Chapter Text
Alone.
Martin had always been alone, but alone was good, right?
It was comfortable, right?
It was safe, right?
It was familiar, right?
Right?
He told himself over and over again until the sweet lies seeped into reality, and became the truth, the foundation of his being. It became him .
The cold bed painted with the mist of solitude warped into the thick fog of loneliness, as Martin endeavoured to retain memories of the warmth of another, but how can one recall a recollection that had never been experienced. It was okay, right? Martin preferred it this way, right? He was content with the discontentment of human companionship, right?
Right.
Martin can’t tell anymore if he is the one who faded into the background or if slowly, the people around him blended into the statics of the backdrop until only the thick, suffocating fog of vacantness drowned his vision. Maybe the dense, white void had always been there, but now that loneliness had become more perceptible, and now that he had let it consume him, it had become facile to overpower him, as struggling against it would mean he would drown in it, and the only way to calm the tide racing in his mind is to let the wave submerge and paralyze him.
He wanted it there. He wanted the choking emptiness. He wanted it. He wanted it. He wanted it. He wanted it. He wanted it. He wanted it. He wanted it.
He didn’t want-
No, No, No. He wanted it. No, He wanted it. No, No, No, he wanted it.
If he didn’t have loneliness, then he had nothing. He can’t have nothing. He needed something. He needed something. Please let him have this.
Please .
Belong
Sometimes Martin wondered where he belonged.
In this vast space of nothingness, is there a physical place that he could claim as his own? A place where the soil that he walked upon makes up the flesh of his body, where the raging river that parts the lands stream through the veins of his body, and where inches of the untouched greens and every broken pavement are tinted with the hues of memories.
The thing is he doesn't belong anywhere
There is no place that he can claim as his.
Nowhere, No place
Sometimes the thought of that filled his heart with lamentation, but it shouldn’t matter, right? Nothing on this ever-changing planet is permanent: nothing is concrete forever, the oscillating waves will eventually take the sand, and even the immovable mountains get eroded away with time.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
It never mattered .
Young Martin moved a lot.
From one council house to another, and every time he placed his belongings in boxes, a little piece of him chipped away, and was left within the 4 walls of cracking paint and broken heating, until he moved to London, and there was no piece of him to give away.
London made him lonely, but he was used to lonely.
London was cold and damp, like the mist.
London was filled with blank faces with no names and mouth sewn shut.
London almost seemed to feed off his loneliness, the fog growing thicker every year he spent in this city.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter
It matt-
No No No it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It will never matter.
Never
The haze is everywhere. The haze made him forget. The haze made him tired. The haze is familiar. His flat exuded of the haze, the dizzying haze, the blinding haze, the cold haze.
Haze
He can’t remember her face.
Sasha .
He can’t remember what she smelt like. Did she smell of the summer creeping through the rainy April month as the flowers started to peek through the curtains of the leaves or did she smell like the overpowering scent of vanilla, the sickeningly artificial sweetness that conquered all the others, leaving you disoriented and dizzy.
Did she hum a little tone of whatever song was stuck in her head that day whenever she made tea or did she make coffee in complete silence, smiling at nothing in particular, a smile that just didn’t sit right etched on her mouth. It was uncanny. It was strange.
Did her smile reach her eyes, or did it show her crooked pearly teeth shining against her honeyed skin- wait her skin was cold and pale? No, honeyed? No, pale? Did she even have a face?
She is gone.
But she was never there.
Completely erased from this world
She was his friend, but he couldn’t even remember what colour her hair was.
He hated himself. He felt powerless.
Sasha was gone. He was still here.
Life, she is far too cruel, isn't she?
Martin is tired. Martin is sleepy. Martin is cold. Martin forgot his mum’s birthday. Martin is horrible. Martin is tired again. He is stupid, stupid, stupid, so so stupid. He is sleepy. He is cold. He is crying again.
He is angry
Tim
Martin doesn’t have an excuse for Tim. Tim wasn’t replaced by a monster. Tim wasn’t completely erased from the world. Tim was warped from reality. So….So….So.. why can’t Martin remember his voice?. Why can’t Martin remember his laugh? Why can’t he remember how many packets of sugar Tim liked in his tea? Why can’t he remember the way Tim used to smile. The memories feel very close, so tangible as if he could just step forwards to grasp it, but Martin can’t think clearly, his mind swarmed with the fog, and his eyes empty.
The fucking fog .
The fucking fog.
The fog.
The fog felt familiar.
Familiarity is comfort
Familiarity is comfort
Familiarity is comfort
Familiarity is comfort
Familiarity is comfort
Tim……. What was his eye colour again? Did he have a scar on the top of his left eyebrow, or was it his right eyebrow?
He didn’t have an excuse for Tim. Martin is crying again. Martin is very tired.
Tired
It's midnight. Martin should sleep. Martin is too tired to sleep.
The night is hauntingly beautiful. The night is so alluring. Martin doesn’t sleep. Everyone is asleep, even the city that never sleeps feels as if it is in deep slumber, and right now, right at this second, the serene frenziedness conquered his body, as the compelling, compulsive and comfortable loneliness flowed through the vessels of his body, freezing the warm blood.
The night was cold
Cold
The night was cold today, and the moonlight that reigned high in the sky highlighted his tears, making them twinkle as if his face were the blank canvas that held the stars, but, you see, Martin preferred the overcast nights, where illusion with intimacy surrounded by constellation and lunar was cast away by the shadows of the dark blue clouds.
Someone he knew used to love the full moon?
His dad? No? His mum? No? Who? Sasha? No No No can’t remember her. Tim? Tim liked...what did he like? Who? Then who? Who?
Who?
Jon...?
Jon.....
Jon Jon
Jon Jon Jon
Jon Jon Jon Jon
JON
Where is he?
Where is Jon?
Jon isn’t here.
Martin doesn’t want Jon here.
Martin wants the choking loneliness.
Martin doesn’t want Jon here
Martin wants the loneliness
Martin wants Jo-
Martin wants the lonely