An outing goes seriously wrong

I died yesterday or maybe today, I can’t remember. Talk about an evening ending badly; for everyone but me. It had been a still and rainy February afternoon disturbed only by a phone call from a friend suggesting dinner and drinks. I do remember that exact moment as if it were the moment I died. I’d enveloped myself in my large red fleece dressing gown, also enveloped in the sad comfort of my solitude. I’d always been one to accept facts and I’d indeed accepted that I would be a solitary, overweight, underpaid thirty-something Londoner. My days were cloned replicas of each other, and this couldn’t be disturbed. I don’t remember why or when I withdrew from the world. It wasn’t an amorous disappointment or a professional failure. It wasn’t a death in the family, or the loss of a pet or a child. It just happened. The doctors called it depression, but I couldn’t agree with them. To me it felt like my calling. Just like some are designed to become brokers or vets, I felt at ease in my sadness. I actually thought I was at my best. I couldn’t imagine life any different. The idea of leaving my warm, spotless cocoon was a travesty. The thought of the exterior, of fresh air and human contact, sent me into a panic. I reveled in my independence and the soft light of my living room. The familiar touch of my keyboard and the format of the websites I visited the most. My mother accused me of living by correspondence, she called it ‘distance living’ and liked to repeat that term amused by her play on words. No one made me feel more alone than my mother and her detached parenting. She’d show concern, and offer advice, but I could always hear her rummaging around the house, leaning over to pick up my dad’s mess, putting away the washing or googling depression as we spoke. To google is another of my mother’s modern terms.
I used to have friends but their achievements drove me away. I couldn’t continue pretending I felt the same sense of purpose as they did, or their yearning for husbands, wives and children. I would never associate myself with a man, I couldn’t conceive of sharing my intimate self. I would lose myself. As for children, I would feel guilty bringing them into this world.
As a result I was alone. Not even a cat lady by now. Just an independent individual with a mock sense of purpose. My days were ruled by the television schedule, cooking times for light and improved recipes, laptop battery life and the delicate cycle on my washing machine. Twice a week, I’d enter slots in my calendar for the supermarket delivery man, and the cleaning lady. Once a month, I’d go to the local clinic for my prescription anti-depressants which I pretended to take. I lived off my unemployment allowance, and let my Mum pay my rent.
But I still seemed to have some unrelenting contacts with the outside world. People who’d once been friends; if the term applies. They still called, emailed, sent letters and even knocked at my door. I wouldn’t answer. It wasn’t my place to afflict myself on others. I feared I’d suck the colour out of them too.
But for some reason, that day I took the phone call. I never really questioned my actions, having given up on that infuriating hobby a while ago. Instead I acted on impulse. I was greeted by Maureen’s overly cheerful “hiya hon!”. She made lots of noise about it being my birthday. Delving in to my register of quirks, I picked out the impulsive streak again and acted without thinking. I reminded myself of my mother.
I surprised myself by dressing up for the event. I chose my flowery wrap dress said to suit curvaceous bodies, pairing it up with pink sling backs and a touch of makeup. I was acting completely out of character. But I was acting, I was still in control.
We met up at the local pub and drank. I didn’t eat because I was on a new diet. But I drank white wine. I lost count of the drinks I ingested, but didn’t forget to take my pills. I’d prepared a cocktail of anti-depressants for the evening. I thought I’d go with the celebratory theme. The people in attendance drank as well that evening. And Max drove us home.
As we drove, we passed a series of trees. This leitmotiv of tree-darkness-tree-darkness, made me content. I shut my eyes.