The Antique Shop - Part 5

It’s at least another hour before I fall asleep. I keep seeing that poor guy’s face when he was getting beaten up. There was such a strange look in his eyes, like a kind of resigned fear. I think he knew his fate the moment he snatched that bag. I think that despite how inexorable the result, it was a decision he had to make. I wonder how desperate he is. I wonder if he’s just an ordinary guy whose every effort at making a living has failed and he had to turn to crime or slowly starve. I wonder if we’d be kinder to criminals if we knew their stories. But then again, maybe he is a scumbag. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe he would feel nothing plunging a blade between someone’s ribs for a cell phone. It’s so difficult to be truly empathetic, because you just never know who deserves it. Though who’s to say who deserves what? Those jocks that beat him up have probably date-raped girls before, drunkenly kicked the crap out of a gay dude or slept around behind their girlfriends’ backs. Which crime is greater – that of necessity or of simple wantonness? Why can’t there ever be clear-cut answers?
I love this country, but it’s so troubling sometimes. It was a small thing, but a while back I was driving along and saw a guy who’d blown a tire on the side of the road. He pleaded with me to stop but I dropped my eyes and drove right past because I’ve heard too many stories about blown tires being setups for hijackings. It feels like no one can feel free to be kind here anymore because the risk is just too great. Or is it? Is it worth living in a place where simple acts of help don’t exist? Maybe those very small acts are completely worth the risk of theft or death. Without them, we live in such a dehumanised place.
Ever since my life got turned upside down I feel like I’ve been swimming through jelly. Nothing seems real any more. What I wouldn’t give to be ten years old again, scuffing my feet outside, scurrying up trees, riding my bike like the devil around the garden, hurling insults and sand clogs at my brother. Where did that child go? At what moment did he scamper away and leave me suddenly older, self-aware? I guess there’s been too much tragedy recently to even warrant at guessing an answer. I think about reading the letters again. I told myself I wouldn’t, but right now I need them. Fortunately before I can, sleep comes and gently carries me away somewhere else, somewhere deep into the night, somewhere sacred, mine, where sadness cannot touch me.

I wake with the sun on my face. I must have forgotten to close the curtains in the night. There are two tall trees outside, and the sun shines through them like a dandelion in negative. Why is the sun shining? It’s unfair that it should be so bright when I feel like this. It’s not right that there are families eating breakfast together now, or newlyweds delightedly surprised to wake up next to each other on honeymoon. I scold myself for thinking like a morbid, self-obsessed teenager carrying on about how unfair life is and how no one has it so bad.
But I can’t help indulging in my mood a little bit. My flat is so quiet. It feels dead. It makes none of the noises a living house should: a cupboard banging closed; a runny nose being blown loudly; the clatter of spoon on bowl as cereal is eaten; the scuttling of a dog’s claws on floor tiles. There’s just my breathing. I hold my breath to allow the sounds of the city to slowly make themselves known. They come to me in tendrils. From under the door I hear distant steps as someone down the corridor leaves for work. Someone in the flat next door bumps something against the wall. The windows rattle gently as a truck gears down in the distance. There is life here. It’s timid, different, but it’s here.
The alarm on my phone breaks the peace and I jump in fright. Time to face the day.

© William Edgcumbe