Solitary

Betrayal makes every day bitter. Knowing that you've been betrayed makes the end of every day sour. Even the most incredible waking hours can be completely destroyed when you lie down to sleep and remember, "Oh, yeah... I should take that knife out of my back first..."

Betrayal is almost a filthy word. It conjures images of cloaks and Hamlet and men in floppy hats. Even saying the word out loud makes me feel quite like I should have an audience in the cheap seats hushed by it's very utterance.

The truth of the matter is that despite its theatrical, melodramatic connotations betrayal can be enormously domestic. It is fairly simple to betray someone. It's only a hop, skip and a jump from "letting someone down". I've been let down more times than a hot air balloon. I guess that must be the difference, ultimately. being slowly deflated or literally stabbed in the back.

Well, sorry for my absence. I've been in solitary - without computer privileges - for what feels like months.

I might as well tell you why.

Much as I predicted, Ketch is back already.

- Welcome back, Ratbag.

I saw him approach me in the corridor, but I didn't stop. I wasn't even going anywhere.

- See you later, Kid.
- No, you won't.

Of course, he would.

I used to love music, you know. Before I was ever in love I would listen to album after album. I inhaled music like an addict. I didn't care what is was, folk, indie, rock, metal, classical, soundtracks. If I liked it, I'd listen. And listen. And listen again.

Love fucked it all up. When I was in love and happy I'd listen to a song and hear my relationship. I'd hear a love song and think, "Yes, yes, this song understands. This songwriter clearly knows every brush stroke on the artwork in the walls of my joy-swelled heart." When my heart was shattered I listened and was reminded. Every note was like cutting off a scab with a razor. There was once a time when I said I'd rather be blind and paralysed than lose my hearing. I don't listen to music any more.

In the dining hall Ketch came and sat with me.

- Would you fuck off, please?

I said, putting my cutlery down on my tray and spitting my mouthful into my hand.

- Recovery is going swimmingly, then.
- Go fuck yourself.
- I have you for that. Didn't you miss me?
- Not especially. Now, for the third time, fuck off.
- You only told me to fuck off twice.
- I swear to God...
- Alright, fine, fine, I'm going.

He did. It was a bloody relief. I didn't finish my dinner though.

Despite this, that night I found myself gravitating towards his room. Well... I say gravitate, but there is always a moment, isn't there. Even among the obsessives, addicted, compulsive, mentally disjointed or simply lacking in willpower, there is always a moment, though the desire might be choking you with an iron grip, a moment where a decision is made. You make a choice. And my choice was to be with him in that white, dark room. I made him bleed with my fingernails, he asked me to moan his name. I hated that. It made me nauseous. It was too close to the shit you see in films for my liking. When it was over I lay in his arms.

- Did you really not miss me?

He asked into my hair.

- You were gone for almost no time at all.
- Yeah, but it's not like you have anything else to do.
- Ketch, do you think that I spend the time you're gone sitting at my window wishing you were here?
- Well... that would be nice.

He kissed the top of my head, which I did not appreciate.

- Besides, Dyl, I came back for you.
- No, you came back because you went shopping in B&Q, which is against the conditions of your release.
- I went there so they'd take me back.

I didn't know what to say to that. I just lay there in silence, and so did he. After what felt like several hours he fell asleep. Sometimes when I'm lying in his bed I wonder. I look at the ceiling and I just think about things. Sometimes, as I lie there wide eyed and awake, I see things crawl out of the darkness. I see flickers, tiny they are, blue and gold, littering my vision. I hear things, too. Sometimes it's like listening to a cassette tape in reverse. Sometimes I hear screaming. The thing is, though, with where I am? The screaming isn't entirely likely to be in my head. I can't blame my brain. Not for this. Here the screams are down the corridor. They're upstairs. They're lying next to me, bony and defended.

I roll the words around the sharpest points in my mouth before trying them out.

- I love you.

It felt wrong. His sleeping body didn't move, save for the steady huff of his breath.

- I love you.

I tried again, my breath carrying the words that I was now sure weren't true.

- I want you.

True.

- I need you.

Hmmm... no.

- I want you to get better.

Those words left a metallic taste in my mouth, like biting my tongue to the point of bleeding. Like drinking orange juice just after you've brushed your teeth. The more the words echoed silently around the room the more I felt them and the more I knew... the more I knew.

I untangled myself from him and I left him. I had told myself what I needed to know. I needed to stay away. He told me that he'd come back for me. Well he sure as fuck wouldn't stay for me. I would not allow it.

So... well... I stole a hot-glue gun from the craft room and glued my bedroom door shut. Including the keyhole. And the hinges. I was in there for 17 hours before they could get me out. They were not best pleased with me once they were in, I can tell you. Ironically, their response to my attempt to be alone was to put me in solitary confinement. I got out this morning. I didn't see Ketch on my way back to my room, but there was a note stuffed under my - brand new - door.

"That was funny. Stupid, though."

I haven't seen him yet. He'll be around somewhere.