Reconstructing X

I find myself in an incredibly bad place: A town that’s recently been bombed.  The bombs have destroyed almost the entire town. Only 12 people, including myself remain alive and out of those 12 I only like 3, and out of these 3, 1 is me (I  haven’t quite decided on the other 2 yet). I’ll ask you to take that last part as a joke. I walk down a path of the most sterile grey that eyes can ever be drawn to. The thick and slightly darkened cracks abundant in this pavement look almost creative, almost as If they were made to look like this on purpose. I doubt  this was part of the bomber's intentions. My name is Virgil tomb, I enjoy cartoons, comic books and copious amounts of coke (the drink). As if the fact only 12 people and 2 buildings have survived the bombing wasn’t enough, one of these 2 buildings was the quick stop: the cesspit convenience store I’ve had to call my place of work.  It’s a job I have no enthusiasm or pride for. Infact I’m so ashamed that I work there that when people ask what I do I tell them I’m a male prostitute. The reason it’s remained essentially unaffected by the bombings is a mystery. Still though it’s just not fair the only place that isn’t destroyed by a bomb is the only place I’ve ever wished would one day be destroyed by a bomb. If this god does exist he’s got some serious issues with me. The town I Live in shall simply be referred to as X. But don’t get excited, Malcolm X has never been here nor has professor X, so it’s not named after either one of them . This is just what I’ll call it to sound impressive and stylised. I briskly walk down the uneven pavement with my pony tail violently encountering my back like a whip with multiple tails every time I take A step: I have no idea why I haven’t cut it off yet. At first I grew it to make myself look simultaneously arrogant and selfless: A capable man of action- I don’t have to worry about the length of my hair I’m too busy avoiding these bombs and saving the other citizens. But now that my attempts to save citizens have much to my own guilt failed time and again I’m not a hero, so now I just look like an unwashed unkempt unmotivated nobody who doesn’t keep their hair in good condition -so there’s really no point. It’s important now that I inform you of the 12 people that have survived the bombings some have begun to show clear traits of insanity: One of said people is standing very near me (thank god - his grasp of reality is so bad he can't hear me , If he could I’d be so lucky to still be alive now) . For someone whose survived a bombing it’s fair to say I’m still a novice when it comes to handling life threatening situations. He breathes heavily without speaking. His breathing increases in speed and vigour and becomes more wheezy and confrontational every time it comes into contact with my ears. Does this person have dark intentions? Is this the end? Should I really be standing here as if I’m planning on finding out?

I don’t for a second look up, I don’t know whether this persons one of the recently insane.I feel I should look up to find out , but on the other hand do I actually want to be proved right?. This person doesn’t talk.  As mentioned before, the sound  speech is here replaced with is unsettling but at the same time, doesn’t seem to be of any actual threat. But just in case it does become violent I must be going. I manage to violently push open a door presented with oddly borderline opaque windows (bombings encourage dust) and a handle presenting some warped shape. My pushing of the door is aggressive: like a vicious cowboy pushes saloon doors open. I then push the door equally as violently shut before I actually realise where I am: The bloody quick stop. As soon as I adjust to my surroundings I think to myself : oh why didn’t I take my chances with the heavy breather outside?. I usually change my mind quickly about a situation just like I did then. Another good example is when I attended a film festival and watched a vaguely melancholy animated film about chickens in certain parts I was thinking “OH no, no, this is bad do not let anything bad happen please”. Less than 2 hours later I thought “I’m hungry… I could do with a chicken sandwich”.  As soon as I’m secure inside the quick stop I say to myself “As my life comes to an end I have concluded life in this town or indeed anywhere in the UK is not something I’m likely to miss” I don’t realise I’m talking aloud until I’m mid-way through the sentence by which time I decide I might as well carry on, the only other person around of course was just standing still in front of me and breathing like a nutcase so at this point he has very little right to judge someone whose talking to themselves. One memory I have of this town is when an American visited and said “Oh my god this place is so dangerous” .When your local area is being referred to as dangerous by someone from a nation who are obsessed with guns , you know you are living in a complete slum. Before I go on, I am not prejudice against any country. I have little right to judge after all come from a long line of people who go around cities on boats, make themselves vomit between courses and dance around to get rid of spiders. I’ve concluded I’m now safe the door of the shop is locked and it’s very quiet inside. However, does this mean I’m actually alone? This thought approaches my brain as a door in the far corner of the shop slowly opens.

