Man Of Few Words

Chapter 1

I'm dying.

My name is David Alexander. I am a 38-year-old freelance copywriter from Oxfordshire. I was born in September, which makes me a Virgo. And if you believe that's important, that makes you an idiot. But don't worry; I have a lot to be grateful to idiots for.

I live alone in my own very expensive London flat. I have no kids and no girlfriend. My hobbies include spending money on things I don't need, and clearing out old things I don't need in order to make way for new things I don't need.

I'm 5' 8" with an athletic body that's the result of first, a semi-regular gym routine, and second, not eating like a pig. I never play sports. Unless you count manipulating people for the hell of it as a sport. I have a fairly dark complexion by English standards, but I'm not really tanned. I'm not really the outdoorsy type. For most of my adult life my hair has been kept to a bare minimum. I've always maintained a buzz cut – no. 1 at the back and sides, no. 2 on top. It suits me, both in terms of my appearance and in terms of my hatred of wasting time on stupid shit like hair gel.

Lately it's more of a no. 4 at the back and sides and a no. 5 on top. Or at least the equivalent thereof. I haven't touched the clippers for a while. You can see that my hair has gone a silvery dark grey. I really hadn't noticed I was greying. It must have been happening for a while. Probably a few years; maybe more.

All of my clothes are tailor-made, but you probably wouldn't guess so, as they're all casual in style. I never wear ties or button-up shirts, no matter how formal the occasion, but I occasionally wear a suit over a T-shirt. Everything in my wardrobe has been carefully, and expensively, designed to match everything else.

About three quarters of my wardrobe is currently strewn about the floor of my bedroom. Some of it goes very nicely with the carpet. Some of it doesn't.

I used to have a housekeeper because having a housekeeper avoided the hassle of doing various household chores, including laundry and ironing and such. But then I quite recently decided I'd rather avoid the hassle of having a woman fussing about in my flat twice a week, so I told her to stop coming. Fortunately for her, I'm also avoiding the hassle of cancelling her wages.

I haven't really been changing my clothes that frequently, but still... I'm going to have to try to work the washing machine pretty soon. I managed to figure out where to take the rubbish, and where the spare bin bags were, so I guess I'm on a roll.

I'm dying.

Those are just words on a page. Words echoing around my head, dutifully repeating and repeating and repeating, waiting patiently to be acknowledged as fact. It's been, I don't know, three or four weeks now, and it doesn't seem real yet. It must be at least five, actually. Maybe more.

You know... I think I've got my head around the "...'m dying" part. But it still means very little without the "I", and that's the part I feel I have no grasp of at all right now. I'm not sure I ever have had.

I'm dying. I'm dying. Hello... yes... that's right. Dying. Me. Over here. I'm dying.