Raymond's meltdown

Another extract from my book - tell me what you think

regards,
Joe

Chapter 2 – Meltdown

12 months ago.

Raymond Figg stirred half an hour before his alarm was due to sound. He remained in bed stuck in that half-world between dream and consciousness, not able to return to a peaceful sleep and not willing to come fully to his senses. Before long, images and thoughts of the day ahead began to knock at the door of his mind with a ferocity that demanded they be let in: meetings, angry customers, stressed co-workers and managers needing answers ‘pronto’.

He propped himself up on his elbow and groggily pulled the sheets away from his body before moving into a seated position on the edge of the bed; he realised he still felt very tired. The day through his window was gloomy and overcast, all of which seemed to add to Raymond’s lack of motivation. He thought about returning his head to the pillow, pulling the sheets back up to his chin and closing his eyes; even if he couldn’t sleep, he could rest.

Raymond reached over to the bedside table to grab his PDA, yawning repeatedly as he flipped it open and retrieved the stylus. Part of him hoped that checking his diary would provide the jolt he needed to get himself going but in reality, checking his diary only heightened his level of disinterest.

He let out a sigh of frustration. Being a team leader in a call centre had its advantages, he got to work closely with other people, and sometimes he even felt like he made a difference in their lives. On top of that, the money was good; the company share plan a bonus, nice office buildings, superannuation and free health. I should count myself lucky, he thought as he summoned the energy to push himself up off of the bed.

He stood and swayed on the spot for a few seconds while he waited for his body to adjust to the pull of gravity. Once he felt steady on his feet, he shuffled slowly from the bedroom to the bathroom, yawning again as he lifted the toilet seat and emptied his bladder. An image of himself as a boy flashed in his mind – he was urinating off of the pier, his father laughing, telling the young Raymond he was about to kill all the fish. He shook his head in an effort to clear it.

Strange. Memories of past days seemed to be visiting him more and more frequently in recent times. Wisps of disconnected images that lacked clear form; a mist of faces and places that always left him with an uncomfortable sense of melancholy. These were interspersed with images of times present, igniting in his mind like rapid-fire flashes from a camera’s bulb, illuminating brilliantly for a split second before disappearing an instant later; their phosphorescent wake leaving Raymond feeling anxious. Making him feel out of control: did I send that email, was I fair to the staff when I asked them to work after-hours?

Raymond walked over to the shower and drew back the curtain. He turned on the taps and stretched as he waited for the water pressure to improve, and finally, after seemingly hundreds of corrective adjustments, he stepped under the shower’s flow. The feeling of water cascading down his face elicited a memory of himself as a child swimming in the shallows of the beach where his family holidayed during the summer. The memory was so strong he could almost taste salt on the shower water as it passed over his lips.

Raymond shook his head trying valiantly to clear it. Why am I remembering this stuff? He knew the recollection to be a harbinger of mixed emotions and he was in no mood to deal with them. I haven’t got time for this, he thought and began furiously and systematically lathering and rinsing. His demeanour not helped by a lava-hot spurt of water that scorched his chest, causing him to slip as he jerked sideways to escape the heat.

He turned off the fickle water supply, exited the shower and yanked a towel from the towel rack, vigorously moving it over his body. The pit of stomach broiling with the emotions that he’d tried so hard to ignore; each one churning the mixture in rebellion, leaving Raymond in a state of agitation.

He wrapped the towel around his torso and retrieved his foam and blade from the cupboard underneath the hand basin. A quick swipe of the mirror with his other hand removed enough of the mist for him to see a foggy reflection. Raymond paused, examining his image in the mirror; it felt as though someone else was staring back at him, a momentary feeling of disconnection that was so disconcerting he had to look away. He stared down at the basin as he applied the foam to his face and neck. When he looked up once again, he felt a sense of relief - the reflection appeared with a generous covering of foam.

After shaving, he headed back to his bedroom. Normally, he would go straight to the closet and select his clothes for the day ahead. Instead, he felt light-headed, like he had risen from a seated position too quickly; he felt the onset of something like nausea. The feeling came on suddenly. The emotions fighting for their head in the pit of stomach ceased their agitation as they were smothered by a cold blanket of worry, overpowered by the more powerful and primal emotions of confusion and fear. Instead of selecting his clothes, he headed for the bed where he sat on its edge to wait for whatever it was that was making him feel strange to go away.

Couldn’t have been something I ate, I haven’t eaten anything yet, he thought. Raymond focused on the walls so as to give his eyes a balance-point and noticed the walls in a way he had never noticed them before. Are they real? he thought, and then tried to shake the thought out of his head. He took another look at the walls, now they seemed animate, capable of moving. He felt his heart quicken. He felt heat rush to his face; he felt his sphincter tighten. He felt as though he was about to collapse. What the hell is going on?

This was not a simple bout of light-headedness and the realisation made Raymond feel scared in the same way he had felt scared when he first saw his father collapse; the image of which now flickered in his mind, unformed and disjointed, like poor reception on a TV screen. Was this how it started for dad?

He desperately looked around the room - the alarm clock, the wardrobe, the posters and paintings. All of them seemed ethereal. His breathing began to shorten; the tendrils of a cold sweat climbed from his thighs, up his spine and over his crown to form beads on his forehead.

He reached over to the bedside table and quickly touched the copy of ‘Harry Potter’ to make sure it was real. His breathing continued to shorten to the point where he could feel his throat tighten and his chest heave, he felt as though he was about to empty his bladder. What is happening to me?

He wanted to get up off the bed but the floor seemed insubstantial, incapable of supporting his weight. He felt trapped. One step from the bed would mean falling into an unknown abyss. How am I going to get to the phone? He felt a steel collar clamp around his windpipe; he felt his heart pounding against his ribcage threatening to beat its way out of his chest. What’s wrong with me!!!

He felt the need to run but his feet where rooted to the floor. He began to hyperventilate. His brain went blank; his body flooding with adrenalin. He felt like his limbs were charged with electricity. He leapt off the bed and charged down the hallway to his study, wheezing loudly as he tried to suck oxygen into his lungs. He burst through the door and spotted the mobile phone resting in its charging cradle. He snatched at it, knocking the charger and phone to the floor underneath his desk. He fell on hands and knees, trying desperately to locate the phone that had bounced into a jungle of cables, adaptors and power boards. When he did sight the elusive object, his arm flashed out at it like a striking cobra, his hand clutching at cables, missing the target several times before finally getting a firm grip on the phone. His fingers shook violently as he flipped it open, his chest continued to heave as his lungs desperately sought air. I don’t want to die, he said to himself as he struggled to focus, as he struggled to aim for the three numbers that would dial “Emergency”.