Fork

Fork. Forks. Forks'.

"There are no forks," Owl said, as he ripped his forearm's flesh apart with studied persistence. "There is only the idea of a fork."

"I know a lot about forks," said a slightly bothered Ubermilf, who had considered them from every angle since that time when she'd been taken unawares. She had never been taken unawares since.

"That's what you think," said Owl, though he seemed to believe it. "What about spaghetti?"

Ubermilf couldn't be bothered. She knew she had to use an entire crew of self-infatuated, under-achieving dick-waving wannabes to get to her reward, which Nick had probably already nicked.

"Ok, I'll make spaghetti for tea," she said with little conviction. "Now -"

She had never spoken the last two words of this sentence before. Until now, nobody had ever asked her what they were.

"What was that," said a voice she thought she'd never hear again.

4am

Things were not the same any more. People had moved on, places had changed, time was different and he was not quite what he once was. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

He pulled off the duvet and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sat and cradled his head in his hands, scruffing off the sleepy feeling and messing his hair even further than it was already. A squint at the clock revealed that it was around 4am.

"Hm. A lay in tonight then..."

He yawned. Sleep was so transient these days. So light. He went to bed tired and woke up tired. No sleep was ever enough - not that he could sleep properly.

He stumbled to the toilet and pissed half in the bowl and half down his leg and the floor. It didn't matter. Nothing really mattered any more. He walked away without flushing or washing his hands and stumbled down the stairs through the inky blackness and murky shapes. The darkness was kind of nice. Cold, peaceful and calm. No ringing phones, no talking to people - no pressure. Just quiet blackness. Into the kitchen, he poured water into the kettle and turned it on. The cold blue light from its LED filled the room with an icy glow as it rumbled into life. He could see the kitchen better now, the piles of plates and cutlery, the take away delivery boxes and the empty beer cans and bottles were clearly visible. Visual noise. It made his head bristle. He flicked off the kettle and the room was once again plunged into darkness. The cup of coffee was never made.

He stood, looking out of the window at the garden and the houses beyond like he had on so many other nights like this. A light was on in one of the buildings across the way. Through the moving branches of the trees he could make out the sillouette of a person. They were awake too. At least he wasn't totally alone in this early morning void between dark and light. The person moved, the light went off and a car grumbled in the distance. He was alone again.

The silence was perfect. Cold, hard, screaming silence. His head was ringing. He could only hear the sound of his brain working, his heart beating, his mind thrashing and his body aching. It was a wave of noise against the darkness and the peace. He wriggled and struggled on the spot as if trying the throw off some invisible assailant. A shadow, heavy and large hung on his back, pushing him down, refusing to let go. He slumped and let it fall over him. Submission was the only option. He had no energy left. No fight, no hope and no reason to try.

He reached for the drawer, opened it and pulled out a fork. He held it up and examined it in the half light as if deciding what it might be or why it was, how it was. He knew fully well what he was doing and what he was going to do. It seemed silly. Foolish. He did a half chuckle. What would people think of him now? Not that it mattered. What did people ever think of him anyway? He was not what they thought he was. Not a nice man. Not a good man. Not worth anything. Nothing.

The feel of the cold metal against his arm snapped his attention back, focussed the screams and enveloped the darkness around him.

He pressed harder.

He knew what he was doing....