Two

Too late, the sun came beating down upon Jeremy’s back, in a feeble attempt to dry the rain’s assault. With the water, his rage dripped off of him, and pooled around his ankles as he dismounted from the bike.

He struggled with the front door, as usual, and hauled his bike inside only to be accosted by the violent sounds of his housemate’s music. Thick, heavy sounds pounded into his skull as he dragged his sole mode of transport and escape through the house.

Jeremy seethed in time with the music and all but threw his bike down to its resting place. He knew that he would never be able to convince the obnoxious bastard to turn his stereo system down, so he headed wearily back to the sanctuary of his own room.

He slammed the door shut and breathed a heavy sigh of relief as the music was reduced to a dull pounding. It reminded Jeremy of the feeling of being underwater, disconnected from the ordinary world and much calmer than usual.

He looked around his room in quiet contemplation, relaxing a little after the stress of the day. A dull, ugly light filtered through the old brown curtains, and seemed to give the whole place a sepia touch, as if it were from a long forgotten movie.

Sighing once again, Jeremy pulled off his clothes, and sank into bed. Reaching under the mattress he pulled out a small silver box, which he placed carefully on his lap. He opened the box and reviewed it’s contents as always, perhaps a little paranoid that someone might find it.

Lighter, spoon, needle, and a bag of white powder. Jeremy’s face broke into a grin in anticipation of what was coming, but he was careful not to rush himself. This stuff was expensive, and all the more precious when you’d managed to steal it from a dealer without him noticing.

Jeremy dipped the spoon into the bag and took a mouthful of the powder inside. Nothing tasted sweeter than pure sugar. He shot adrenaline into his arm, and held his cigarette at the ready. It wasn’t you’re ordinary high, but it made Jeremy’s heart pound and he loved it.

Jeremy sucked contentedly at his cigarette and wondered about the bee sting allergic drug peddler he’d managed to lift this from. He would shed no tear if the filth-bag died because he couldn’t find his emergency medication.

Ironic, perhaps, that such a man be dependant on prescribed medication. His head swimming now Jeremy turned his attention to the small portable TV he kept by the bed. The colours flowed endlessly in front of him, seeping out from the small screen and into his sepia world, almost as if it were bringing him forward in time, from his archaic drug den. Heart pounding, he decided to wander up to the roof.

Walking naked through the house didn’t seem strange to him, and only a little strange to his housemates. They were used to his ravings, and violent mood swings, so this was really not that impressive. They just watched as he wandered up to the flat roof of the cheaply mass-produced house.

Coming out onto the roof the sunlight felt almost painfully bright in his dilated pupils, and he had to shield his eyes in order to see. Blood pounded through his veins and he walked to the edge of the roof, looking over the small plot of grass they called a garden. Jeremy looked down, and stepped off the building.

One

The doors slammed shut behind him and he stalked out of the church. The cheap stained glass quivered in its lead casing, making the angels shudder. Sunday was never the best day for engaging in a rational conversation; he should have gone to the pub with his housemates. But no, there had been a Spiritualist hurch on the corner, and he'd never been to one of those. The Baptists hadn't liked him, the Catholics barred the door, but surely Spiritualists would be more open-minded.

It all started very nicely; there were some interesting prayers, then a bible reading (no hymns, which was a blessing). Afterwards they gathered in a circle and asked each other searching questions. That was when the morning began to go downhill. The "But if God loves us so much, why is there so much suffering?"s and "Is it true that animals have no souls?"s (in which case why does the word 'animus' mean soul?) seemed petty issues in the face of what he needed to ask:

"How come you get voices in your head but I don't?" That was when they asked him to leave. He didn't. "Perhaps I can rephrase that," he said, "you must hear God - he talks to you all the time. I talk to him all the time, but he never replies."

"Maybe God doesn't talk to you in the way that you expect."

"How would I know he was talking to me then?"

"God doesn't always use words - sometimes he uses feelings."

"Sometimes when God doesn't reply it makes me angry - is that God?"

"I think it might be best if you left, you're upsetting the children."

Angrily he stormed out into the street, the rain pouring down on him. This was just another disappointment. Perhaps this was God talking to him?

Soaked, he climbed onto his bike. The rain made everything slippery, but he didn’t care. He grudgingly pushed away from the church, and onto the road. The traffic streamed past him in an angry rush, everyone desperate to get to where they wanted to be, first.

He knew his anger would do him no favours right now, but he pushed on anyway. Weaving in between the traffic was one of few ways he could feel alive, and was all the more important to him at a time when he didn’t want to be.

People honked, and flashed their lights at him, but he couldn’t make himself care. Insects, all of them, and none with any more right to be here than him. But soon it became too much. Cornering a junction, some half-wit in a hatchback came to close and nearly knocked him off. Swearing loudly, and gesturing wildly, he focused all his anger on this one idiot who couldn’t drive.

As the lights turned red, the traffic slowed, and Jeremy came to rest beside his auto-antagonist. He looked over to the man, some greasy twenty-something, wannabe gary-boy glared at him from within his wheeled armour. The boy lazily lifted his hand, and put up his middle finger.

Enough was enough, and it all became too much for him. Rage surged through Jeremy, and he felt the blood pumping painfully through his head. The red traffic light seemed to bleed out into the world, and time began to slow. Jeremy raised his fist, and punched the window.

The blow shook the car, and it rocked gently to one side. The boy inside recoiled in fright, but quickly regained his composure, and began shouting and swearing at Jeremy, and gesticulating wildly. But he didn’t notice. Jeremy lifted his hand again, and focused all his hatred into his fist, driving it again into the window.

Cracks this time, as the sound of the impact ricocheted off the surrounding buildings. Again, and again he punched, each time the cracks growing bigger, and wider. The boy inside was wide eyed with terror, disbelief petrifying him were he sat, as Jeremy pounded the car window.

But with Jeremy’s final blow, the lights changed, and the car leaped away from the junction, leaving a trail of broken glass on the road, and Jeremy seething in its wake.

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