fridgi.d
The thing was I've always hated parties. That's why I was in the kitchen, alone, that night. It really is. I was just standing there, really. I was standing by the fridge in this dirty kitchen. I could hear the fridge hum softly.
Its noise was a bit disturbing. I wanted to be all alone, but the noise of the fridge kept buzzing into my edgy day dreams. I was there, listening to the fridge. It went “hmmmm”. Just “hmmmm” over and over
I was all alone, just me and this noise, I realised that, at least, was something.

The people I’d been with for the last three days, well, they were all worn out from the drinking. The almost sleepless nights. I think, for me, it’d gone way beyond fun about an hour after opening time on the second day.

After that most of me wanted to go home, but there was always a reason against being on my own like this.

So, I’m in this kitchen listening to this fridge churn and splutter over. It’s still just going “hmmm” over and over.

Down below, I can see all the neon from Hackney but somehow I’ve convinced myself that something, somewhere has happened, and somehow I am the last person on earth alive. I imagine all the neon, shining on the corpses, the dead people in bed, in the shower, watching TV. I feel sort of comforted by this. Then the door opens. Then this guy comes The man who comes in moves with the familiarity of ownership. He doesn’t stumble, or look awkward.

As he opens the door, I can hear the conversations from the front room, and from somewhere more distant, but still, I guess, pretty close, the sound of a baby crying.

This guy who’s come in, he looks at me, kind of in an understanding way.

“Hi” he says looking straight at me. All of a sudden, I get this strange feeling. I feel he can see exactly what I’m thinking. I put an arm across my chest.

“Hi” he says again.


He looks at me, but it’s not like he’s looking at me, more like, right into me. I remember how I have studied rock stars and promised myself to try to act as cool as them.

He’s got this bottle in his paw. He finishes it and then puts it down carelessly on a crumpled tea towel. He opens the fridge. As I follow him with my eyes I can see the reason the fridge is so loud is because the freezer bit is over frozen, and the fridge door won’t close. I sort of want to clean it, but think what it would sound like if I offered so I do nothing, I just stand there. I’m not even drinking anymore. I looked for some soft drink when I got here, but couldn’t find any. I know that once you stop drinking, that’s it, that’s the end but since I got here, I just seem to have stopped caring. I think about asking him, “got any squash” but say nothing because I know what it would sound like.

I can see the fridge is maybe just under half full of green bottles, with another load of bottles on top. It’s like someone started chilling beer a while ago, maybe a night ago, but then forgot to replace what they were taking.

"You're too thin" he says "You need to eat" he says. To me, I guess, as there’s no-one else here.

I try to think of some lie about breakfast, or dinner now, I guess, or not being hungry but he’s already turned around. He doesn’t wait for me; he’s at home.

From the cupboard between my legs he takes a dirty frying pan. I move to the side, squashed against this white fridge, but from where I am, I can still see cold grease and oil in the pan. He adds more crisp n dry from a greasy bottle next to the cooker and turns the blue gas on. He hums this old tune to himself, but I can’t work out what it is and I don’t like to ask. The cooker is old, like you never see on television. Then he opens the fridge again. I can see there’s not much food in there. Next to and under the beer are some crumpled plastic ASDA bags. I can see the ASDA logo on them. He opens one and there is this dried half an onion in there. He wraps the onion back and pulls the next one out. It’s a cube of yellow. Maybe butter or cheese. The fridge is churning, like an old car going up a hill in the middle lane of an empty motorway.

He puts the yellow in the pan where the crisp N dry is starting to splutter angrily, then these sausages. I can see from the packet, that these are “happy shopper” own brand and I don’t even want to think about what shit they’ve got in them.

As they cook, he turns the tap with the dirty red cross on it. The tap coughs, then sort of coughs, then spews its dirty brown water out. He takes a plate from the cornflower blue washing up bowl in the sink then holds it under the tap for maybe five seconds. I can hear the pipe judder as he turns the tap off. As he reaches for the dish cloth he sees me and he sways, just a bit. As he sways, he reaches down to steady himself, then pulls the dishcloth and knocks his empty bottle so it does a hollow roll along the worksurface until it rests against the fridge.

All of a sudden, I start to feel like I haven’t slept for four nights.

I can see the dregs of the beer dripping in big drips onto the stained linoleum next to the fridge. Between the fridge and the worksurface is maybe an inch, and it’s a black, hairy, greasy inch.

He doesn’t bother with the bottle; he just turns away, and dries the plate.

He says nothing while the pan coughs like a waking smoker. Then he turns, scoops the sausages into the plate.

"Eat!"

He says.

I take the plate.

I know there’s no way, no way, I can eat those.

There’s just no way

And there’s no way I can explain it to him, either.

"They’ll be wondering where I’ve go to"
I say,and the lie sounds hollow, even to me.

I hold the plate far in front of me, as far as I can, as I walk down the corridor till I go into the lounge. There’s no spare seat so I sort of squat at the side of the sofa, next to the sofa. I can see the ashtrays which look like dead explosions. I just hold the sausages, too shy to talk to the girl next to me.


The others are still trotting out their shitty little drug stories. He comes in. I pick a sausage up and eat it, as cheerfully as I can. I sort of gag, but he's looking at me so I try and turn it into a smile.
"These are lovely" I say, but they're not. They're disgusting. I am still too shy to pass the sausages to the cool looking girl next to me so I just end up sort of holding them and hoping that he's found someone else to look at.
(sirolimus, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 14:33, 9 replies)

Hi Charles
Sorry you didn't like my sausages.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 14:52, closed)

^this is lovely
Where/what is this from?
(Colonel Santiago Introduced surprised kitty to the world., Tue 20 Jan 2009, 14:53, closed)

re
Beautifully horrid to read; *click*ed.
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 15:07, closed)

Buggeration!
I've been in places like that. It's only after about three hours later when I leave and breathe some fresh air before collapsing into bed that I realise "Why didn't I do this hours ago?"

And you're right. People can talk for hours about shitty little drug stories and how mashed they were or whatever. Cocking tedious to a person who has never tried drugs and never wants to. The stories put me off.

Have a click.
( gareth_alien will be human again at, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 15:14, closed)

Prize!
You win the EffinDoubt "Special Award for Bleak and Grey". Well done!

*click*

"A fine piece of writing" - EffinDoubt
(EffinDoubt is breaking glass on, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 16:00, closed)

Beautiful
Dystopia
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 16:29, closed)

Ingrate
So... you drank more than you should have, went to a party at the house of someone you didn't know, moped about in their kitchen and then allowed them to cook you food which you declined to eat. And then, rather than commenting on the kindness of a stranger, wrote a story criticising their catering budget. Emo.
(Tony Macaroni hello, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 19:23, closed)

That's...
a bit early Bret Easton Ellis, but kitchen sink style.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Tue 20 Jan 2009, 23:05, closed)

Cornflower Blue?
Palahniuk?

Either way, top stuff.
(FurtiveBiscuit, Wed 21 Jan 2009, 21:20, closed)