You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness

Somebody That I Used to Know – Gotye

Almost effortlessly reasons for not going in surfaced as the fragments of the beginnings of dark dreams dissipated as quickly as they had begun to appear. 

I don't feel particularly well today.  I have my laptop.  I could easily work from home.  I have no real reason to go in.  I've not got any meetings today. I could probably concentrate better here – it is quieter.  

Lifting a sleep-heavy arm to silence the persistent alarm on her phone, she swore under her breath. 

‘Fuck's sake.' 

The rain and wind had done their best to hammer their way through her windows in the early hours and so, yet again, she had had less sleep than she would have liked needed.  Rising gently in an attempt not to disturb her sleeping husband more than the brief alarm already had, she made her way from the bedroom into the hallway by the light of her phone.  Closing the bedroom door behind her quickly to prevent the waiting rumbling mass of ginger tomcat and tiny frantic chocolate kitten from slipping past her, she made her way to the bathroom. 

I should go in because…

Routine. 

…I've had too much time off already.  I only get 50% sick pay and I can't use holiday so last minute.  I don't want a reputation as being sickly.  Got to make a good impression…

Clockwork.

…So much to do.  So many projects - and two more added yesterday.  I'm so tired.

From the bathroom to the spare room to change, avoiding the purring ginger trip-hazard, then down the stairs, negotiating around the kitten, and the ancient, senile black and white tom at the foot of the stairs.  She changes the cat litter, feeds them (kitten separately due to her sensitive digestion), then begins to make her own lunch (turning off the second Time for work! alarm mid-way through).  Grabbing her coat from its place underneath her husband's on the banister, then keys and handbag, she begins the hunt for her shoes.  Finding the pair she wanted in the cupboard, she then unlocks and opens the front door, and begins her now daily attempt to convince the giant ginger escapee to re-enter house as ‘outside is dark and scary'.  With the cat back inside she closes and re-locks the front door, gets into her car and begins the drive through the darkness. 

            But driving time is thinking time.  Struggling to stay awake.  To focus. 

Did it always used to be this dark at this time of year?  I don't recall.  Maybe it always has been.  It used to be colder, I think. 

Traffic lights, faceless roads. 

This could be any road anywhere it is so dark. 

Slowing for a roundabout.  A car joins the road behind her.  Tailgating. 

Can't you see I've got a tiny, tiny engined car?  I can't accelerate faster than this.  Pillock.  I hate people. 

Touching the brakes to get him to back off. 

Back off you dick.  I'm already doing the speed limit. 

He puts his high beams on. 

You utter wanker. 

He overtakes and is gone, but stays with her for the rest of the journey.  Dwelling.  Replaying.  Rationalising.  A memory of a past incident flickers, interjecting:

            The road is dark and it has been a long day.  Too long.  The usual road is closed:  Road works.  Sorry for the inconvenience. 

No you're not. 

The lane is narrow and the hill is steep and even in 3rd gear the car struggles and loses velocity.  Headlights behind.  Back up to the legal limit.  It is so dark and road is unfamiliar.  Pushing it out of her comfort zone because the car behind is now on her tail.  They flash their lights. 

What does he want me to do?  It's a lane – nowhere to pull over. Is there something wrong with my car? 

They flash again. 

What?! 

And again. 

Piss off, dick. 

Then overtake – they obviously know the road.  Alternately they have a death-wish.  Stress and frustration result in a hand gesture that, in hindsight, was not really warranted but made her feel better at the time. 

Wanker. 

A mutter under her breath.  She flashes her lights at the white car which is now in front.  It slows. 

Shit. 

It moves over to the oncoming lane and pulls alongside her.  She slows. 

Shit shit shit. 

She stares straight ahead avoiding eye contact with the lads in the car.  They pull off again.  She flashes them. 

Dickheads.

They stop their car.  She stops hers. 

Why did I do that?  Stupid stupid stupid.  I'm going to die. 

The car's reverse light comes on. 

What the hell do I do now? 

Two cars stopped in the middle of a country lane in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.  Panic tickles her throat.  A voice sings:

Stuck in the middle with you… 

The white Honda begins to reverse. 

What if they get out?  There's just one of me.  At least 2 of them…. 

Every horror scenario plays out in her head fast-forward.  But time is in slow motion.  Then - headlights from around the corner.  Another vehicle.  The white car takes off.  She, shaking, starts off again down the road.  Her toes are blocks of ice.  By the time she turns the corner there is no sight of the white car.  She's paranoid they are around the corner waiting for her the whole way home.

            Back to the present and too much time has passed.  She doesn't recall the last couple of miles. 

Shit.  Focus. 

A command not a request.  Mentally screwing the memory up as if it were nothing by words on a piece of scrap paper, she tosses it aside.  The road melts into the darkness.  She tries to still her mind. 

I could still turn around.  No one will be there yet so it won't matter.  I can log-in from home. 

Work looms ahead out of the sickly sodium glow of Coventry.  Progressing over speed bumps she wonders whether her car's suspension is still OK. 

Did it make that noise yesterday? 

Negotiating into a space she parks and begins the long walk across the flat, open site.  The wind whips her and makes it impossible to use her umbrella.  She fumbles for her pass-card and enters.  The wind does its best to knock her over or pass through her. 

Lazy wind. 

She reaches her building and swipes entry. 

I'll stay until lunch then I'll go home.  Better to show my face. 

Painfully conscious of the noise she makes as she crosses the suspended office floor she reaches her desk - no, not her desk - this is only temporary.  There are few people in at this time.  Not one acknowledges her presence.

Ritual: bag on chair, remove coat, place lunch in drawers, breakfast biscuits on desk, retrieve laptop and start it up, grab French press, bean tin and grinder and walk to the small kitchen to make coffee.  Today however, it is tea in the French press – lapsung soochong.  Smokey.  It reminds her of the afternoon tea her husband shared with her in last November, just after they married.  They'd used the voucher her brother had bought them the Christmas before.  It had sounded interesting so she'd tried it.  Her mind's eye smiles –

Lapsung sutra…. 

The smell takes her back for a moment.  She savours moments.  Lives for them. 

How long before it reminds me only of this place? 

The laptop is waiting for her to log-in so she acquiesces and time trickles away as she submerses herself in the cold light of the monitor; unpicking tangled code and submerged in the cold language of machines.