'sit down,' they said, one of them at least, I didn't see the mouth move.

'what?' I said, for I am a little hard of hearing on occasions, but they knew that already and only whispered in the first place as a test. they liked to test, trust has gone from this world, out of memory.

that I heard them in the first place is of little consequence, the mistrust started on their side, I think at least. they humoured me and repeated their request, a little more loudly, and I sat down then, I knew better than to make them ask me a third time. there are repercussions to insolence, a time and a place for that sort of thing, a time and a place for everything, and everything in its place. when someone tells you to sit down, it is best to comply and sit down, they are not asking if you wish to continue standing, although had the counter command been given, for me to remain standing rather than taking the seat right before me, I would have followed that to the letter equally well, to the best of my meagre abilities. besides there is so little difference between standing and sitting that I saw no hardship in following their preference, having no opinion of my own on the matter that would steer me in a course of action contrary to theirs either way. I took the liberty of sitting myself in the chair in front of the desk before them rather than sitting on the floor, even though no one had told me that the seat was there expressly for me and not some other who might enter later, it was a risk but I chanced it, no one had mentioned the floor either. what made me think of the floor, I know not, I don't recall spending a great deal of time on floors, if ever. I was not unseated in any case, comment was not passed, perhaps that was some test too, there are lots of tests, they aren't always signposted, you miss. the chair was hard, not solid wood like the ones from home we once dined from, but wicker backed, all the same, the knuckles on my spine drew back not appreciating the pressure it applied. I should have been a shell fish, I would have liked that, there is a poem somewhere, I forget. the room was white, all white, except for the window, it was the same room as always, the one where they talk. would it have been too much for them to think ahead and bring in a soft backed chair for me, they knew of my condition and the furniture available, they could have alleviated my discomfort had one of them employed forethought, it could have been done, they had the means. but such an effort was beyond them, my discomfort was their goal perhaps, they wanted to watch me squirm before them no doubt. hence the request for me to sit rather than stand, a man needs eyes in the back of his head these days to stay ahead, the ones on the front of mine are little enough use as it is. four eyes and I'd still get caught out. they all stood up in unison as soon as arse connected with chair, I knew then I had been tricked, they stared down at me like a judgement. I looked at my feet.

'do you know why you are here?' said the one with the brown hair, my least favourite for some reason, I think he was the first, these things are based on a passing nothingness at the best of times, the memory is hazy now, even for yesterday. oh, but the golden climes of yesterday, we shall not see their like again, a long way down the track they are now with a hundred thousand other yesterdays. have I had that many yesterdays, I think not, the number is a large one, too large.

I shook my head as I knew I should, the question wasn't posed for me to answer but simply to hang in the air and birth a silence, that much I did know, from experience. they took pens from pockets, so many pens, so many colours, and began writing on their clipboards, not the boards themselves but the material which was clipped to them. my response must have been interesting to them, I had learned from last time if nothing else. nothing else, I don't learn a great amount, not now, it doesn't stick. what was my answer then, before? I forget that too, but it must have been different, that's the thing to remember, I had been sent back immediately the last time, and the last time but one too, I had got it wrong and now I was getting it right. everything must be recorded, I don't know why, I was never told the reason and the question never struck me back there, I was not there to ask and put forward grievances and concerns.

'you are here because you have failed,' the one with the big tits said.

outside I noticed that it was raining, the clouds looked heavy in the sky. the ground was wet too, it must have been raining all day without my noticing. I had been distracted, I forget what by, the distraction is all that remains.

it was a good answer she'd given to the brown haired's question, much better than one that I would have come up with, I would no doubt have blamed it all on my father as someone once told me I should had I chosen to voice an opinion, so much wasted breath. if the body is born with a finite supply of air at the start, I could live to be as old as the sea and hills. but I will not live to be as old as the sea and hills, they had the head start, they would always be older. one word all week, and even that unnecessary had my senses retained their earlier sharpness, I might never die, imagine that, at that rate at least. I wondered why she wasn't facing the questions if she had such good answers to offer, I should have asked her to swap, had I had any questions of my own perhaps I would have. her answer simplified the issue of why I was where I was, I forget where, I have been so many places, still more unvisited and all of them much the same, different vowels and consonants I must have lost track somewhere again. but I liked what she said, it removed extremities and superfluousities and appendages and put the blame squarely on one pair of shoulders, my own, those sorry sloping juts that had never pulled a yoke or supported a bag even, and now found themselves with the burden of how many years' worth, I'm not sure, the count is irregular. my silence was noted and more perhaps, the nibs had contact with the paper for long enough to have written an observation as well as pressing my behaviour into the book of antiquity. but I'm unsure of the speed of writing, it is not one of my skills, not now, I passed a long time ago I remember, there was a certificate I think, but nothing more. what would some stranger make now to find those books, page after page of the words, response: silence, minor twitch? a child's writing practise they might reasonably conclude, that would be my conclusion at least. but I am assuming, presumption isn't healthy at the bast of times, I have heard of many a man led astray by making the wrong connections, they could just as easily have been writing shopping lists or composing sonnets as making comments on me and mine all this time. have I always had such a gargantuan ego, I think not, those with gargantuan egos do not fail as I have done. have I failed? yes, I was told I had, I must have for it to be noticed by others.

