I return home from work to my small one bedroom flat. Fuck me it’s a mess. The whole place strewn with empty beer cans, take away food containers, porno magazines and semen stains.

It’s not been an easy day today. The pretending. The smiling. None of it has come to me easily. None of it matters now. I am home, and I can add to the decline of contempt and anger with the alcohol fuelled haze of my nights.

There are supplies in the fridge. Mostly lagers, but I start with vodka. It kicks in quickly and it gives a high, more so than lager which gives a heavy low. The first one sinks deep. I know it won’t always feel this good; minutes, days or years. Who knows when? It’s chasing me though, and it’s gaining. But I am young, and I am in the lead. I take the time to sink another.

Brushing some dirty clothes from the sofa on to the floor, I plonk my self down on to the sofa, it absorbs me the way that page seventeen of ‘Dirty Sluts’ absorbed my spunk this morning and as a result, page seventeen and eighteen have now glued themselves together rendering the relationship I had with ‘Veronica’ from ‘Somerset’ a thing of the past.

I flick the television on. Celebrity chefs. Fuck off. Next channel; celebrity chefs. Fuck off. Next channel; a quiz show. ‘David, what is fifty-nine take away seven?’ FUCK OFF. I turn the thing off and throw the remote on to the floor where it nestles up to a silver tin that once had fast food in it. But now hosts healthy green mould growing from the morsels of food I couldn’t quite lick or finger out. The phone rings.

“Hello.” I say cautiously. I don’t normally answer the phone.

“Hello, it’s me.” The chirpy voice of my ex-girlfriend announces.

We speak for a while. I ask her how she is doing. She is doing fine. Doing fine with out me. Who could blame her? She asks how I am doing. I look around at the flat. Dirty clothes, beer cans, empty fast food receptacles, semen stained pages.

“I am ok.” I tell her. But I am not ok.

She asks me what I have been up to. She isn’t surprised when I tell her I have been up to nothing. It is my nothingness that drove her away. She knows I am prone to feeling down. But I don’t want to burden her with it. So I fake it, I even make her laugh with a quip about the importance of not recycling. She tells me about her day. I can feel a distance, the same distance that pushed her away in the first place, expanding between us. Just like in the day time, at work, with colleagues, with clients, I am listening, but not hearing. I am there, but not there.

“Well, I am glad you are ok.” she says before we hang up. But I am not ok. I am not OK.

I finish the present and pour the next vodka. It’s a bit strong; not enough orange juice. I have to close one eye as I sip at it. The alcohol has hijacked my blood stream and with the wobbles and blurs I feel kind of immortal. But still not, ok.

For the second time this week I take my hobby knife that I used to use for more socially acceptable purposes. The retractable blade is still out. Still out, and still covered with the dark claret and brown of my blood. I don’t wash it. I splash my drink down clumsily and take my shirt off. I loosen the buckle of my belt too.

It doesn’t hurt as I cut. It feels real. It brings me back to one focal point. During the day its different, I am distant. Now I am home. Home, in every sense of the word. These feelings, tied to this body, tied to this soul, tied to this reflection, we are all home together. We are home, but we are not ok.

I trace out the ‘N’, right handed on my chest. Like a cartoon character that walks off a cliff, but only falls when he realises what he has done, my skin takes the same second to realise that it has been torn. Then it realises. As the cartoon character falls to the bottom of the chasm, my skin opens and blood oozes satisfyingly from my chest. Artistically, the ‘O’ is more tricky but the skin and the blood behave the same. The ‘T’ is less challenging and streams of blood like stigmata tears are running down my chest. I finish the following ‘O’ and ‘K’

NOT OK

Because I am not, ok.

The door knocks. Fuck off. If I find it hard to answer the phone, you can forget the about the door. I leave it a second and then walk slowly, like a burglar, to peek through the spy hole. As I am approaching I hear a key unlock the door and to my absolute bemusement, in walk three women. The one in the business suit speaks up.

“Oh, Mr Robinson.” That’s me. “I didn’t think you were in, I did knock.” She says, clearly surprised to see me.

It clicks in to place. It’s the fucking estate agent. I am trying to sell this fucking hovel and have told them that if I am not in, they can let themselves in; I gave them a key.

“Oh, of course.” I say, then hick-up with the drink. Then I notice them look at my bare chest with the words and the blood.

“Shall we come back at a more convenient time.” she says, and one of the other women, obviously a potential buyer, gives a sympathetic yet slightly awkward smile and tilt of the head. I am embarrassed but full of Dutch courage, and already past the point of no return.

“No come on in.” I say it kind of sarcastically. Let me give you the grand tour. They edge towards me.

“Well that’s the tour.” I say again sarcastically, joking at how small this shit hole is. They all smile, awkwardly.

“Are you sure this is a good time?” The estate agent says.

“It’s fine.” I say, mockingly throwing my hand.

“Well as you can see this is the living room. This is where I like to keep my empty beer cans and fast food containers.” Stone faced, they look around trying not to touch anything, disgusted by sight and smell.

“This is the kitchen. This is where I prepare my drinks that don’t already come in a can.” I can see their discomfort with the situation, but I am on a roll, so I take them through to the bedroom.

“This is the bedroom,” I open my hand out. “This is where I collapse and pass out at the end of the day, sometimes asleep in my own vomit.” I can feel the cuts on my chest begin to get sore, but I am in a flow now, and the burning heat of the wounds comforts me.

“And lastly the bathroom. This is where I wash away the sins of my nights and make myself ready for the new day.” They nod in unison, very uncomfortably.

“Oh, ok then. Well, we will go back to the office and talk about their options.” The estate agent, Jayne I think her name is, says, and they all shuffle nervously out. The door closes behind them leaving me with the silence. The silence; it doesn’t leave me alone.

I pour a steady flow of lager into my blood steam and munch my way through some left over pizza crusts that I find lurking in the kitchen and lick the flavour from some two day old chicken bones. The night is gripped by the darkness and at some point before midnight I fall asleep on my bed. I don’t go to bed, or retire for the night. I just know that at some point I must have fallen asleep because its morning now.

The sores on my chest are tight and make me feel fragile. I have to grit my teeth as I shower. I have to make sure I am wearing a dark shirt for work again today. I get ready for work. Shower, shave, aftershave, different tie, shiny shoes, combed hair and minty breath. I am off to work to mix with my colleagues, friends, superiors and clients. I am off to work, but I am not ok.