The rain lashed against the windows of a large Manchester home, as a chain of cigarettes was being continued through a fresh pack of Marlboro. A brown journal lay abandoned on the glass table at the heart of the room, its coarse edges making it hard to believe it was only five years old. Its owner, who at one time had been inseparable from it, had only recently passed it on to the twenty-two-year-old who was sprawled across the black leather corner-piece sofa, a recently lit but almost completely smoked cigarette in one hand, and a bottle of Whisky in the other. He was yet to know what resided within the pages of the journal. He had found himself tortured by the curiosity on many of occasion, though he was wise enough to know that curiosity could never torture him as harshly as the words inside; and so it had never once been opened. He had merely subjected himself to the small writing along the spine that was fading with each passing day. Let us love. The rain had finally stopped; the grip on the cigarette and the whisky weakening as sleep enclosed him. And there was only silence.
London traffic, added to the rain ruthlessly slapping a waterproof coat; who’s owner had its collar pulled up almost to his cheekbones; provided a noise so deafening that it seemed to be the only sound powerful enough to drown out the screams of guilt; loneliness; and heartbreak. A long walk in the busiest, noisiest city in England was the best distraction to emotion one could find. Though despite his best efforts, the twenty-five-year-old could not remain ignorant to the slight change in weight of his shoulder bag. Through naivety and likely stupidity, he had given away a journal that he had at one time carried everywhere with him. He had desperately hoped it would get read by its new owner, so that he could see the truth. There would be no anger. No hurt. But it didn’t get read. So he continued to walk, he would wear a cap hung low over his face and his collar pulled high over his ever-growing beard, until once again his tired legs begged him to return home. He would collapse into his large armchair and puff on a Marlboro. Devouring the taste and the smell and savouring every last drag. He would kick up his feet and close his eyes. And there was only silence.
