22November2025
The flat was dead quiet this morning, the kind of silence that feels like a tomb. I didnt even recognise what had finally roused me no alarm, no clatter from the kitchen, no sound of water in the shower. Only the low hum of the fridge against the wall and the distant rumble of London traffic outside.
I lay there listening. Just yesterday the place was full of life: the floorboards creaked under Blythes quick steps, the rustle of the book shed been leafing through in the armchair, even the irritating scrape of her cats claws on the sofa fabric. Now that cat has gone with her, and the sofa sits empty, looking foreign.
My first impulse was to grab the phone and text someone: Meet me at the pub, urgent! and spill my bitterness over a pint of bitter, letting the lads hear how shed been but I shut that thought down. A darker urge tugged at me, the thought of finding anyone just to fill the aching hole for a night, an easy route to selfdestruction that seemed familiar and tempting.
Instead I got up, crossed to the kitchen and switched the kettle on. While it boiled, my eyes fell on the hallway shelf where Blythes favourite woolen shawl still lay. A hatchet in the head, I recalled a piece Id read a week ago in the depths of despair.
Alright, chap, time to pull the hatchet out, I muttered to myself.
I started small. I gathered every bit of her things she hadnt taken: the shawl, the halfforgotten novel, a dried ink bottle, the mug with the cartoon cats. I packed them neatly into a cardboard box, not throwing or breaking anything as spite would have suggested, but placing them carefully and taking them down to the cellar. Ill return them to her later, without drama or recrimination. Then I stripped the bed linens, airing out the lingering scent of her perfume. I deleted our shared photos from my phone and emptied the bin. Each act felt like peeling away a grimy bandage from a wound painful but necessary.
Time itself began to press on my shoulders like a heavy sack. Moments that once belonged to shared dinners, trips to the cinema, idle but sweet chats now lay empty. I needed to fill them, not with drink or selfpity, but with something solid.
So I bought a membership at the local gym. The first sessions were pure hell. I pushed myself till I felt nauseous, letting the machines absorb my anger, disappointment and hurt. Droplets of sweat on the rubber floor looked like tears. Yet week by week my body grew stronger and my mind steadier.
I also enrolled in an Italian class the one wed always talked about but never started. I attended alone. Complex grammar structures forced the intrusive thoughts out of my head. I even booked a weekend in Brighton, the seaside town Blythe had never wanted to visit. Sitting on the pier at sunset, I felt for the first time in months a light, bright melancholy and a flicker of freedom.
There were hard days too. At night memories would knock me awake: her laughing, head thrown back, or us bickering over something trivial. I didnt try to shoo them away. I simply lay there, feeling the pain as the article had advised, letting it rise and fall like a wave. Occasionally I would hop in the car, drive out of town, climb a deserted hill and scream at the top of my lungs until my throat cracked, until the coveted silence settled over me.
One afternoon, while sorting old papers, I found our wedding photograph. I braced for a surge of grief or rage, but all I saw were two happy, unsuspecting people. Yes, that was real, I thought. It was beautiful, and its over. No bitterness lingered, only a gentle nostalgia and the understanding that that chapter had closed.
That evening I met up with the lads at the pub. We laughed, swapped news, made plans. For the first time all night, Blythe didnt occupy my thoughts. I was simply there, in the moment, whole, even if a scar still marked my heart.
I caught my reflection in the café window: trimmed, calm, eyes clear. I hadnt seen a man like that in years, perhaps never will.
The hatchet was out, the wound healed, and I felt ready to move on, unburdened, light. The life Id always imagined was finally beginning.
Then a pungent, rotten smell hit me. I hadnt figured out what was happening before the room swam, as if emerging from mist. I was on the sofa, halfclothed, surrounded by crumbs and stains of unknown origin.
I tried to sit up and the world tipped. My head throbbed. A cold shock of terror ran through me.
It wasnt the bright, hopeful home from my dream. It was a squalid flat. Empty beer and vodka bottles littered the floor like fallen soldiers. An ashtray choked on cigarette butts sat on the table. Dirty clothes lay in heaps, and the television flickered a staticfilled latenight programme.
Struggling to my feet, I lurched to the bathroom, clutching the doorframe. The bright light cut into my reddened eyes, and then I saw him a scruffy, unshaven version of myself staring back from the mirror. Eyes bloodshot, swollen with shame. It was me, Simon.
All the clarity and strength Id felt earlier evaporated, leaving only a bitter, nauseating hangover and an even worse soulhangover. The whole journey packing boxes, the gym, Italian lessons, the Brighton sunset turned out to be a clever trick of the mind, a way to escape an unbearable reality. The escape, which felt like an eternity, was in fact just one night.
I touched my face in the mirror. My skin slick with oil, stubble poking my fingers. This was the real me not the fit, confident man, but a downtrodden creature trying to drown his pain in cheap booze and selfdeception.
Silence filled the flat again, but now it was the silence of a deadend, a deafening void. The most terrifying sound was the ticking of the clock, mercilessly counting the wasted minutes.
The nightmare wasnt a cure. It was a mirror held up to my present self, reflecting something so repellent I wanted to shut my eyes and run. Yet there was nowhere left to run.
I stared at the filthy man in the stained Tshirt, the chaos around him, the sour taste in my mouth, the hollow ache inside. The dream had been vivid, real; the waking world was brutally harsh.
I grabbed the first empty bottle from the floor and hurled it into the bin. It shattered with a loud clang. Then the second, then the third. I didnt scream, didnt weep. I stood stonefaced and began clearing the mess that my life had become.
I gathered the rubbish, bundled the bottles and shards, flung open the window, letting fresh, cool air sweep away the stale smell of cheap spirits. I brewed a strong cup of coffee, my hands trembling.
I returned to the mirror. The eyes were still tired, still hurt, but deep within there flickered a faint glint, not of hope but of cold, white anger at myself.
I picked up the phone, scrolled through contacts, and found the number of my old school friend, Alex, whod offered psychological help a month ago. Id saved his number but never called. Now I dialed.
Alex? my voice rasped like an old hinge. I need your help.
I put the call down and inhaled deeply. The path Id dreamt of was only an illusion, but it pointed somewhere. I realised that to become the clear, strong man of my nightvision, I would have to walk through this hell in the daylight, not in sleep.
My first real step wasnt to the gym or another language class. It was into the shower, washing away yesterdays grime, washing away the scruffy, unshaven version of myself. And to start again, from the very beginning. Tomorrow.
Lesson: you cannot build a new life while the old wreckage still lies in the same room; you must first sweep it away, face the mirror, and then step forward, even if the first footfall feels like stepping into cold water.
