fell down | fiction

opening of novella

*I’m writing a novella, the following is the opening. If you enjoy what you read please consider going paid in support of the work.

I went there because I had nowhere left to go.

   At age thirty, I was living in Edinburgh, Scotland and had just committed to twelve weeks of therapy at a mental health charity financed by elites with old money. I probably never would have spoken with a therapist if not free. But time felt like it was running out due to a sense of expiration caused by self-destructive behaviour better suited to other patients fabled addictions or psychosis. I only had myself to blame. A sense of alienation caused from years spent moving from place to place began to haunt my being. Once I had landed back in Scotland from another God knows why I went in the first-place location, things came to a head. All there was left to do was to talk to someone about my recent choices, actions, behaviours. What a nightmare.

   The staff at the charity were easy enough people to engage with on a weekly basis. Tired-eyed and softly spoken young women with clear skin and honest aspirations, they each in their own way had a calming demeanour. Inside that building with brick as grey as a London skyline, time could feel static and fluid. But this was dependant on whether you were waiting to go upstairs or sat down with a professional, spilling your guts like your woman just left you for another human. I thought of the receptionists as I watched a clock on the wall tick round, what made them want to volunteer to help the mentally unsound. It took a lot to sit down in a waiting room with the mentally ill and self-examine. Maybe it took having nothing left in my life. Anyway, who doesn’t want to run away when faced with the reality of their own failings, rock bottom types with nowhere left to go? Footless people? It’s hard to look in the mirror when you no longer know who you’re looking at.