Nick, seventeen, is a goth with a penchant for existentialist philosophy. In this speech, he describes a typical day…
As beds go it is passable, I suppose. Obviously I would prefer to sleep in a coffin but as my mum has so hilariously pointed out, they don’t sell coffins at IKEA.
I check my phone but. Nothing. Greg still hasn’t replied to my text. It has been three days and eleven hours now, which seems a bit relaxed even for someone as simple as him. Look in my sent messages. It’s there in capital letters.
I HATE MYSELF AND I WANT TO DIE.
I wonder if I’ve been too subtle again. Probably. I forget not everyone is as emtionally mature and sensitive as me. I decide to have a wank, but even that is doomed. Halfway through, I start worrying about getting stains on my new black duvet cover. My heart isn’t in it after that. […]
Breakfast is depressing as usual. All I want is to read Camus and eat my Coco Pops, but it is so hard to concentrate with Dad’s armour clanking and Mum clattering about with her tankards in the sink. […] Honestly. It’s tragic. Everyone elses’s parents lie and cheat and have inner turmoil and chuck teapots at each other. I get the world’s most cheerful medieval re-enactors. My mum leans over, dangles her fluted sleeve in my chocolatey milk, passes me a postcard. It’s got a donkey on the front. Looking jaunty.
‘Camping is amazing.’
Three exclamation marks.
A further two exclamation marks.
‘Dropped my phone off a cliff to prove it is shatterproof. It’s not. That was my old phone. Brilliant.’
‘Bet your missing me.’
‘Your’ spelt wrong.
‘You big gay.’
And a kiss.
‘Fancy finishing off this mead?’
Mum holds out a bottle.
I give her a long, stern look.
‘Wench, I do not.’
The bus isn’t due for another ten minutes so I undo one of my badges and self-harm for a bit. I don’t draw blood cos my cloak is dry clean only but it helps pass the time. The bus stop smells of piss and regret. It’s a very sunny day, the worst kind of weather for a goth, so I lurk in the shadows contemplating the great tragedies of my life. The burden of my intelligence for example. Loneliness.
I am an only child.
Unless you count Lizzie, my sister […]
Right on cue, she drives past the bus stop. […]
‘Alright, gorgeous,’ she says.
I could vom.
‘Need a lift into town?’ […]
I get dropped off at the mini-roundabout. There is a sense of foreboding and quite a bit Starbucks. I buy a Mint Frappuccino, the most gothic of the available drinks, and finish it in the cemetery next door. […] I’ve got a muffin too but I’m saving it till afterwards. Give me something to live for. Cos looking round me, the graves have never seemed more inviting. In the end, though, it’s time. I slurp the last minty dregs and head off for another two hours of misery.