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Not all stories get a happy ending.
I remember being young, when Mum and I were still living in that horrible flat on top of the Chinese takeaway, and the two of us snuggling together in the one bed we had at the time as she told me fairy tales and stories. They always end happily: the prince marries the princess, the goats get across the bridge, the pigs all get to live together in a big brick house. Even as a child I never really understood why stories always have to end happily. Certainly none of mine or my mother's stories ever seemed to end happily at the time.
Perhaps some backstory is needed.
Naivety, a whirlwind romance and stupid teenage decisions are the paths that led to my existence. My mother was just sixteen when she had me. Her parents--my grandparents--had kicked her out. They had wanted her to get an abortion but she had refused. So they had given her an ultimatum: put the child up for adoption or leave. She took the latter option.
I don't remember much of the first few years of my life. My mother assures me that they were good, but I've heard stories. I know some of the things my mother had to do when the bills were tight or the rent was due and she was out of work. I think things were harder on us than she wants to admit.
Please don't think this is me putting my mother down. I love my mother more than almost anything, and am eternally grateful for everything she's ever done for me. She's an incredible woman. For years she worked to give me the best life I could possibly have, doing some things she did not want to do and facing hardships she should never have had to face.
I'm sorry, mum. I really am sorry.
Like many stories, not all of my life has been tragic. I'd argue the start of my life wasn't tragic, at least not for me. In fact a lot of my early memories are rather happy. I remember playing board games with my mother in whichever flat we were living at the time, or watching the television whilst snuggled under a blanket. Someone I particularly remember was a boyfriend my mum had for a few months when I was around three or four. He was awkward, always seeming like he didn't quite know how to speak to me. He was older than my mum, I think, by quite a few years. He was nice, though. Gentle. One day he disappeared and never came back. I read about his death online years later.
After that, Mum didn't date much. If she did I don't remember it. As she always used to tell me, it was just me and her against the world. When I was younger I found it exciting. It was like one of the comic books I used to read. I liked to think about myself as a superhero when I was little. I just... sometimes I wonder what happened, how I ended up here. Anyway, as I became older I began to get a little disillusioned with this. Me and Mum had some blazing rows when I told her I wanted to meet my dad. She was insistent that he was bad news and that it would only do me harm. At fifteen, though, I was stubborn and I wouldn't listen to her. I've always been the same: once I set my mind to something, that's it.
I still remember the day I met him.
"You know you don't have to do this?" my mother said anxiously as she fiddled with my collar of my shirt. I did my best not to glare at her as I sighed, moving out of her way.
"I do, mum," I answered, my voice soft. "If I don't get to meet him it'll kill me."
We were standing outside a front door in a long thin alleyway somewhere in central London. I wasn't exactly sure where. My nerves were building and I forced myself to take a deep breath. I clasped my hands behind my back to stop them from moving. I glanced at my mother.
Then the door opened, and for the first time in my life I clapped eyes on my father.
I have to say, he wasn't what I expected. In my head I'll always seen him as this big strong man. A protector, perhaps. In actual fact he was a balding red-faced man in his mid-thirties with a beer belly and a dangerous scowl. In one hand he was clutching a beer. He looked straight over me to my mother, sneering at her. He took a gulp from his can.
"What the fuck are you doin' here?" he said. His voice was gruff and full of hostility, and I had to stop myself from taking a step back. I dug my nails into the palm of my hand to ground myself. "I thought I told you to clear off all them fuckin' years ago?"
"I don't want anything from you," my mother said icily. She glanced at me. "Your son wanted to meet you."
With that, she stepped aside and I stepped forward.
"Um... hello," I said. I sounded timid and I couldn't force myself to look up from the pavement. "I, um--"
"Speak up, boy!" my father barked.
"Yes, um, sorry."
"And look at me whilst you're speaking!"
Sharply I did so. Something in his tone roused such a terror in me that I found I couldn't help but obey his orders. His lip was curled as he looked me up and down. He took another slurp of his beer before crushing the can in his fist.
