(21.11.2004 - 6:50 p.m.)
He walks down the high street by himself, his shirt grubby with the sweat from a day�s work. His tie protrudes from his pocket. The dark envelopes him like a shroud, punctured by the incandescent glow of the street lamps. The chill wind cuts to the bone and the rain mattes his hair, but still he stops and looks into the shop window. All wonder of electrical gadgetry greets his gaze. He looks momentarily, thinking of the photographs he could take, the films he could watch, the music he could listen to, and then he walks on, wrapping his coat tightly around his frame. He can�t feel his cheeks, the tips of his fingers or the lobes of his ears. A grey cat jumps into his path, looks up at his face and then darts off into the shadows as the headlights from a passing car sweep across the pavement. He walks on, head down, oblivious to the small wave of water that coats his shoes. He turns the corner of the street and heads towards the green front door of the apartment block, which looks black in the light of the winter�s evening. He can barely feel the keys in his pocket, but he takes them out and fumbles with them, and they eventually find their way into the lock. The door swings open and the warmth from the hallway starts to melt his frozen core. �Hi Harry.� Harry�s neighbour on the third floor, Emily, walks by. �Wrap up warm,� he warns her, �it�s freezing out there.� �Thanks for the tip.� And then she is gone, through the front door, into the night. The cold air that sneaks its way into the foyer reminds Harry from where he has just come. He is happy to be inside. The walk up to the third floor landing saps his last bit of energy, his whole body feeling heavy and limp. He enters his apartment, number 3142, hangs his coat on the hook behind the door, and sits down on the small sofa that faces the television. The shards of light from the street lamps slice through the darkness of the room, painting the plain walls with angular shapes. He sits in silence and darkness, staring at the blank television screen. He bends forward and takes off his shoes. The sound of the ticking wall clock grabs his attention. He looks at it. 19:57pm. Seeing through his eyes, Harry�s stomach moans loudly at its cavernous emptiness. A stroke from his hand reassures it that it will soon be fed. There is a sharp bang as the letterbox shuts: the local newspaper. With a great deal of effort Harry stands, hands on thighs helping him up, and walks stiffly to where the paper lies still. The pages turn to the cinema listings. Maybe he will go and see a film this weekend. But there is nothing that grabs his attention. He throws the paper onto the knee-high table in front of the sofa and heads for the kitchen. Opening a cupboard above the work-surface that lines one wall, he peruses the contents, searching for a quick and easy meal. After staring at the tins and packets, he opts for a can of chicken and mushroom soup. He pulls open a draw and fishes for the can opener. The two handles are stuck fast, caked in the remains of baked beans or meatball sauce. Clamping his hands around the cool steel, he pulls with all the force he can muster, snorting with the effort, his fingertips turning white. There is movement as the crusty casing of food begins to break, and then, with a sudden jolt, the handles fly apart. Sent off balance by the unexpected movement, Harry crashes to the kitchen floor. He stares at the ceiling, fascinated by the ridges and peaks of its texture. How do they do that? How did they create that landscape on my ceiling? Then he feels something: not pain, more of a numbness. He looks over to his right hand where the feeling is originating and creeping, stealthily, to his brain. Blood is slowly dripping from his index finger onto the linoleum tiles, poking it�s head through his skin like a creature exploring a new world. The globules look perfectly smooth and round, until they break free and hit the floor, exploding in random patterns. Tap. Tap. Tap. He stares, wondering at the thought that he is watching minuscule increments of his life fall away. Tap. Tap. Tap. Something clicks and his brain slips into gear. He sits up, puts his finger to his mouth and sucks on the wound. He looks around and finds the can of soup by the foot of the swing-top bin that sits in one corner. The can has a dent in one side, making it bow, as if taking the credit for Harry�s fall. Suddenly it doesn�t seem appetising in the slightest. He reaches up with one hand and rubs the crown of his head. There is a small lump forming there already. Boy, is your head gonna� be sore later on, he thinks to himself. Putting the can of soup to one side he walks back through to the living room and lies down on the sofa. The TV sits directly opposite, looking back at him, the blank screen seeming like a deep black void, waiting to suck him in. When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you. His breathing slowing, Harry closes his eyes and starts to fall into the fabled land of dreams. "WAKE UP MOTHERFUCKERS!� Harry sits bolt upright. BANG! BANG! BANG! Someone knocks violently on the door to the flat. �What�re you doing in their you fucking GEEK?� Harry lets out the breath that has been caged in his lungs. It is the weekly Friday night assault from the morons down the corridor. BANG! BANG! BANG! They will get bored and go away soon. �Wanker!� The laughter fades along with their footsteps as they rampage down the stairs. Harry stands and walks over to the window, his face thrown a violent shade of orange by the light of the street. There is a commotion as the group of men hustle out of the main door to the building, sending a rubbish bin flying, spreading litter across the road. Now feeling no compulsion to sleep, Harry sits upright on the sofa and reaches for the television remote. The black void is filled with light and movement as the screen warms up, the black and white picture slowly coming into view as if the television were rubbing the sleep from it�s eyes. On it, a solitary man walks across an industrial wasteland, his world filled with the low hum of distant machinery. Eraserhead, Harry thinks. I�ve seen this one before. But he has nothing better to do with his evening, and the flickering light of the screen holds his attention like a baby�s. After half an hour, his drooping eyelids take him by the hand, and gently coax him back to sleep.
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