Nothing happened that made me do it. Nothing triggered it. I wasn’t even having a particularly difficult day. I was just sitting, watching a man and a woman with seven teeth between them argue about dodgy texts one of them found on the other’s phone. The presenter said, “Find out the lie detector results after the break,” and I realized I didn’t give a fuck. Not only did I not give a fuck about who was lying, but it also dawned on me that I didn’t give a fuck about anything. I’d had the idea at the back of my head for months now—years even. Constantly looming over everything I did. Always on the horizon. So I thought, Why not now?
I walked through the hallway towards the kitchen. On the way, I thought to myself how it was a shame that I’d never get around to putting up some wallpaper or any pictures. At least I’d made things easier for whoever was assigned this flat after me. I have terrible taste in wallpaper anyway. This flat always deserved better.
I lingered a moment in the kitchen, looking at the sink. The ever-present tower of unwashed dishes caught the light in a way that made it oddly beautiful. Something about it, next to the nearly empty, two-year-old bottle of supermarket-brand washing-up liquid, filled me with such sadness I had to look away, and I headed through the utility room door.
Switching the light on, I looked around the utility room. The bitter smell of varnish lingered in the air. Piles of random bits of whatever-the-fuck lay everywhere. It’s amazing when you think about it—how much stuff just accumulates. I didn’t know if it was just me, but I felt all I had done in my life was accumulate stuff.