"God," he snarled. "The bastard baby I never wanted." My mother stepped forward, opening her mouth as if to say something, but he sent her such a furious look that she stopped. "Look at you, you freak. Wearin' those poufter clothes comin' around here. Well you're no son of mine. I made that clear to your mother fifteen years ago and nothing's changed." He paused, chuckling cruelly. "Get out of here. I don't want to see your face around here again, you--"
That wasn't the end of the sentence, but I refuse to recount the word. Before me or my mother could do anything, there was a slam and all we were left facing was an empty door.
I took his advice, and I haven't seen him since that day. The last I heard he's a non-functioning alcoholic who squanders all his money on beer, cigarettes and prostitutes. Screw him being ashamed to have me as a son: I'm ashamed to have him as a father. My mother insists that what he said isn't true, but I can't help but wonder if there was a little truth in his words sometimes. Lord knows he's not the only one whose said certain things to me.
If I had the time, energy or willpower I would take you through my university years, but I don't think either of us have enough time for that, do we? No, instead we'll skip to my first day working at Reynholm Industries.
The first day I met Roy Trenneman.
Roy is... an enigma, to say the least. Despite knowing him for nearly two decades I have yet to figure him out. He's a fascinating person, and over the years I've come to learn rather a lot about him. He likes the smell of pencil shavings and Sharpies. He prefers Playstation over Xbox. He takes his coffee with two sugars and exactly four splashes of milk. He likes pineapple on pizza, but hates anchovies. His favourite meal is turkey dinosaurs, curly fries and spaghetti hoops.
When you kiss him in the morning he always tastes a little bit like coffee.
I shouldn't know what Roy tastes like when you kiss him. I know I shouldn't know, and yet I do. When we first met we were awkward around each other, never quite knowing what to say. Slowly, though, we'd been getting better with each other. Talking about computers seemed to help. Then, one night, he invited me to the pub for a night out and like a fool, I had accepted.
Before we knew what was happening, we were back at his flat and we were rutting.
Neither of us really registered that it had happened until the next morning, when we woke up mostly naked in each other's arms.
It was Roy's scream that jolted me awake.
My eyes shot open immediately, and it took a moment for me to realise where I was. My head was pounding: how much had we drank the night before? I groaned, scrabbling to the side looking for my glasses before I realised that I already had them on. I looked over at my best friend. He was standing to the side of the bed, a sheet pulled around his waist. He was breathing heavily. He was not wearing a shirt. As I came to myself more, I realised that neither was I.
"What the hell did we do last night?" he demanded. In a way he sounded almost scared. I didn't reply, instead simply staring at him. My own brain was going haywire trying to work out what those missing memories were. I could feel myself starting to panic.
"Your sheets are itchy," was all that came out of my mouth.
"Moss!" Roy exclaimed. He sat down on the edge of the bed, putting his head in one of his hands (the other was still clutching the sheet tightly around himself). "Did we... we must have... oh God!"
"What are you saying?" I asked. I went to move but then remembered that I wasn't wearing... well, anything and stopped. Roy paused, taking a few deep breaths before taking his hand away from his face.
"Did we have sex last night?"
That caught me up short. Had we? To be honest, my memories from the night before were patchy and fuzzy. I bit my lip, looking down at the bedsheets.
"I--" I started to say, but Roy cut me off with a groan.
"Oh God, we did."
Ah. There was my answer then.
"Roy--"
"This can never happen again," he said forcefully. When I didn't reply he came over, grabbing me by the shoulders. "Moss, d'you hear me!? This can never happen ever again, okay?"
I nodded, and he seemed satisfied with that.
Of course this wasn't the last time it happened. If anything, it began to happen more often. In the end, after four or five more times of waking up unexpectedly in one another's beds, we came to an agreement. So, the last Friday of every month after work we would go to Roy's flat, have a takeaway and then... well, you know. It was an arrangement that worked quite well. Sometimes there would be slip-ups, yes (the gas works come to mind), but the arrangement kept things normal. Civil, if you will.
I always knew it would end, I guess. I just never really thought it would happen.
