Author S. K. Nicholas

Scars and cold hearts and cigarettes that smell like the smell of her sex only I’m bored and drunk and thinking these thoughts does nothing to me other than aggravate my already worsening dread of being alive in a world that has little to no sense of shame. This bus journey, it never seems to end. Dunstable. Luton. Harpenden. St Albans. Watford. London. France. Bethlehem. Kangaroo Valley. Always and forever the same, these places mock my good intentions. These people; they tell me to quit because they never had it in them to do anything themselves. Two old women; they natter and gas about how everything happens for a reason, but I want to go sit with them and ask, kids with cancer? Yeah? That happens for a reason, does it? Then, I want to grab their copy of The Sun, roll it up, and batter them around their stupid heads, the silly old bints. What would they know about life other than watching soaps every night and praying for more grandchildren to fill up their empty lives that have lacked meaning for the best part of fifty years? What have they done other than live with luck on their side while those around them succumbed in the same hospital where everyone they’ve ever known went to die like life were just some kinda inconvenience? Dunno. Don’t care. So I’m watching the second Hellraiser movie and drinking beer while she’s soaking in the bath talking to someone on the phone she claims to hate yet always hangs around. Every so often, I go for a piss and look at her body as it floats just beneath the water that’s no longer soapy because she’s been in it for the best part of an hour. Stood there dabbing my cock with tissue paper, I admire her breasts as they appear so wholesome and full. Growing hard, she tries not looking at me as second by second it inches up, but the more she ignores me, the harder I become until I slap the side of her face with it causing her to almost drop her phone into the bath. Threatening never to sleep with me again, I hobble away and sit in the garden smoking my cigarettes. The temporary euphoria of my disgrace soon wearing off, once again there’s only me and death. The last painting I ever created was titled Leviathan. I stopped painting when those around me spent more time considering what frame to use rather than what part of their heart they were willing to smear upon the canvas. They never seemed aware of their undoing. They still don’t even now.