Man Of Few Words

Chapter 30

Speaking of my life not being a very good story, I realise there's still a very big gap in it between masturbating with my little sister's bra on as a teen, and shitting all over every surface of my own bedroom as a premature geriatric. You must at least be wondering how I became this way. How I became this arsehole. This dying arsehole.

I'm wondering too, actually. Really, I am.

I have my theories, but it's all very whiny. I'm not here to whine, I'm here to tell stories. And I suppose to express the desolation and futility of terminal illness now and again. Even that's rather closer to whining than I'd like to be. Sometimes though, you just can't help what comes gushing out of you (ain't that the truth!).

I feel like you'd have expected me to have filled out the world around me by now. Like you'd assume that who I am is, in part, defined by my surroundings. Particularly by the people around me. But I really don't feel I have much to say about any of that, or any of them. I have a very deeply held "need-to-know" attitude to stuff. But I must admit, it is starting to rather get in the way here.

I mean, you didn't need to know any of the weird embarrassing stories I've told you so far. I wanted to tell you them, but you didn't really find out anything more about anyone involved than you needed to know. That's how I've lived my life – I give no more than the bare minimum I need to give in order to get what I want – and that's how I'm writing my book. But of course I ought to be pushing rather harder out of my comfort zone here, shouldn't I? It's my last chance, after all.

But like I wrote when I started writing this, the "bad news" hasn't inspired me in the slightest, and the only motivation I have is "of a sort". I'm just forcing myself to do it to keep my brain occupied. If I don't, then I fear I'll go mad. I'm pretty sure my brain would prefer to just go mad. I should think it'd be a lot less like hard work.

So it's enough of an effort to keep going at all; to just keep tapping away at the keys, writing anything – really anything – at all.

But I did promise myself I'd write something of worth and substance. I don't really know what that means, but I do know that it doesn't mean wimping out when it gets difficult.

I want you to get to know my parents.

[very heavy sigh]

What I mean is, I want to get to know my parents.

I can't call a book about me 'substantial' if it offers only passing nods to the two people that made me. But it really is difficult for me to write about my parents, for a reason that is both simple and complicated at the same time: I know almost nothing about them.

So, who are Markus and Elaine Alexander?

There's only one thing for it. I'm going to have to ask them.

I really am going to be sick now. Really.