Normally after our Friday night's amorous activities, Roy likes to cuddle for a while. I suppose I understood it, in a way, and at first I wasn't too fond of it, but as the years have gone by I've actually become rather fond of it. Whilst all the way through our arrangement Roy would occasionally get girlfriends, I've never been able to bring myself to try and find someone. Well, someone else. However this time, it was barely five minutes of cuddling before Roy was moving away and made me look up.
He was sat on the edge of the bed, back facing me. I propped myself up on my elbows as I reached for my glasses, giving him a strange look.
"Roy?" I said. "What is it?"
There was a pause. I heard Roy sigh, and he said up a bit straighter.
"We can't do this again," he said. I sighed, rolling my eyes. Roy said this every so often, but he still always came back the next month. He must have heard, as he turned to look at me. There was a determined look on his face. "I've, ah... I've met someone. A woman. We've been seeing each other for a few weeks but I'm going to ask her out tomorrow. Make it official."
"Okay," I said, a little nonplussed. This was a speech I'd heard a few times before.
"I mean it this time, Moss. She's wonderful. I don't want to mess this one up, and that means that this can't keep happening."
"She's really that good?" I asked quietly. He nodded.
"I think she's the one. I can't risk anything happening."
And he was right, I guess. That woman--Kerry, her name is--happily accepted his offer to be her girlfriend. Unlike most of the other girlfriends he'd had, by the time the last Friday of the next month rolled around, he wasn't sending me a text asking if I was still coming round. Instead he was going out with Kerry. That kept going, and before I knew it it had been four months and they were still together.
It was during this time that I started to reflect on the stories my mother used to tell me as a child. Fairy stories, I realised, are always told from the winner's perspective: for them, it does indeed have a happy ending. What about the others, though? The ugly sisters lose their chance with the prince, the wolf gets scalded by boiling water, the troll under the bridge, I don't know, loses job satisfaction? Either way, they also lose. For them it's not a happy ending.
And then I realised that it's not my story. It's Roy's, and I just happen to be the unfortunate side-character who loses out to the main event.
I'm not sure exactly when I started to spiral out of control. It might have been as soon as the arrangement stopped, or when Roy and I stopped seeing each other outside of work, but most of us have agreed that it happened when Roy engaged to Kerry and she said yes.
Of course she said yes. Why wouldn't she say yes, especially to Roy? Whilst he does have his faults Roy is undoubtedly an incredible man, and anybody would be stupid to turn him down. I actually found out on Friendface. I'd been sitting in my room at home flicking through nothing much when the notification had popped up. In all caps, all the post said was "SHE SAID YES!". Underneath was a picture of Kerry showing off the ring.
It broke me.
Deep down somewhere, I guess I always thought that something would happen between Roy and Kerry, they would break up and then things would go back to the way they were. I had liked the way things were. I may not have been fully content, but I knew that it was the most I'd ever get and I relished it. Now, I knew that nothing was going to happen between us. Nothing was going to happen ever again, because now he was engaged. That meant he was going to get married. That meant he was going to have a family.
I was happy for him, I was. I just couldn't handle knowing that I wouldn't matter anymore.
I didn't know how long I'd been crying. I'd stopped keeping count a while ago. Roy was engaged. Roy was going to get married. Roy, the man who had proclaimed that he would never ever settle down, was going to get married. He'd move away, he'd get a new job, and within the year he would forget about me.
I felt pathetic. There was no reason to be crying about this! I should have been calling my best friend and feverently congratulating him, but instead I was sat in my dark room sobbing to myself. Furiously I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand, taking a deep shuddering breath. I needed to get a hold over myself.
Then the razor sitting on the side of my drawer caught my eye.
I remembered reading about the body's response to injuries as a teenager, as part of my biology class. At the time I found it rather fascinating. One of the things that happens when you get injured is that your body releases dopamine. It's supposed to combat the pain. Another thing I remembered was that dopamine is the "happy" hormone. It's supposed to make you feel better, right?
Getting up, I glanced at the clock. The time took me aback a little. It was nearly midnight. The last time I'd looked it had been 10:30 p.m. Anyhow, midnight was good. That meant my mother would be asleep. I stepped forward silently, grabbing the razor and the box of tissues that were sat on the side. As I sat back down I took a deep breath. Was this a good idea? Was it going to go wrong? No, I told myself, one time can't hurt, right?
