I Nearly Died on Kellett Road

When the light went off, so did the heat. The cold was an oppressive one, sneaking through the scant walls and the window, under the doors like some black spirit of death. I had given up trying to pay for it and just picked the lock for the little cash box that collected the 50p coins I never had. I just took the coin and kept putting it through the slot. That death would have to come back later or take it up in collections.

Morrissey felt so much more real than I wanted him to. Now he made the only light amusement I could find in my current scenario. Somehow, though, I had an amazing girl who wanted to fight through it with me. The cold wouldn't kill me for now, and even though I had negligible money and tobacco I felt like I needed to get out and try to make my stake in London, and for that matter the world. The empty conversations I had with people in shops and cafes beat me down. The calculus was that I didn't have a social security number I could use.

Life had grinded me down aready and I wasn't 25. Of course, I had some irreverence for the fears that people who cared enough to tell me I should have, but that only went so far. I can't claim that I had much in the way of strength or virtue, but Georgia was a soul of force to be reckoned with. Soon enough I got myself into HMP Brixton on Jebb Ave. You can see the building I lived in if you watch some old Clash videos of "Guns of Brixton". That didn't matter to Georgia. The landlord accosted her about my electric thievery. I mean, we were cold and poor, and the box was unlocked and there was no point in trying to argue anything other than being cold and poor. Georgia also had to deal with the ugly fact that I was in HMP Brixton for an undetermined length of time, with the great likelihood that I would be deported afterwards.

Before I ended up on Jebb Ave., and after I, without anything like a good reason, effectively gave up trying to find a way to work and earn a living, with my unemployment due to expire any day, I spent too much time with the Portuguese, English, and other international tramps & junkies at the Brixton tube station. Around Electric Avenue the purveyors of small packages wrapped in plastic wrap set up shop. Sometimes they were Jamaican but always they were unfriendly and wary. They spat the little pellets out and insisted that you put the pellets in your mouth. I always viewed this as optional as I turned around and walked away.

Georgia spent her time and effort searching down a job. She did find one, though from what I recall it would have been enough only if I had a job that paid as well. I didn't have much that was redeeming. I hated a lot. I hated the world and I hated those who fit well into it. Georgia was amazing, and she amazed me, but I was both too broken to overcome the challenges of getting work without a visa and too loathesome to go out and carry on the effort. Georgia deserves much more. When I was in the police station she found me by trial and error, since I hadn't phoned her because I am exactly what she calls me, and came to see me and leave me a note that read, "TWAT" in very angrily scratched letters.

So I was. When I tried to kill my time one day in a way that would make me feel good, if guilty, I came close to killing myself instead of a day's time. I had something like twenty pounds, which should have been spent on food, electric for heat, something to let Georgia know that she meant something to me and this world, or anything other than what I did spend it on. That's my way though, fuck myself but fuck everyone else at the same time so there's no sympathy to be fucking endured. I present that as if I planned it. Truthfully I can barely plan the opening of a pack of gum. I just am an asshole and I fuck myself and probably you in the process as well.

After I returned home I unwrapped my purchase and prepared to ingest it. I rolled a cigarette with golden Virginia tobacco and it tasted that much more savory with the worldly relief to come just presently. In NYC I would have loved a coffee, but this was not NYC. As I felt the morphine ride through my veins I realized that this dose was stronger than it should be. I fell to my knees. I tried fighting it, I gave all of my dissolving resolve and all to remain standing, but once you're on your way out, it's not easy to bring your self back in.

When you're unconscious, you don't have much of an idea of time. As you come to, you may notice that the light of day has changed if you've been gone a while., the television may be airing a different show than what you were watching. I never look at my watch so much for such an event, but I did know that I could expect Georgia back at a certain time and would like to have the small bedsit cleaned up and myself not a mumbling mess when she returned from the work she had. Still, I don't know how long it had been, but I came to on my knees. My body was in order, nothing was asleep, and no physical injuries presented themselves to me.

I had a fear though. My heart pounded. How many times would it have to happen before I realized that I would die that way if I kept it up? The peace I once knew, the relief it once gave me was gone. My horrible life was no better for it, and I had 20 pounds less. I had lost plenty already, and still I was going at it. Something was wrong with me. Georgia had her problems, but I told her that my only wish was to show her that life was beautiful, that it had its trials and terrors, but along with them it had flips and tremendously perfect twists. I was failing at this.

I collected myself from the floor, cleaned the table off and threw away any and all reminders of the horror that I had just ritually perpetrated. In many ways, it would have been a relief if my soul had left me on Kellett Rd. In no way could I let Georgia find me dead though. That poor girl had seen enough. I didn't die, and though the sickness carried on for several years, and Georgia and others suffered enormously for it, innocently in most ways, along with myself, I kept on; I've suffered pain that made death a better option than living. By the time Georgia got home I believe I had pulled myself together physically but could not function but for to love and be lonely. I loved Georgia and I was lonely.