'do you have any thoughts on having failed?' said the brown haired one, trying I suspect to pass off his colleague's diagnosis of my situation as one that anyone might have reached given time. there is always time until there is no more time left, time stands for no man unlike me. they are more dissimilarities between us, but they need not be set down, this is not permanent, I would not attempt such a futile endeavour when nothing is. to start even would be to fail, I see that now. but it will last, a while at least, I hope, it must. in truth, what am I saying, there are so few similarities that one could put myself and time at opposite poles to one another completely and work on the similarities from a process of negation.

I had not noticed the failing myself, I should have, but I was too close maybe. I hate a person to steal another's thunder so hung my head and feigned deep thought as I had been taught to by, I forget, it seemed important, for a while at least, but no longer so. my heart felt heavy, like a cloud, as the seconds passed, I could hear them distantly marching away forever on the clock above the door. did time march before the clock came around, did those men in the caves hear it pumping in their veins day and night? it maybe didn't bother them as it did me, I don't know why, there's no changing it even with a broken clock, it carries on. it is difficult to work without absolutes. one second it's the future, the next the past, who knows where the transformation takes place. I am not the person to answer that, maybe there is another who can, I know not of him.

my lack of answer did not seem to please them as I thought it would, for a second I imagined I had formulated a pattern of responses that would be sufficient in future, should such a time come rolling along and me still be in it. angry scribbling, tick tock, tick tock.

'come now, you must have some feelings on having failed?' feelings, ha, they mocked me too then, what use are those to man and beast, for all I know it was them that caused me to fail.

'I believe that to have failed is perhaps not the best I could have done, that there were other options available I was not aware of. in fact, it might have been the worst thing that I could do,' I put forward tentatively.

'could do for who?' said the quiet one, 'and what do you mean by worst, I hope this isn't more of your flannel.'

on second thoughts, perhaps I have done the brown haired one a disservice back there, the quiet one had an aggressive streak I can't tolerate in others, sharp he was, but you'd forget about him until he spoke, I did, just now, he wasn't memorable for some reason. of the lot of them I suppose it was him I had least time for, though the other ran him close at times. a lapse here and there is nothing for concern, there will be more I'm sure, maybe I won't even spot them as they pass before me in future. I'm not concerned with accuracy, just the general impression, that is all. but his face returns to me now, beady eyes as you'd imagine, small boiled egg head. or is that someone else I'm getting him mixed up with, his character has perhaps become confused with another's form over time, it is of no matter, that is how I picture him now, it fits, they'll understand. I held my tongue, I had no idea who I could have done anything for, even if I had had the inclination, i, who had never done a thing for even myself. it had been a long day already, one loses one's grasp on the threads, having three conversations at once is three times more than I'm used to at the best of times, I was thinking of the warm bed that was waiting, I should never have left it, my hand was forced. the three of them exchanged glances, I think I may have begun crying, there was a sobbing sound in my throat that much I am sure of, but the tears I don't recall. I don't think I am a great one for weeping, at one time yes, but no more, a bad habit spanked out of me by raps at the back of the legs. if nothing else he gave me that. I had no handkerchief and I don't recollect tissues being brought forth. no, there were no tears, just a dull throb at the adam's apple, I'll stick my neck out on that one.

'he'll have to go back to his room,' said the woman, I think secretly she had more than a soft spot for me though a gentleman would never disclose where, but I may be mistaking kindness for something else, she was old enough to be my granddaughter, not that that matters.

