Man Of Few Words

Chapter 22

So, it finally happened. I shat (Or should it be 'shit'? Or even 'shitted?) myself spectacularly. Writing about it was a bad idea. I was tempting fate.

It was dark when I woke up, but I immediately knew what had happened. I could feel it, and fuck me, could I smell it.

It was cold. I had somehow slept through the whole ordeal and then continued sleeping for some time after the event. Apparently not very restfully though. I have reason to believe I'd been quite... animated in my sleep. It was everywhere. All over me, all over the bed. On the floor... even some on the wall by the bed, I think. It was mostly runny – watery, you could even say – but there were big, doughy, sticky lumps. Oh God, I'm almost retching just from writing about it.

I haven't actually been back into the bedroom. Immediately after waking up and realising the horror of the situation, I peeled myself out of bed, and used whatever clean bedding I could find to wipe as much of it off my body as I could, before stumbling cautiously out of the room, trying desperately not to touch anything.

I went to the bathroom and took a shower, then a bath, then another shower. Then I sat naked and wet on the toilet for about an hour, dripping, shivering, sniffing, coughing, crying and occasionally shitting a little bit more. The only positive thing I can say is that I didn't puke at any point. I feel strangely proud of myself about that. I guess because... well, I don't have anything else to feel proud about right now.

Now I'm sat in the living room. It's almost completely light outside now. There's a large plastic basin by my feet, should I need it in the event of a sudden... relapse.

I don't know what to do.

I can't sort this mess out by myself. I'm feeling very weak, and delicate and shaky. And nauseous too. Not sure if that's the drugs or the disease or the shock or the fear.

I need help, but the thought of asking for it just paralyses me. I'm actually seriously considering just leaving it and sleeping on the couch in here from now on. I keep thinking I can smell it though. It's hard to be sure, as it's been a pretty traumatic few hours for my sense of smell. But I do know that if I stare at the gap at the bottom of the bedroom door for more than a few seconds, I can see a thick, green mist seeping out. I'm pretty sure that's just the drugs at work.

I suppose you might be wondering why the thought of asking for help paralyses me. Well... that's not easy to explain. I certainly can't sum it up in one snappy, eye-catching phrase. I mean... I can try. I suppose, "I'm kind of an arsehole" sort of works. But it, in turn, requires quite a lot of explaining.

I mean... who could I ask for help? My neighbours? I don't know my neighbours. I've lived here less than a year, but even if I'd lived here ten years, I probably wouldn't know them much better than I do. I've always sort of told myself that there was no point getting to know my neighbours, as both my earnings and the value of the properties I owned just kept going up and up, so I'd just buy somewhere better and move every couple of years or so. Just because I could, really. Just because that's the kind of thing you do when you've got money – you use it.

But I was, of course, lying to myself. I didn't get to know my neighbours because I wasn't interested in them. In fact, I held each and every one of them in mild contempt. Why? Nothing to do with them, of course. I just feel that way about almost everyone. Other people are generally just sort of... useless. To me, they represent an expenditure of time and effort, with very little reward in return. So... I mean, I'm not actively unpleasant to people – not usually – I just make an absolutely minimal effort with them as a whole. I never speak to my neighbours unless they speak to me first, and even then I'm as economical as possible. I think, "Hi" is the most anyone in this building has every gotten out of me. I don't know any of their names; I don't have any of their phone numbers; I don't know if I'd even recognise most of them if I saw them elsewhere; and the truth is, I don't care.

I think that's why I don't want to go and ask for help. If I do that, then I have to care. That scares the shit out of me. Or at least it would if there were any shit left in me.

I just started crying. I'm thinking about what comes next.

You're thinking, "All right, you don't want to bother your neighbours. It would be asking a lot of people that are nothing much to do with you. That's kinda fair enough. But your friends can help you, can't they? Your family, surely?"

You underestimate how deep this casual contempt for other people goes. I don't have friends. Not in the sense that... I don't even know how to describe it because... it's not a sense I really have. Again, it comes down to caring, I guess. And bonding. Maybe that too.

I do have a social life, but it has very little, if anything, to do with friendship. I'm a social animal like everyone else, I know, but social contact is just a handy by-product of using people to get what I want. And what I want is... various things, I suppose, but what it all comes down to is steady and persistent reminders that I am a success. All of my friends, while all successful in their own right, are sycophants of one sort or another. Either directly or more often indirectly, they tell me that I am the man. So, I have friends who know all the best restaurants, friends with good sense of style, friends who make me look good in front of women, friends who are women (most of whom are perfectly willing to hook up whenever the need arises), and friends linked to various work and/or money-related interests.

I'm not an amiable friend in the slightest. In social situations I all but ignore those around me, and am bluntly direct in all my social interactions. This actually earns me a tremendous amount of respect, in that my aloofness makes me seem hard to please and therefore worth pleasing. But I don't make meaningful connections with anyone. Neither do I seek to. Others seek to connect with me sometimes, but I've become adept at evading that kind of... time-wasting.

So... I think most of my "friends" would worm their way out of helping me out here (as I would in their shoes), and the few who wouldn't... someone so needy that they would help me clean up a roomful of shit just to make that all-important connection, just so I would owe them something... some care.

I want that person in my home about as much as I want all this shit in it.

I'm not quite as cynical as I sound, y'know. It's not that I believe that no one could possibly help a fellow human being out of a situation like this because it's simply the right thing to do. I'm sure there are plenty of people like that. But I'm even more sure that I don't count any such person among my "friends". I mean, why would I?

Because some day you might really need someone like that. Yeah, I know. I get it now. Don't rub it in. This wasn't part of the plan. I didn't need someone who cares, and I had no intention of ever doing so. I made sure of ridding myself of those kinds of people altogether.

Which brings me to my family.

I just stopped bothering with them. There was no big falling out or feud. No huge Christmas row, no long-held grudge; there's no hatchet unburied. I just gradually stopped giving any time or making any effort. I had better, more gainful things to do than pretend I gave a shit about people who I'd been thrown together with by fate.

So it's been over a decade since I last spent Christmas with my family. I usually just throw a small-scale but fancy party somewhere with a very carefully selected guest list of useful types. I never call anyone from my family, and brush them off as quickly as I can on the increasingly rare occasions they try calling me. I get the occasional email, and sometimes even reply if there's some specific reason I should (e.g. my mum likes to know what products my work is on, so that she can tell her friends to buy them). But I never express any real interest in or concern for any of them because I have no such interest or concern. And I require nothing of the sort from them.

I'm sure this is upsetting for them. Certainly for my parents, who at first kicked up a bit of a fuss over my refusal to participate in family life, but also for Harriet, who doesn't like her kids having this weird, distant, couldn't-give-a-fuck uncle. But I don't care. Of course I don't care.

I haven't actually told any of them that I have cancer. I don't want them to know, because I don't want them to care.

I'm really crying now. What am I so afraid of? Really... WHAT?

I think I can smell it. Yeah, I can definitely smell it.