I turned my arm over a few times. The hand clutching the razor was trembling. How could I do this? I shook the thoughts from my head, steeling my resolve. I grabbed the razor, gently pulling the head of it back a little to expose the blades. It was brand new so they were as sharp as they were ever going to be. Before I could stop myself, I moved the razor and pressed the blade into my skin.
I gasped, the pain taking me aback a little. I hadn't quite expected it to hurt so much at first. I snatched the razor away, staring down at the small thin cut that was starting to ooze blood as my breathing began to get short. I'd done it. I'd actually done it. Oh this was bad. I threw the razor away from myself, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them as the tears began to fall. I had to bandage it up. I had to make up an excuse so nobody would ask any questions the next day.
I didn't miss how everything started to calm down as the effects of it seemed to kick in.
As with the arrangement, the first time was not the last one. Soon it graduated from the odd plaster or bandage and silly story to a whole arm covered in marks and hidden beneath a coat or a jumper. To stop arousing suspicions (mostly Jen's) by wearing my coat all day in the office I took to wearing jumpers along with my normal clothes. Jen seemed a little suspicious at first, but after a few weeks she had died down with it.
Roy hadn't noticed at all.
As I kept on with the cutting, I started to find other ways to punish myself. The cutting stayed pretty much constant, but at times I would use my sensory sensitivities to push myself to the limits. Bright lights, scratchy tags on clothing... anything I could really use against me I did. Another thing I found that worked was food. I think the longest I went during that time without eating was nearly three and a half days. I'd thought I was managing it. I was still showing up to work, right? I didn't think anybody was noticing. Roy certainly wasn't saying anything. He was too absorbed in planning his wedding.
What--or who--I'd forgotten about was Jen.
"Moss? Have you eaten today?"
Jen's question caught me by surprise. I jumped in my seat, looking up from my computer screen to Jen. She was standing in the doorway to her office, arms folded as she looked at me with one eyebrow arched. I glanced over to Roy's seat (he wasn't there) before looking back to her.
"Yes?" I answered. Somehow I managed to sound confused about this. She narrowed her eyes at me and I couldn't help but squirm. She's always been able to tell when I'm lying.
"Moss..." she said warningly. Immediately I crumbled, looking back to my computer.
"No," I mumbled.
"It's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon!" she yelped. I winced at the high pitch of her voice. "You need to eat something!"
"I'll eat when I get home," I said, not turning to look at her.
"No you won't."
"I will."
"Moss--"
At this point she was cut off by my yelp. You see, she had just stormed forward and grabbed my arm, managing to hit just the spot where one of the freshest cuts was. When her grip slackened in shock I pulled my arm away as quickly as I could.
"Okay, I'll eat something," I said. "What do you--"
"Roll your sleeve up."
I stopped. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I tried to take a deep breath, but my body wouldn't seem to let me. I stared at her, my eyes wide. She was watching me carefully.
"Wh-what?" I managed to stammer.
"You heard what I said," she said sharply. "Sleeve up, now."
"Jen--"
"Don't fight with me--"
"I really don't--"
"Moss, don't make me--"
"Please--"
She grabbed my wrist again. I thought she was going to pull my sleeve up but she stopped, furrowing her brow.
"Have you always been this skinny?" she asked. I shrugged a little. In reality I hadn't, but the baggy jumpers were hiding any changes to my frame from prying eyes. "Sweetheart..."
She stopped, shaking her head. I tried to pull away from her grip but it was too strong. Slowly, she started to roll my sleeve up. She barely got halfway before she stopped: clearly she'd seen enough of the cuts, bruises and scabs there. I couldn't force myself to look up at her, keeping my eyes glued on my arm, but I heard her gasp. "Oh my God."
"It's nothing," I murmured.
"This," she shook my arm a little, "isn't nothing!"
She pulled me up, leading me over to the sofa and forcing me to sit. She sat down next to me, pulling the rest of my sleeve up. There were much fewer cuts above my elbow, but still a few. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked softly as a few moments of silence where she had been looking over my arm. I shrugged again. "How long have you being doing this?"
