Where the Moon Isn't by Nathan Filer

brush against mine. Not quite holding hands, not quite not holding hands. Each of us gripping at the bench slats.
    The third evening, I was home by myself.
    I had a shower before bed. As I dried, I caught sight of myself in the steamed-up bathroom mirror.
    Ha.
    You don’t know what I look like.
    I only just thought that. I haven’t once said what I look like. I did say that I’m tall and getting fat. I did say that much, but you might not have remembered. Getting fat is a common side effect of my medication.
    Denise Lovell gave me a Patient Information Sheet, with them all listed in microscopic letters.

    COMMON SIDE EFFECTS, it says:
     
anxiety;
 
increased saliva production;
sleepiness;
 
appetite changes;
blurred vision;
 
restlessness;
shaking or tremor;
 
light-headedness;
sweating;
 
rash;
nausea;
 
stomach pain or upset;
dizziness;
 
pain at the injection site;
depression;
 
fatigue;
headache;
 
trouble sleeping;
vomiting;
 
weight gain.
     
    Happy days, eh? You don’t want to know about the less common ones.
    Nah, fuck it. Why not:
    Severe allergic reactions; infections; abnormal thoughts; abnormal gait; itching; drooling; mask-like facial expression; fever; severe anxiety; sexual dysfunction; convulsions; suicidal thoughts or attempts; breathing difficulties; irregular heartbeat; trouble concentrating, speaking, or swallowing; trouble sitting still; trouble standing or walking; muscle spasms; seizures; nightmares; killing your own brother, again.
    I’m getting ahead of myself.
    I wasn’t on the fucking stuff yet. In the bathroom mirror were the blurred edges of a healthy young man with a new job, a new home, and the promise of a whole new life. I should have wiped away the condensation and taken a proper look at him.
    I wish I’d done that now.
    But I didn’t, so you can’t either.

 
    Matthew Homes
    Flat 607
    Terrence House
    Kingsdown
    Bristol
    Mon 8th Feb ’10
    Dear Matthew,
     
    I’m a bit concerned about you. I was hoping you might have got in touch with the team over the weekend but we didn’t hear anything. And we didn’t see you at the day centre again today.
        I know you don’t like us to make a fuss Matt, and I respect that, but we do need to stay in contact. And it’s still very important you have your depot injection. This is what you agreed to in your Community Treatment Order. We can talk about this.
        Please give me a call on 07700 900934 or ring the office on 0117 496 0777 as soon as possible. Hope you had a nice weekend, anyway?
     
    Kind Regards,
    Denise Lovell
    Care Co-ordinator
    Brunel CMHT – Bristol
     
    P.S. I’ve filled out my part of the new DLA forms too, so perhaps we can go through those together. I think you might even be entitled to a bit more money!

 
     
    KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK knock knock knock knock. She was there for ten minutes again, propping open the letter box, peering through. Knock knock knock. Hello, Matt. Are you home? Knock KNOCK KNOCK.
    I could feel her breath.
    She didn’t see me though because I was sitting down here, with my back to the door, keeping a close ear on things. Since you ask Denise Lovell, no I did not have a nice weekend. I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for myself as it happens.
    Nanny Noo tells me off for that. She says it doesn’t help to dwell, how it’s important to be grateful for the everyday things, that there’s happiness in a cooked meal or a stroll in the fresh air. I know she’s right too. Except it’s easier to find happiness in a cooked meal when there’s somebody else to pass you the ketchup. For all our plans together Jacob didn’t live with me for very long. Perhaps four or five months.
    We never had a Christmas here together, we didn’t reach our eighteenth birthdays. I know it’s stupid to care too much about stuff like that. It’s my own fault anyway.
    I should write about why he left.
    But there are different versions of truth. If we meet each other in the street, glance away and look