As soon as It does I notice a man of roughly my age standing though only just his legs are shaking quite severely , I know this because I see a very faint but very present side to side movement on his trousers. He stands in front of me. I’m usually a good judge of character but I have no idea what to think of this person. He’s either one of the arrogant types who turns up late for work because he’s been admiring his reflection for a few hours, or one of the lonely types who cuddles up to a piece of cheese carved into the shape of a woman at night. “What do you want, get out now!” I can already tell from this comment that this is James Dartmouth the son of the quick stop convenience store’s owner: people say he’s a bit of a prick, people are very correct. I won’t describe his voice because now as I’m listening to it I’ve already completely forgotten what it sounds like.

It’s worth mentioning that this entire time I’ve been writing all those details on my phone it’s a piece of crap but it’s really good for making notes. If this outlives me, which it probably will I dislike it that much I’ve tried everything I can to break it so I’ve got an excuse for buying a new one and it’s indestructible. I hope someone finds this phone and everything I’m writing down. This event needs to be remembered. People need to know that bombings once occurred here. I have no idea what they’ll do with this fact. Knowing how the business works these days I imagine it’ll be adapted into a handheld camera horror film. The kinds that use the words “capturing realism” as an excuse to create a cheap, tacky film no one finds scary and that doesn’t really end properly. Believe me I don’t want to be around when that happens- maybe death isn’t such a bad thing after all. It’s incredibly ironic that even though half the town is dead now I find it impossible to have a moment to myself. For one thing James Dartmouth is still standing in the corner of the room shouting insults at me that I don’t take the time to register, and now the heavy breather has caught up with me at last. The heavy breather grabs me as James Dartmouth is hiding under a table but still attempting to adapt a veneer of capability. I recognise the heavy breather as Joe, a close and personal friend of mine, as much as I like the lad saying that he has very little brain is actually being polite. I can't believe I didn't know it was him earlier. I assume I'm a lot less logical in times of panic - everything I once knew naturally seems to gradually disappear in times of crisis. There’s a genuine sense of remorse and melancholy in his face as he tries to drag me outside. I'm resilient however, and push him violently from my grip- something I can regret later if there's a chance. I look back hoping to glance in the direction of Dartmouth, maybe he can help. I can't see him - now I'm doubting if he was ever there. This is the part where all is officially revealed: I myself have gone insane. While I am experiencing what may be my last lucid moment I can officially confirm that so many signs that point to mental deficiency. For an indefinite but likely short period of time, things begin to make sense. Several incidents must have been played out in my head : including Dartmouth's presence- this must be why I found him so hard to analyse. The bombings still happened I Know this for sure. I know because A psychologist, one of the town’s surviving members is currently stood outside explaining to a group that I’m the first citizen to actually shown any signs of insanity since the bombs. He says I've done some terrible things- none of which I can remember. A woman begins to fearfully move away when she sees my faces through the dust engulfed window. Could I have done something to her? . We've apparently crossed paths before. From what I hear him say our last meeting was disturbing . He claims that I clutched onto him and began to shiver violently while I told him the bombs had made everyone mad. He continues to talk; says after this encounter I ran recklessly away before he could take me. I remember none of this, even as I hear it being mentioned. I hide now beneath the deteriorating shop counter, I may have rendered Joe unconscious when he grabbed me.

I hear the psychologist pleading with the other survivors not to capture me just yet , he has more to explain.

He says the theory of mine regarding several citizens becoming insane was something I created as a defence mechanism, a form of denial stopping me from confronting the deterioration of my own mind. It's lucky I say this now- in 5 minutes I'll be a different person and have no memory of this, it's clearly happened before.  Maybe the heavy breathing that I heard coming from Joe was infact in my head. Maybe he was speaking to me.  A large window , and the positioning of people allows me to  video footage. I see the psychologist playing a video from a phone screen. The failed rescues never really happened. I witness miniscule image of myself screaming while frantically navigating my body towards people and things that are nowhere to be seen. He says I've hurt people- and by the time I do next, I'll have probably forgotten every detail of this. Any display of calculated thought could be my last and I can't even savour it. . I’m struggling to type these lines. I’m overcome with fear, somehow I can feel my mind distancing itself from my being . Though I still hear. I hear the psychologist telling me through the dusted glass that he’ll be taking me away. The front door of the quick stop is kicked open . I’m surrounded by several as SWAT team members who must be from somewhere else: I must be that dangerous. I’m now being taken away and struggle to write these last lines. They'll surely rip the phone from my hands. But If I ever recover, and if I survive I assure you this: there may still be a chance of reconstructing X.