"Three months, I think," I replied, my voice quiet. I wasn't actually too sure anymore. Jen gasped again, repeating this under her breath. Then she made a strange noise, and when I looked up she was starting to cry. "Jen..."
"You know you could have talked to me at any time?" she said. She sounded all choked up. "Any time, Moss. You didn't have to suffer like this on your own."
"It's fine," I said. At this point it was almost reflexive, something I said to myself to justify my behaviours.
"It's not fine," she replied. I shook my head, despite the fact I knew that she was right. "Moss... let me help you."
And, over time, I did. It was difficult, and I really didn't want to at times, but slowly it got better. I had been adamant about not telling Roy, and luckily Jen listened to me, agreeing not to tell him under the condition that I let her keep an eye on me--and tell my mum so she could do. Grudgingly I agreed. Obviously there were still bad days, and certain habits were very difficult to kick, but I can say that everything reduced.
In fact I managed to keep it together for a good six months, during which time Roy got married. I was his best man. I made sure to wear a long sleeved shirt (despite how much I hate them) and made sure not to take my jacket off the whole day lest I accidentally reveal the scars.
I thought I was doing well. I thought I was getting better and getting on.
Then all of my fears began to come true. First was Roy announcing Kerry's pregnancy to Jen and I one day in the office. That was... fine. Sure. It was fine. After that was the inevitable move to the suburbs for a more quiet family life. He stayed at work for a little while longer, though, travelling in every day. I knew that wasn't going to last, though. Sure enough, a month before the birth of his child Roy announced that he was leaving his job. He had another one in some sleepy town further up the country. He and Kerry were moving the week after.
I haven't seen him since he moved.
He contacted me, once, just after the birth of his second child. He asked me if I wanted to be godfather to his son and daughter. I politely declined, joking that I could hardly look after myself. He took that with a couple of laughing faces. We chatted a little more, he asked how work was and he hung up.
His daughter will be one soon, his son two and a half. I see the pictures of Friendface. They seem to be the perfect happy family. Roy's a good dad. I knew he would be. His son resembles him very much. I should be happy for them, I know I should, but it's like I said...
Not all stories get a happy ending. Unfortunately, mine doesn't happen to be one of them.
All I want to say is sorry. I'm sorry mum. I'm sorry Jen. I'm sorry everybody else who has tried to help me, but there's no helping me anymore. I'm broken. Nothing is going to fix me. It's not any of your faults.
But most of all, Roy: I'm sorry.
I don't know if you'll ever hear this, or if you'll even find out about this whole affair, but I want you to know it's not your fault. You didn't make me fall in love with you. You never meant for me to fall in love with you. I never meant to fall in love with you either. I'm just sorry I can't be there for your son and daughter as their fun silly uncle who visits every month, bringing sweets and silly stories from the big city. I'm sorry I can't be there when you want to call someone and rant to them about a silly marital argument you've had. I'm sorry I couldn't be there to act out stupid gay best friend stereotypes and then break down in giggles with you and your wife.
I just... I'm sorry.
And I'm sorry to whoever finds me in the morning. I spent so long deliberating on where to do it. I didn't want to scar anybody like that. Hopefully the tide of the Thames will have washed me out before the morning even comes. I don't know how this is going to go. But I'm not scared.
My story doesn't have a happy ending. It certainly doesn't now.
***
In the end, nobody found him in the morning.
You see, Moss had misjudged how quickly Jen would receive his voice message, or just how determined she could be when she was worried. She was nearly too late--just five minutes later and she probably would have been--but she made it. She'd never forget the sight of Moss slumped in the corner away from everybody, blood running from the deep cuts to his arms onto his clothes and the floor. She'd pulled up her limited first aid knowledge, applied pressure to the wounds and had called the ambulance. They'd took him to the hospital and held him under psychiatric alert for seventy-two hours. Jen knew she'd never forget the look on Moss' mum's face when she signed the papers allowing them to take her son into psychiatric care. She didn't know what to tell Roy, and she wasn't sure she ever would.
Maybe Moss was right, she thought sadly as she watched him through the window. He still looked miserable. Maybe there aren't always happy endings.