'he does this every time,' said the quiet one, which was a lie I include only to show his mean nature towards me, I never cried, it would have been wrong, I got questions wrong that is all.

'his failure will become our failure if he is pampered and cosseted.'

'all the same, I'm taking him to his room,' the woman said, dragging my hand from my head and leading me through the door. 'he can think about what his failure means there. won't you?'

I nodded meekly as required, a nod was the correct response and saw me through the door as I'd hoped it would, but you can never be sure until the slamming is behind you, half the time you get dragged back and they ask the sitting down question again, again and you have to ask them to repeat it once more, again, even though you know it.

 

outside it was raining. in my room it was dark, it was always dark, even in summer, which it was not, there were lights but I chose not to use them. I was there in summer, one summer at least, there was sunshine, outside at least, I saw it, it reminded me of something, we'll come back when it strikes me what of. I believe there were lights anyway, a table light and a standing light, I hadn't checked for a long time, I didn't remove them but I might as well have done for all the use they were, they were no doubt worth money, everything is I hear. my poison could have been another's meat, it was selfish of me not to take them to a place of sale, if not only for the additional space their absence would provide for myself too, we could all have benefited. a rare thing. but I wasn't in the habit of pacing my room, that must have been a new thought, about selling for space I mean, it would have to have been by another in any case, I am no longer so mobile. a confused chronology won't do, a man could get lost if the layers don't match up. I didn't sell them in any case, I was thinking of the next occupant and how he might derive some benefit from them, need them in fact, were he not a lover of the darkness like myself.

I sat in my rocking chair and rocked as I looked out of the window watching the rain sweep by in sheets, the tree blew too, there must have been a wind too, they often coincide. like brothers perhaps at family gatherings, living far off in the distance from one another yet all the time knowing the other is out there just waiting for the invitation that they might meet again. it is a bad analogy, they all are, comparison is not my strong point, things are only like themselves and even then not so much. a thing is a thing is a thing and nothing else. people make mistakes, I too, I am not exempt, I hold my hand up. what made me think of brothers, is there one like me, such as myself, I think I would have remembered that, that at least. things are collapsing now I can feel it, from where I'm speaking now, this point in time and space, there is too much confusion now.

where?

that's right, I was thinking about failure in my chair as the rain dropped like rain from those heavy clouds, that's right, clouds not at all like my heart. to be called a failure meant that I had not been a success, that much I understood, the words at least, but I was unsure of the distinction between the two though, how one could be deemed to have achieved either status. if I had failed then I had not succeeded, there must have been something that caused me to fall into one category rather than the other. I might have tried and failed, I might not have tried at all, would that count in the final assessment? I knew not, I still don't. was I not still there, alive, in my chair, was that not a success of sorts, against the elements and swarthy types who had tried to put an end to me all the way through, the children, the authoritarians and the animals? I am unsure, there is no metric, perhaps the successful thing would have been to just let them do me in, assist even, it didn't seem so at the time. the quiet boiled egg evidently felt so. had I not been a good son to my parents? I had not. I remember a sourness, something wrong, but not specifics.

I have gone off wrong. those were not my thoughts, I find it hard to imagine that I sat and thought on what had been said in the other room, I hadn't followed all and events take time to settle in now and find a home at the best of times, it was too soon, it still is. the world slows down when you're my age. the whole conversation might have been very different to my recollection, they sometimes are, people tell one thing and I remember another. it doesn't matter, it's my tale and my say. I don't think I was thinking on failing then, it must have come later, there were other things I am sure. many a time sat in the chair I thought back to being a boy, cockling on a stool and wearing a red cowboy hat and nothing else. I had a holster round my belt and a metal gun in my hand that made a banging sound when I pulled the trigger. bang bang bang it went, and the noise scared me so I cried. there were smiles and laughter, a hug even, pudgy foreign arms around my big pig belly. the memory is strong on that thought though I can't place it, it is from the mists somewhere, unclear. I may not be the boy on the stool even, it could be a picture I saw, or my own child even. but I think not, his face looks more like my own than anyone else's in that infernal organ of mine, some might disagree but they can't see him, not like I. and besides, I have only a daughter, no son was ever sired from these sorry loins, at least not one I was told of. they would have told me, even in the end, especially then, they have to tell you everything there. but I was not thinking on the boy that day either, not at that moment, that much I am sure, that is a night-time thought when I fear of age and pretend that I am still young and unbroken, and it was evening when I returned to the room, the curtains had not yet been drawn, I was watching the light fade.

