. I pull the cloth around my chilly toes, and wonder why I bothered getting out of bed. This is just bed, but less comfortable. I roll my eyes, at nobody in particular. Settling myself into the crease between the two leather cushions, I resign myself to spending the rest of the day here. Maybe I would order food in – I really couldn’t face the kitchen right now – or maybe just sleep. You can’t be hungry if you’re unconscious, I think wryly, aware of how unhealthy the thought is but too apathetic to care.

I’m awoken – Wait, when did I drift off? – by a knock at the door. Glancing around, I don’t see my phone or laptop nearby. How did I manage to order food? Disentangling myself from the scratchy fabric of the blanket, I plod towards the door. Scooping up my purse from the hall table, I wrack my brains to remember what I’d ordered, and how much it would be. Pizza? A sandwich? I’m slightly concerned that I can’t remember. Unhooking the latch, I don’t bother to plaster the insincere smile I usually do on my face. I’m sure they’ve seen worse.

“Hello, chicken!”

I start violently. This is a bit familiar, even for someone who delivers me food more often than I’d care to admit. It takes me a moment to shake the drowsy fog from my mind before I realise I know who the mystery knocker is after all.

“Oh,” I exclaim, clearly confused, “hi there?”

My best friend. Maybe my only friend, thanks to my chronic forgetfulness and incessant failure to keep in touch with anyone and everyone. Without another word, she slips past me into my flat, bangles jangling and boots clomping. With carrier bags over each arm, she squeezes sideways into the kitchen and plonks them down among the remnants of the lasagne disaster.

“I was passing through and I thought you might fancy a snack! I’ve got loads of unhealthy stuff, jam tarts, those god-awful cheesy crisps you like, even some blueberries because they were on offer. Where are your plates again?” she sing-songs, deftly sweeping flour and crumbs into her hand and into the bin, piling up dirty dishes and utensils into neat piles by the sink.

“Uh, cupboard just above your head?” I proffer, trying my best to help with her light-speed clean-up but clearly just getting in her way.

“Excellent. Take these bags and the plates and start making us up a feast will you? I’m bloody starving.”

I take what is given to me and shuffle, embarrassed at the state of my… everything, into the next room. As I quietly start pouring out crisps and fruit onto the plates, I hear her humming to herself as the runs the tap. The humming becomes a light singing as the tea towel squeaks on the dripping dishes. There is a clatter and a deafening roar as the hoover starts up, and her voice battles with it with gusto, yelling a show-tune over the unpleasant noise. I smile despite myself; she is a force to be reckoned with and no mistake.

Less than ten minutes later – Surely that’s not all it took to clean that? – she collapses next to me on the sofa.

“Stop hogging the blanket and gimme that plate,” she demands with a wink, rearranging the fabric so it covers us both and beginning to inhale chocolate buttons. She grabs the remote and flicks the TV on, filling the room with advertising jingles until she settles on some daytime program where some hicks are trying to sell on dodgy-looking antiques to dealers. I glance at her, cheeks ruddy from pushing the hoover around, and she seems nothing but contented. I start to nibble on a jam tart, then quickly start scoffing as I realise just how hungry I am.

Once we’ve both cleaned our plates, we sag back against the old upholstery. I close my eyes and lift my face to the ceiling; I hear her do the same with a comfortable sigh. Without moving to look at me, I hear her say:

“So. Are you okay?”

I choke on the “Yeah, of course” which I usually spew up in response to this question. I think about the flat – not just untidy, but unclean – the late nights, and myself. I think about my empty stomach, my unwashed hair, and try to remember the last time I left the house. I shouldn’t have to strain to think of that. I think about the silence, my only consistent companion most days. I think about how long I’ve stayed silent in response to her question.

“N… no. I don’t think I am.” I whisper, monotone, without opening my eyes.

“Thank god, an honest answer. I’m glad we don’t have to go through the whole Yeah I’m fine charade again. Now, I’m going to get you a cup of tea. You’re going to sit here. You can talk if you want, or not, totally up to you. But after that, you’re gonna have a shower because you’re kinda ripe buddy,”

I snort, the corner of my mouth lifting into a half-smile.

“While you shower I’m gonna clean your room – don’t” she says, as I turn my head, opening my mouth to protest, “seriously, it’ll take me no time at all. Tidy flat, tidy mind, eh? I can stay here all day, get you a proper meal this evening. I’m here for you, chicken.”

I don’t try to protest again. I don’t think I could if I tried, with my throat closing up like it is.

“Thank you.” I manage, “I love you.”

“I love you too, you lemon. Now. Where’s that kettle?”