then, telling her there was someone at the door. There might have been. A takeaway delivery, probably. He wasn’t eating a lot these days, but what he did eat arrived at the house in plastic containers, ordered online. He lived most of his life online. What was the point in going outside when he could do everything from here? This way he was the one in control. He could decide who he spoke to and who spoke to him. If he didn’t like what he was reading, or hearing, he just had to change websites or blogs or press delete. It was … What? Better? No, safer , that was the word. He’d tried life out there, tried it and didn’t like it. It was much easier in here.
He hadn’t cut himself off from the world completely. If anything, spending so much time online made him more tuned in to world events and new music than he’d ever been in the “real” world. There were even a few people he spoke to, kind-of friends, he supposed he could call them, that he’d met via chat rooms and blogs. Not that he’d talked to them recently. They’d started asking too many questions. If he wanted to be interrogated, he’d ring his mother, or go outside his room and see his housemate. And he didn’t want to be interrogated. He didn’t want to do anything, not anymore.
His life had been good once. He’d worked in lots of different jobs, most recently as an upholsterer, played a bit of sport, did what most twenty-eight-year-olds did around Broken Hill, drank too much some nights, smoked some dope now and again, nothing serious. He’d even had a girlfriend for a few months. Until, piece by piece, it had all started to collapse around him. The job went first. Completely out of the blue. His boss had called him in from the workshop, his face all serious. “It’s not you, Neil. You know I think you’re a bloody good worker. It’s just the orders have dropped off, and it’s last in, first out.” He’d heard the same phrase again and again the following weeks, as he applied for other jobs. “Sorry, mate. The orders have dried up. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.” If anything had come up, they hadn’t let him know.
A month after he lost his job, he’d been drinking at home on his own, run out of beer, got in his car to go to the bottle shop, and had a crash. Nothing serious. All he’d done was hit a tree. The only person he’d hurt was himself, a stupid knee injury from slamming his foot so hard on the brake. At least he’d managed to start the car and get it safely home before the cops arrived and he got breathalysed. Some luck. But the car hadn’t driven properly since and he couldn’t afford the repairs. His knee was still sore, and he didn’t have the money for therapy. So he’d had to give up sport too.
His girlfriend pulled the plug next. She’d used almost the same words as his boss. “It’s not you, Neil, it’s me. I want to go traveling, see the world, not settle down yet. You’re getting too serious for me.” He’d pleaded with her, but it had been no use. Her mind was made up, she told him. Then change your mind, he begged. Please. She wouldn’t, no matter how many times he asked, how many times he called her. She was the only good thing in his life, he told her. It was the truth. No job, no car, no sport—she was all he had. He tried another tack, writing her letters, sending her emails. Couldn’t he go traveling with her? It didn’t have to be serious between them. He’d lighten up, he promised, but couldn’t they at least stay together? He didn’t think he could live without her.
She stopped answering his calls after that. She didn’t reply to any emails or texts either, no matter how many he sent and what time he sent them. He’d gone around to her house one night, one last-ditch effort. Her housemate was stone-faced when she eventually answered the door. “You’re too late,” she’d said, sounding almost happy about it. His ex-girlfriend had left for London the previous day.
He hadn’t cut himself off from the world completely. If anything, spending so much time online made him more tuned in to world events and new music than he’d ever been in the “real” world. There were even a few people he spoke to, kind-of friends, he supposed he could call them, that he’d met via chat rooms and blogs. Not that he’d talked to them recently. They’d started asking too many questions. If he wanted to be interrogated, he’d ring his mother, or go outside his room and see his housemate. And he didn’t want to be interrogated. He didn’t want to do anything, not anymore.
His life had been good once. He’d worked in lots of different jobs, most recently as an upholsterer, played a bit of sport, did what most twenty-eight-year-olds did around Broken Hill, drank too much some nights, smoked some dope now and again, nothing serious. He’d even had a girlfriend for a few months. Until, piece by piece, it had all started to collapse around him. The job went first. Completely out of the blue. His boss had called him in from the workshop, his face all serious. “It’s not you, Neil. You know I think you’re a bloody good worker. It’s just the orders have dropped off, and it’s last in, first out.” He’d heard the same phrase again and again the following weeks, as he applied for other jobs. “Sorry, mate. The orders have dried up. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.” If anything had come up, they hadn’t let him know.
A month after he lost his job, he’d been drinking at home on his own, run out of beer, got in his car to go to the bottle shop, and had a crash. Nothing serious. All he’d done was hit a tree. The only person he’d hurt was himself, a stupid knee injury from slamming his foot so hard on the brake. At least he’d managed to start the car and get it safely home before the cops arrived and he got breathalysed. Some luck. But the car hadn’t driven properly since and he couldn’t afford the repairs. His knee was still sore, and he didn’t have the money for therapy. So he’d had to give up sport too.
His girlfriend pulled the plug next. She’d used almost the same words as his boss. “It’s not you, Neil, it’s me. I want to go traveling, see the world, not settle down yet. You’re getting too serious for me.” He’d pleaded with her, but it had been no use. Her mind was made up, she told him. Then change your mind, he begged. Please. She wouldn’t, no matter how many times he asked, how many times he called her. She was the only good thing in his life, he told her. It was the truth. No job, no car, no sport—she was all he had. He tried another tack, writing her letters, sending her emails. Couldn’t he go traveling with her? It didn’t have to be serious between them. He’d lighten up, he promised, but couldn’t they at least stay together? He didn’t think he could live without her.
She stopped answering his calls after that. She didn’t reply to any emails or texts either, no matter how many he sent and what time he sent them. He’d gone around to her house one night, one last-ditch effort. Her housemate was stone-faced when she eventually answered the door. “You’re too late,” she’d said, sounding almost happy about it. His ex-girlfriend had left for London the previous day.
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