was there another in the room, I remember another bed but no one else. wait, there was another, a little thawing has occurred somewhere, all this exercise, we shall have clarity yet. he was not there that day, or the day before. he died I think, I didn't know him. he was familiar that is all, he didn't speak, not to me anyway, I wouldn't be able to tell his voice from that of a stranger's if he were beside me right now. ignorant or a mute, perhaps both. but he died, that was why I was alone. it was no great loss, he was little use as company, I think I only saw him out of bed once the whole time, no one made him, he was ridden. he was dead there for many days, I didn't notice the difference, no one checked. they took the sheets and burned them outside under the tree in the end, I watched, perhaps he was still in them, rolled up. the men stood round and watched then used a bucket and the fire was gone. I have left instructions for burial, I know not why, no one will visit the stone, in life they shunned and death will not bring about a shift in them or their esteem. brother or daughter, or both, I am lost from now, I will lay unknown, it is not a sad thought, I do it now and do not feel sad. breathing will be the only difference.

they say it is impossible not to think, but I believe that I am often not thinking, merely being, like a stone. no, like myself, that is all. if there were thoughts that day I was not thinking them and they do not come into this anyway, as far as I'm aware.

it was still raining. perhaps I have failed, there's no use worrying now, I'm trying not to have failed. I'll stop, my mouth is tired, I haven't spoken at length like this for many a year, maybe longer even, perhaps never. I was never a talker, things came out wrong, completely, the order I mean. I should have kept records as I went along, written things down, made things clear to myself and sorted out the jumble day by day, but the time for that has gone now, just a heap remains, piled up and beyond sorting, the tags have fallen off. images of this and that, who can tell where I fit into them, not I. there should have been little folders with room for sheets of paper, all kept tidy in a filing cabinet. it would have been wise certainly, but then I never was wise, someone once called me bright but no one ever said wise when talking of me. but it seems wrong to leave things in such a mess, with no one knowing how things turned out with me. this will stand, for a time, a partial record. people will know I was here, that there is a sign of passing, which is what matters to me, right now. maybe tomorrow I'll find this is a passing fancy and let things go on without a footnote. it never bothered me before, obviously, I would have made the effort. but perhaps it did bother me and I was just lazy, on and off I seem to think that I have always wanted to make a mark of some kind, it's a growing feeling now, perhaps the ego will have its final flourish after all. it's better to start late than not at all, is it better to start late, I don't know. the end is what matters in any case, people aren't interested in middles. oh it was messy, but the end rounded things off I have heard people say, and that is a praise, that it was saved by the end. but the start too, that's important, I have no start to build on. people will forgive the lack of a start I hope, who knows where things really start, I'd probably have got it wrong anyway, knowing me. it started well but tailed off, that's a criticism, it stands, a bad start doesn't matter, no start is no doubt the same. but the end, there'll be no mistaking it when it arrives. I'll concentrate on the end, I'll talk some more, it is still early, in the day that is, not for me, I am the water and earth already. I'll not forgive myself for forgetting until now, a diary would have been a start even. perhaps there is one somewhere, hidden in a tea chest maybe, that would assist me, I'll never know, I may as well not torture myself over it, there's plenty of other thoughts lying around that can do that job for me without the need for invention.

I remember food arriving, food always arrived before the curtains closed. the curtains closed just after it arrived, that was the routine. one minute the table at the side of me was clear, the next a plate was lying on it, something had changed, a transformation. I had been distracted, I was looking out of the window at the rain, three small brown birds, thrushes if the books are to be believed, were busy feeding, the rain must have brought worms to the top of the soil. tug went the beaks and a worm sprung out. one less to get at me I was thinking, good bird. but there were more, there are always more, they breed, with themselves I think, is that how I managed it? I don't remember a wife, or a woman even, there must have been one for the daughter, or am I worm? no, I am a failure, it comes back, they told me that much, that I had failed. but there was the food, I was forgetting about that, when I looked up the curtains had been shut too, one minute birds in front of me, the next curtain. I must have slept, that makes sense, or been blindfolded for a time, I hadn't seen anyone bring the food or close the curtains, it remains a mystery of sorts.

