Club suicide (December's loss)

CLUB SUICIDE.
(December's loss)
sneak

The unnervingly depressing atmosphere of an empty pub beckons us from
the killer grip of December. The retreating of daylight behind frosted
windows only adds to my seasonal sense of gloom. The flickering flames
of an over-ambitious coal fire dance to clich?d songs of love and
peace. I roll my sober eyes towards a tinsel clad barman with hate on
his mind. We order our beers and take a seat around an inadequate
table. Cigarettes are offered and sparked with exhaled 'Thanks'. Stray
rays of daylight, now hopelessly lost to the past, cling to the curling
smoke that hovers above us. The ghostly remains of our sighs floating
to nicotine stained heavens.

Strained conversations cause a mounting need for inebriation. With the
passing of time and the flowing of goodwill, words like the beer from
well-stocked pumps begin to flow.
The general atmosphere based on the expectancy of the moment is, as
advertised, both forced and cold. Exhausted jokes and laboured
anecdotes are exchanged with cringing predictability. The mountain of
ash in the centre of the table, a representation of how far we have
come and how far we are willing to go.

Derogatory comments, once the preserve of thought, now resound bitterly
about the clatter of a bar that is slowly swelling in numbers. Separate
conversations spill over in to the gaps of others. And soon the whole
room is buzzing with spirits far higher than those scattered by sober
realities. Troubles that plague heads with the regularity of breathing
are pushed to the back of minds that can no longer think for
themselves. Vowels and consonants battle for supremacy as lips slay
thoughts with lethal effect. The past, masked by sedation, prowls upon
the mind before finding release in slurred speech. We may hate
ourselves in the morning, much as we do now.

The festive jingle of seasonal music is replaced by the corrosive beat
of Friday nights past. Grey afternoon creeps into black evening as
club-goers make their presence felt. Eyes far clearer than our own, for
now at least, survey our malaise with an alien air. Further cues only
affirm our sighs; wasted legs will neither walk nor dance for
inspiration. Mobile phones flick in to action as random taxi firms are
called on cue. The unlucky winner will have our vomit on his hands and
our troubles in his ears. We will fight with keys in freezing locks
before stumbling in to cold dark hallways that are seldom decked with
holly.

And I, I will stand alone, a shivering representation of the man I was
this morning. Nothing added and nothing but brain cells taken away. My
toxic breath, visible on the night air, will blur the reflection that
greets no one but myself in the hallway mirror. And I will trace my
outline with fingers that will tie knots and pull ropes before
shivering no more in the icy presence of winters grip.

The stopping of clocks, like the creeping of shadows across empty rooms
will signify ends without remorse. The dictates of changing seasons and
the utterances of climates will conjure a makeshift canvass of
condensation on a tarnished mirror. Revealing as it does the crude
outline of a life no more, the fragile remnant of December's loss?