Silence hung over the flat like a funeral shroud. It was so complete that James Hart didnt even realise at first what had jolted him awake. No alarm clock, no clatter in the kitchen, no water running from the bathnothing. Only the low hum of the fridge against the wall and the distant rumble of traffic outside the highrise window.
He lay there, listening to that emptiness. Just yesterday the house had been alive: the floorboards creaked under Poppys swift steps, the soft rustle of pages as she read in the armchair, even the irritating scratch of her cats claws across the sofa fabric. Now the cat, Misty, had gone with her, and the sofa sat naked and foreign.
The first impulse that surged through him was to grab his phone and type, Meet me at The Crown, now! and drown his friends in whiskysoaked confession, to unload the bitterness, the hurt, the rage. He tried to banish the thought. A lower, more animal instinct whispered of finding anyone, anyone at all, just for a night, to fill the yawning void beside him. A facile route to selfdestruction, familiar and tempting.
Instead, James pushed himself up, shuffled to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. While it boiled, his eyes fell on the hall rack where Poppys favourite woollen shawl still lay draped. An axe in the head, he recalled a selfhelp article hed read in a moment of despair a week earlier.
Alright, chap, its time to pull the axe out, he muttered to himself.
He started small. He gathered every thing shed left behind: the shawl, the halfread novel, a dried ink bottle, the teacup with tiny kittens printed on it. He packed them neatly into a cardboard box, not smashing them as spite might have urged, but with a quiet precision, intending to return them later without drama. He stripped the bed linens, airing out the lingering scent of her perfume. He deleted their joint photos from his phone and emptied the trash. Each act felt like peeling away a crusted bandage from a woundpainful, but necessary.
Time, now a heavy weight pressing on his shoulders, was the next adversary. It had once been spent on shared dinners, cinema trips, idle but tender chatter. He needed to fill itnot with booze or selfpity, but with himself.
He bought a membership at a local gym in Croydon. The early sessions were a hellscape; he pushed himself to the brink, sweat dripping onto the rubber floor like tears. Week by week his muscles grew stronger, his mind steadier.
Then he enrolled in an Italian course he and Poppy had always talked about but never started. He attended alone, wrestling with complex grammar that chased away intrusive memories. He even booked a weekend trip to Brighton, a seaside town shed refused to visit. Sitting on the pier at sunset, he felt a light, bright sorrow and, for the first time in months, a flicker of freedom.
There were darker days. At night memories would surfaceher laugh, head thrown back, or a trivial argument. He didnt shove them away; he lay with the pain, letting it rise and fall like a tide, just as the article had advised. Sometimes he would jump in his car, drive out of the city, climb a deserted hill and scream until his voice cracked, until the coveted silence settled over him like a blanket.
One afternoon, while sorting old papers, he came across their wedding photograph. He expected a surge of grief or fury, but instead he simply watched the two happy, unsuspecting faces and thought, It was. It was beautiful. And its over.
No bitterness lingered, no yearning to rewind. Only a gentle nostalgia and the understanding that that chapter had closed.
That evening he met his mates at a pub in Camden. They laughed, swapped news, plotted futures. For the first time all night, James realized he hadnt thought of Poppy once. He was presentwhole, though scarred, the scar slowly knitting.
He caught his reflection in the window of a coffee shop: lean, composed, eyes clear. He hadnt seen himself like that in years, perhaps never again.
The axe was out. The wound had healed. He felt ready to move forward, unburdened, lightfooted. The life hed always imagined was just beginning.
A sudden, foul stench hit his nose. James didnt have time to register what was happening. The room swayed, as if emerging from fog. He was on the sofa, clothes halfoff, surrounded by crumbs and mysterious stains.
He tried to sit up; the world tilted. His head throbbed. A cold wave of terror slammed over him.
The place wasnt the bright, airy flat of his dreams. It was a squalid flat in a rundown block. Empty beer and vodka bottles littered the floor like fallen soldiers. An ashtray overflowed with cigarettes. Dirty laundry was strewn everywhere, and the TV displayed a static loop of some latenight tabloid show.
Struggling to his feet, he staggered to the bathroom, clutching the doorframe. The harsh fluorescent light jabbed his eyes. In the mirror he saw a strangera unshaven man with a swollen, puffy face, eyes red and watery, brimming with shame and emptiness. It was him. James.
All the clarity, strength, that fleeting sense of wholeness hed felt in the earlier dream evaporated, leaving behind a nauseating hangover of both alcohol and soul.
He realised the whole journeypacking boxes, the gym, Italian lessons, the pier sunsethad been his minds clever ruse, a way to outrun an unbearable reality. A runaway that seemed to last an eternity but, in truth, was only one night.
He ran his fingers over his face. The skin was oily, stubble prickled his fingertips. This was his real self: not the fit, successful man, but a downtrodden figure trying to drown his pain in cheap booze and selfdeception.
The flats silence returned, now deafening. It was no longer the hopeful hush of a new beginning, but the oppressive quiet of a dead end, punctuated only by the relentless ticking of a clock counting down wasted moments.
The nightmare was not a cure; it was a mirror held up to his present. The reflection was so repulsive that he wanted to shut his eyes and run, yet there was nowhere to run.
James stood, staring at himself, shocked to the core. The dishevelled man in the stained shirt, the chaos around him, the bitter taste in his mouth, the scorched emptiness insidethis was his waking reality.
He grabbed the nearest empty bottle, hurled it into the waste bin. It shattered with a clang. He did it again, then again, each smash echoing his silent rage. He didnt sob, didnt scream. He faced the mess with a stonecold stare, starting a war against the debris of his life.
He gathered the rubbish, loaded bags with bottles and shards, flung open the window, letting the cold, fresh air push out the stale, alcoholic stench. He brewed a strong cup of coffee, his hands trembling.
He returned to the mirror. The eyes were still tired, but somewhere deep within, like a faint glimmer in a dirty puddle, a spark lingerednot hope, but a cold, white fury aimed at himself.
He fished out his phone, scrolled his contacts, and found the number of an old schoolmate, Alex Morgan, who had offered psychological help a month ago. Hed saved the number but never called. Now he dialed.
Alex? his voice cracked like a rusted door. I need your help.
He set the receiver down, inhaled deeply. The nightmare had been a mirage, but it pointed a direction. James understood that to become the clean, strong version of himself from the dream, he would have to walk through this hellnot in sleep, but in waking life.
His first step would not be another gym session or another language class. It would be the shower. To wash away yesterday, to scrub off the unshaven, swollenface version of himself, and to start anew. From the very beginning. Tomorrow.