the clock told me the food was early arriving, it was always getting earlier, you'd think, the food will be here in five minutes and then it would be in front of you at the same moment you were thinking, they didn't want you to think about it and prepare yourself not to eat, practice saying to yourself I will not eat this slop, they got paid to keep you alive. once your nose is in the trough there is not time for thinking, the stomach takes over. they can't have kept bringing it earlier each time though, there wouldn't be the time for that, time keeps getting confused, there have been lapses I'm sure. they must have changes the clocks. the food was nothing to write home about, I had no address in any case, if you'd placed me in the certain places around town I could have worked my way back home using the landmarks as guides, but I didn't even know which town I was in. it was a long drive here as I remember, they were with me then, the daughter and a man, and then they weren't any longer, I was in a room by myself, this room I think of which I speak now. no, not by myself, with the mute, that's right, perhaps the missing lamps were his, they probably forgot to burn them, they forget a lot of things. I was forgotten. I should have remembered the address, that sort of thing is important to keep. a phone number maybe, that would have helped too. maybe it wasn't deliberate at all, they could just have forgotten, it happens, I should know. I think she would have wanted to know that the end is approaching, if just for the knowing of it, that I was reaching out, stretched. but no, I'd forgotten that too, so many details, once you're in the thick of it there's no time for note taking, it's only now that there's time, and the time is no good now, it's been poisoned by, the lapses, it doesn't run straight if it ever did.

there was food and I ate it, they gave me a spoon not a knife and fork, my wrists weren't good enough anymore, they had failed, but that I understood, that was a different type of failure, mechanical, they could show me something to demonstrate what failing denoted. it seems strange that they had failed so early, a design fault, there are many. other parts of me had also failed, but there's no need to detail those, the records for those already exists, elsewhere, but they exist all the same, they can be found should someone need them after I've gone. the parts of me have failed and I have failed, there might be a connection between the two, I think I failed first.

I remember a beautiful sunset one late september evening, I was with another, she was holding my hand and we were sat on grass, on a blanket even, on a hill. it was not the hill from the window, the shape is wrong for that. we sat there and watched the sun setting, it was orange, then gold, and the clouds lit up as if from the inside, and the sun sank down into the earth like a sleeping head moving towards a pillow, no not that, and I cried then, that time I did cry, I could taste the salt in my mouth and the taste of it made me cry even more for things that I'd never know about. I thought if I stared at it for long enough, I'll keep it forever, they won't ever take it off me, but even that fades. I always knew there'd be things missing at this moment, right now, that it wouldn't fit as I wanted it to, the tears told me, you can only come so far and then no further they said, that's all. perhaps I never stopped crying from then, I don't remember stopping, you'd think you would, remember I mean. I don't remember moving from the hill even, perhaps it is there that I am speaking from now, I never moved maybe, I wasn't a great mover even when I could be. but this is not the hill, I am not talking from there, because there were stars later, when the other left, the sky was black and there were small pinpricks of light here and there, and I thought is that god showing himself to me, because I was a total idiot back then, I must have been, it was just dead things flashing at me from years back and nothing else. that too seems recent, more recent than the food even, but it can't be, that is a mistake, it is an old thought mixed in.

I was in bed, they had put me there, the plate had gone and the light had gone and I was in the dark, I was thinking about putting things down so that people knew about them, so they wouldn't miss me if they had. I was thinking about my daughter and how she might have been to visit that afternoon or maybe not for a month, I was thinking about them burning the mute's bed sheets and I was thinking about how there's never the time when you think there is, it runs away from you, that's right, worse even, it grows wings and flies into the distance when your back is turned and you can't even see it anymore, and all there is left to do is cry and even that doesn't matter, not like it did when you were on a stool wearing a cowboy hat waving guns in the air.

then I was scared, it was dark and there was no one, only myself, and I lost myself in the dark and I couldn't cry because I'd been told not to, I can't remember when, I was told, he said, don't cry, it's weakness. have I failed I thought, did i, it would have been just like me to fail, I don't know what the difference was but if they say I have then I have, I'm not really in a position to know. things in the distance started coming in close and those close seemed far away, there was a resolution, somewhere there was an end to all this failing and not knowing and knowing that you've made a mess of things and that it isn't coming back, that it passed whilst you were busy trying to hide from the end, that the saltiness tried to tell you something, tell you that all there was to do was fail, you couldn't do anything but fail, whether it was night or day or anything, that you could never do it, not properly, you could come close maybe, but not that close and in the end coming close is just a polite way of saying that you failed. I close my eyes and I can still hear the rain and then I can't hear anything, just the bang of caps, then nothing at all.