I was severely bloodied up from the combination of beatings at the mercy of my overly proud dickhead of a dad and some greasy-haired cows with metal on their fists and engines on wheels. It wasn’t turning out to be a good Sunday, and Clive took me down to the nearest hospital. I reluctantly went, and they cleaned my wounds up for me, then tried to keep me for the night. But I knew I had to see Old Charlie, otherwise all Hell would break loose inside of me and I’d take out my rage on the nearest thing possible, which, in a hospital, could’ve been someone on their last legs, or as bloodied up as me. I told them I had to be at a funeral service at Highgate today, so they discharged me for the afternoon. I finally got my Vespa back from outside the Flamingo (With no parking fine, but a note saying “Clive’s sorted it” instead), turned the engine on and rode up to Highgate cemetery, where Old Charlie is resting.
The roads were practically empty, as most people were enjoying a lie-in or at Church. On the 20 minute journey, I must’ve seen about 7 people altogether. Then again, unlike my mum, who thinks she’s a spy, I don’t really watch what people are doing or care what they look like when I’m driving. My main focus is getting to Highgate and respecting my grandfather, who I still look up to 6 and a half years after his death. I felt extremely embarrassed and got a dirty look from an old couple when I pulled up near the church, as the scooter has a loud engine and most likely disturbed a hymn or whatever they were doing in there. The old couple, who looked well past their sell-by date, went in just as I pulled up, obviously heard the engine and I swear they purposely opened the door at that point so the congregation could see just what a twat I am for having my own form of transport. The woman was the worst. She had an evil look to her, and when she snarled at me, I was sure I could see horns and a forked tongue on her face. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was born under Queen Vic’s grasp on parliament.
Sunday was the day where my sensitive side came out. I’d get whatever money I had left together and buy as many flowers as I could from the dealer to put on my granddad’s gravesite. This could be from as little as a single tulip head to his whole stock of daffodils, whatever I could get. I forgot the plot number, but I visit so frequently that I know where he sleeps better than where I know the Flamingo is, and that’s saying something, because I’m only sober for the way there, and pissed out of my head on the way back, so the route from it to my house is a bit fuzzy, but I know the general gist.
At about 11:25 on the church clock, I saw the gravestone that read “Charles ‘Old Charlie’ Walker, Born April 3rd 1902, died September 17th 1957, aged 55. Departed life early, missed every day since.” And almost broke down. 6 and a half years on those words still haunt my mind, and I can never get over the truthfulness of those words, and how I wish it was me in his place. I carefully replaced the withering Daffodils from last week with the 5 fresh tulips that I bought with my remaining cash. I think I’m the only person who visits anyone buried here, as I’ve always tried to maintain Charlie’s grave the best I could, and it looks awful to be completely honest, but compared to some of the others around it, it seems like the Mona Lisa in a sewer; a masterpiece surrounded by shit. Seriously, do people have no respect for their dead?
Unless they had no respect for them in life. Believe me, when dad finally goes I’m gonna pour acid onto the limestone to make sure his grave decays and his name is lost. That will put him in his place once and for all, but sadly, he’d be dead (Never thought I’d say that) and unable to see the resentment I have for him, the fucking tosser. Knowing me, I’d either skip his funeral completely or sabotage it in some way, possible by beating the literal shit out of the corpse in full view of everyone. I can’t imagine anyone trying to stop me, I know that mum’s wanted to do it for yonks. She’d follow my lead, and maybe, just maybe, we’d share a little bit of bonding time, made better by us both taking out our rage on dad and doing to him what he’s doing to us right now.
The thing is, it would be a hollow attempt at a reprise, as he wouldn’t feel a thing, so wouldn’t be punished at all really. Even with the acid, he’d never see how much we all despise him. Torture is so much better than death, as it opens your eyes to the real world. Death is just a quick release. Snap and black. But torture makes you endure pain for a while, which is actual punishment for an act. The Americans have got it wrong. In my current situation I’d rather die than endure the pain in my heart and soul that drags on every minute of every hour of every day, weighing me down as if I were chained to a rock. My life exhausts me, and I need some sort of escape.
If only I had a love in my life, someone to really talk to and that I can relate to, it would dissolve the chains that attach the rock to me, and I would be free from loneliness and lovelessness. The thing with me is that I’m too fucking picky. I can find something bad about any girl that my mates try and fix me up with. She’s either got a bad taste in music, bad taste in clothes or wrong dimensions. The thing that adds to my internal torture is that I know I will never find someone who is perfect for me, but my heart is a prick and tells me to look on. I don’t know when it’ll stop ruling my head. Unless maybe, just the slimmest maybe in history, there is someone out there, and my heart knows it. It takes over my reasoning to try and encourage me to believe the improbable. This little bubble of doubt that I’m spilling now is my heart starting to work. I know I will find someone. There is someone for everyone, and I will find my one.
“There’s a certain girl I’ll be in love with for a long, long time” Is what my heart constantly says.
“What’s her name then?” Is my head’s comeback.
“I can’t tell you” Is the part that pisses me off.
Ernie K. Doe wrote my feelings in a song. What a skill.