The Prisoner, the Stranger and the Key Holder Pt1

As part of the year of creative Scotland I am going to share some of my debut novel over the next few days.

The Prisoner the Stranger and the Key Holder

It's Monday morning, man I hate Monday's. I have the familiar feeling of pain at the back of my neck and top of my head, that is not overtly sore, but sore enough for me to constantly know it is there. It has not always been like that but for now I cannot remember when I last had some relief. I have no idea what it is. Sometimes I tell myself that it is all in my head, just the stress and worry of day to day postmodern living and the fear that I am 28 years old and have fulfilled more characetuers than I care to remember and now find myself alone trying to make sense of this world. When I say alone, I don't mean physically, I have a very beautiful wife, who I love more than myself and a great family who I care about and who care about me dearly. I have a few friends, not many, a handful, but I always remember the wise words of my high school days as both the girls with and boys who had girlfriends with small breasts would joke that more than a handful is too much. I like the idea that this adolescent utterance can be applied to every form of day to day living. And when I say world, well, everything is up for debate.

I woke up on the floor again this morning having spent most of the night sitting up listening to records and drinking a mixture of red wine, beer and whiskey. I always end up on the whiskey these days. I never used to. When my Grandpa died we all picked a bottle or two form his liquor cabinet. I took two whiskeys, a Jura 12 year and an Ardmore 15 year. The Ardmore is my favourite. I love its soft tones and textures. Not that by the time I ever get round to drinking some I have any taste buds left anyway. I never start on the whiskey I always end on it. And by the state of the place this morning it looks like I had a rare old time last night. I don't mind drinking myself, I never have done. I don't openly do it or do it all the time but if it comes to it I will. And if I am honest I sometimes prefer my own drunken company to go over and over and over all the thoughts in my mind that Penny can no longer bare to listen to. I have a tendency to repeat myself. I have not decided if this is because I am stupid or slow but more often than not I tell myself that my obsessive repetition is because I am thorough. Anyway it has never done me any harm in the past.

Penny went to her bed around 12.30 after an hour or so of trying to convince me to go as well. She hates to see me drunk. She says I am the worst drunk in the world. When she looks at me she says there is nobody behind my eyes. I don't look like me or sound like me. In her words I become an unrecognisable arrogant arsehole, who if she met out on the street would have nothing to do with. She says I am another person from a world far beyond anything that resembles the Ray James that she knows and loves. She hates it, she hates him. She say's if I keep it up she will leave. I believe her. I tell her it will never happen again. I mean it, she believes me. I have never hit Penny, threatened her in anyway or mistreated her. I love her, she loves me. She just can't stand looking at the person she loves the most and seeing a stranger.