Starting from Square One: A Fresh Beginning

The flat was dead quiet. It was such a grave silence that I didnt even realise at first what had woken me. No alarm clock, no clatter in the kitchen, no water running from the shower. Nothing. Just the low hum of the fridge against the wall and the distant rumble of traffic on the high street outside.

I lay there listening to the stillness. Just yesterday the house had been full of life: the floorboards creaked under Emilys swift steps, the pages of the novel she was reading rustled in the armchair, even the infuriating scrape of her cats claws on the sofa cushion. Now the cat, whiskers and all, had gone with her. The sofa sat empty and foreign.

My first instinct was to grab the phone and text someone: Meet me at the pub, urgently! and then, over a pint of gin, unload all my hurt, bitterness and rage onto friends. To tell them what she was like No, I even barred myself from that thought. A lower, more base impulse whispered of finding anyone, anyone at all, just for the night, to fill the yawning void beside me. A facile route to selfdestruction, familiar and tempting.

Instead, I got up, shuffled to the kitchen and turned the kettle on. While it boiled, my eyes fell on the coat rack in the hallway where Emilys favourite wool shawl still lay. The axe in the head, I suddenly recalled a column Id read a week earlier, at the height of my despair.

Alright, chap, time to pull the axe out, I muttered to myself.

I started small. I gathered every piece of her that she hadnt taken: the shawl, the halfread book, the dried ink bottle, the mug with the kitty printed on it. I packed them neatly into a cardboard box. I didnt hurl or smash, as resentment urged, but simply wrapped them up and carried the box down to the basement. One day Ill return them to her, no drama, no accusations. Then I laundered the sheets, airing out the lingering scent of her perfume. I deleted our shared photos from my phone and emptied the recycle bin. Each act felt like peeling away a grimy bandage from a wound. Painful, but necessary.

Time became a weight on my shoulders, heavy as a sack of bricks. It was the same time that had once been spent on joint dinners, cinema trips, meaningless yet lovely chatter about nothing. Now I needed to fill itnot with drink, nor selfpity, but with myself.

I bought a gym membership. The first sessions were hell. I pushed myself to the brink, draining my anger, disappointment and ache onto the machines. Drops of sweat on the rubber floor looked like tears. Yet with each week my body grew stronger and my mind calmer.

I signed up for Italian lessons, the language wed always wanted to learn but kept postponing. Now I attended alone. Complex grammar structures shoved the nagging thoughts out of my head. I even took a weekend to Brighton, a seaside town Emily never wanted to visit. Sitting on the pier at sunset, I felt a light, bright melancholy for the first time in months, and a flicker of freedom.

There were hard days too. At night memories would jolt me awake: Emily laughing with her head thrown back, or us bickering over trivial things. I didnt fight them away. I just lay there and let the pain wash over me, as the article had advised, allowing it to rise and recede like waves. Sometimes Id get in the car, drive out of town, climb a deserted hill and scream at the top of my lungs. I shouted until my voice cracked, until that coveted silence settled over me.

One afternoon, rummaging through old paperwork, I found our wedding photograph. I braced for a surge of grief or anger. Instead I simply looked at the two smiling strangers and thought, Yes, that happened. It was lovely. And its over.

I felt no bitterness, no yearning to turn back the clock. Only a gentle nostalgia and the understanding that chapter of my life had closed.

That evening I met up with the lads at the local pub. We laughed, swapped news, plotted future outings. For the first time all night I didnt think about Emily. I was simply present, whole, though still bearing a scar on my soul, now beginning to heal.

I caught my reflection in the café window lean, composed, eyes clear. I hadnt seen that version of myself in years. Perhaps never again.

The axe was out. The wound had knit. I was finally ready to move forward, lighthearted, unburdened by the past. The life Id always dreamed of was just beginning.

Then a sharp, foul odour hit my nose. I barely had time to register what was happening. The room swam, slow as if emerging from fog. I lay on the sofa, still dressed, surrounded by crumbs and stains of unknown origin.

I tried to sit up, and the world tipped. My head throbbed. A cold wave of terror ran over me.

It wasnt the bright, lightfilled home from my dream. It was a squalid flat. Empty beer and vodka bottles littered the floor like fallen soldiers. An ashtray, choked with butts, smoked on the table. Dirty clothes were strewn about, and the television glowed with the intro to some latenight quiz show.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, clutching the doorframe. The harsh light cut into my sore eyes. Then I saw him myself in the mirror. A scruffy, unshaven man with a swollen, bruised face. Bloodshot eyes, full of shame and emptiness. That was me. James.

All the clarity, the strength, that sense of wholeness Id felt earlier in the day evaporated, leaving only a bitter, nauseating hangover and an even worse mental one.

It had all been a dream. The whole journey the packed boxes, the gym, the Italian lessons, the Brighton sunset was merely my brains trick to escape an unbearable reality. A escape that seemed to last an eternity, but in truth was just one night.

I touched my face in the mirror. My skin was oily, stubble prickled my fingertips. This was my reality. Not the fit, successful man Id imagined, but a downcast figure trying to drown his pain in cheap booze and selfdeception.

The silence in the flat slammed into me again. This time it wasnt the hopeful hush of a new beginning, but the deadend quiet of a tunnel with no light. The most terrifying sound in that silence was the ticking of the clock, mercilessly counting the wasted minutes.

The dream wasnt healing. It was a mirror held up to my true self. The reflection was so loathsome I wanted to shut my eyes and run. But there was nowhere left to run.

I stood, staring at the crumpled man in the stained Tshirt, at the chaos around me. A bad taste lingered in my mouth, a burntout void settled in my chest. The dream was vivid, the waking world cruel.

I grabbed the first empty bottle I could find and hurled it into the rubbish bin. It shattered with a clang. Then another. Then a third. I didnt scream, didnt weep. I faced the mess with a stonecold expression, waging a silent war against the wreckage Id created.

I collected all the junk, loaded bags with bottles and shards, flung the window open, letting cold, fresh air flood the room saturated with stale spirits. I brewed a strong cup of tea; my hands trembled.

I returned to the mirror. My gaze was still weary, hurt. Yet somewhere deep in those clouded eyes, like a faint glimmer in a dirty puddle, a spark lingered. Not hope, but a cold, white fury aimed at myself.

I reached for my phone, scrolled through contacts and found the number of my former classmate, Tom, who had offered to help as a counsellor a month ago. Id saved his number but never called. Now I dialed.

Tom? my voice creaked like an old door. I need your help.

I put the receiver down and drew a deep breath. The path Id imagined was a mirage, but it gave me direction. I realised that to become the clear, strong person from my dream, Id have to walk through this hell, not in sleep, but in daylight.

My first step wasnt to the gym, nor to another language class. My first step was into the shower. To wash away yesterday, to scrub off the unshaven, bruised man. To begin, truly, from the very start. Tomorrow.