132 Days Away from Life: A Novel by Jaimie Deling

By Jaimie Deling

Taboo, infinite and explicit desires about how we should live our lives, each one of us indeed have them deep inside of us. The only constraint remain the rules and socially and politically correct attitude that this system of ours lead us in. But just allow yourself to think for an instant that all our dreams or even fantasy dreams was allowed and normal to the society. This book is all about it, living like one would never dare even utter to anyone about. But yet you get this feeling that somewhere it would be fake and disastrous, without any boundaries to our behaviours towards ourselves and others. Jamie Deling takes us to a tempting world, to lust and pain and deep agony in the world of those souls that goes unnoticed in everydays world, in our world Not when we do socialize and feel and act normal but we in our deepest intimacy, in the loo early morning, alone in the bus or in the tube, with no one to speak to but to ourselves, to our minds, where creation and confessions all merge to be the perfect ourselves, that is a complex soul fighting to be infused in this society ruled by media and injustice. This book allows us to surpass our intimacy and most importantly prove that despite civilization, we are all exceptional and different to each other and society will never be able to direct our inner feelings and thoughts, it reaches only till our physical appearance. Life aint not just about what is correct, it is about us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491895771

Jaimie Deling

Jamie Deling, thinking about this genius born sometime in 1979, a great year always brings some terrific feelings of joy, craziness and infinite sorrow as well. Having always been the brightest student, his love for art showed through music, abstract paintings, books and films. This first book of his remains not only his most cherished creation at the young age of twenty but the goal of his existence, his world, the one he used to live in, just like all of us lost souls on this hectic planet, just like the world a kid frames in his mind from the day he is born. Jamie spent the last three years of his life writing this wonderful masterpiece: his dream, the reason of his existence. He was the most artistic human I’ve known alive, altogether spreading wisdom and intelligence to whomever he would meet. Creation is not within everyone’s grasp, he is indeed firmly that and finally achieved his only dream making us believe that even if we are from such a tiny dot on the world map like Mauritius, creation is everywhere.

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AuthorHouse™ UK

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© 2016 Jamie Deling. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    12/16/2016

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9576-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9577-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PART I: MY EVERYDAYS

Chapter 1: Afternoons

Chapter 2: Just Add Hot Water If You Want It To Stop!

Chapter 3: Because I’m Here I Can’t Stay

Chapter 4: At Times When 21 Days Become A Minute

Chapter 5: Three Dotted Lines And Gone

PART II: MY FEARS

Chapter 6: Tracks My Friends! The Same Tracks!

Chapter 7: Into Little Pieces If Needed

Chapter 8: The Stone In The Peach

Chapter 9: Model Answers Never Answer Everything

Chapter 10: The Old Country

Chapter 11: Bonoism And The Rules Of Freethinking

Chapter 12: Am I A Crime?

Chapter 13: The Technical Impossibilities In Being Happy

Chapter 14: The Technical Impossibilties (Part Two); Exercising Judgement

Chapter 15: When Life Beat Me Down, He’ll Help Me Stand Straight

Chapter 16: The Spasmodic Winds That Blew Me Away

Chapter 17: The Last Headache And The Last Bellyache

PART III: MY SALVATION

Chapter 18: ‘You’re Still Alive,’ She Said

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C.D

PART I: MY EVERYDAYS

CHAPTER 1: AFTERNOONS

‘Oh no, not again,’ I thought. I sat down on my bed and lit another cigarette.

It was just the sun that was rising and yet I felt so sick about it. I’d been waiting for the end; the end of the world, I mean, for more than fifteen years and here was that fucking fat old sun shining my eternal denial.

I bent and looked under my bed, assuring that my stock of thirty-two bottles of cheap wine had been restored. Wine helps a lot these days in holding on to the wait. A balanced diet of three bottles a day plus thirty cigarettes, valium, two hundred and fifty millilitres of codeine, marijuana and on special occasions, a pinch of cocaine or whatever, a Laetitia Casta or David Ginola inflatable doll made of hundred percent pure latex from Zimbabwe, with a two year guaranty (for hand jobs and sometimes even blowjobs, depending on the version of the item purchased).

I glanced at my alarm clock that I bought from Ramy Hypermarket for a hundred and twenty five bucks on a Friday afternoon at exactly half past six. By the time I ended my post-sleep sleep and put on my blue and black boxer short it was fifteen minutes past eleven. I got out of bed, eventually defeating the gravitational force that seemed to have clamped me there for undetermined periods. Staggering a little due to a strong hangover (whose source I couldn’t clearly remember), I walked to the window. It was curtained with by a thin and almost transparent blue cloth, letting the piercing light in for the discomfort of my recently awakened eyes.

I pulled the curtains aside and opened the window, probably looking for anything new that the world had to offer. I looked on Mamis Avenue, as usual (largely because this was the only view I had from that fucking window). A fat little guy was teaching his dog how to pee. He was scratching its neck, making a kind of to-and-fro movements with its tail and, at times, raising the dog’s rear left foot in the latter’s stance while administrating fairly non-violent slaps on its behind.

Some metres further down the street, just in front of the Police Station, three cops were having their lunchtime break. They were pig-like, with abnormally fat bellies that didn’t match with the rest of their respective bodies, well-groomed moustaches and greasy hair, though perfectly cut. They were having a go at a kid of about nineteen years of age. He was exactly the sort of kid that gets beaten by the police (quite regularly), physically, I mean. In fact, it was just like winning the national lottery. Anyone in this evident social stratum (poor junkies) could have been the recipient of the police officers’ fun-having activity. ‘Ah fuck!’ I thought. ‘These same everydays’. Nothing new for years, two thousand and fifteen to be precise. What a bore!

The cops were finishing the kid. He was receiving the usual stuff, that is, boots in the face, cudgels (made by Ramy Cudgel Co. Ltd) on the back and in-between the teeth among other tortures I could not easily see from my window. They were like vampires sucking out the last centilitres of blood out of a common victim. During that more than ordinary daily event, (surprise! surprise) a BMW sport car, blood red in colour and matriculated JB arrived like a hero in a horror film that’s gonna save everyone. The driver was one of those young urban professionals, a complete success story, wearing an expensive suit, a bow tie and everything that goes with it (this sort of individual is what certain circles have described as yuppy). He parked his car beside the cops, thus, preventing me from seeing the boy on the ground.

‘Lads,’ he said. ‘Hey lads, excuse me for disturbing. Could you show me where the mayor’s office is?’

The three cops stopped the beating and looked at him, almost perplexed. One of them stepped forward and said: ‘fabulous car, nay. Same as that guy, uh, what do you call him? Uh, Pierce Bond… James Brosnan. Whatever! Nice car, sir.’

‘Oh, you’ve noticed,’ the yuppie cynically replied. ‘A gift of Daddy for my birthday. He’s a fan of James Bond, just like me.’

‘Yeah, James Bond,’ the cop exclaimed. ‘That’s the name I was looking for.’

Another cop came nearer to the car, more serious-looking this one. ‘The mayor’s office is just three streets away,’ he said. ‘Just give us five minutes so as to complete our little…uh… party and we’ll take you there.’

The party resumed. The kid seemed paralysed on the asphalt. ‘Mother, mother, mother,’ he was crying in agony. He got the simultaneous kick of the boots (made by Ramy Boots Co. Ltd) and among other hits, a manifestation of the lack of imagination of the police, as far as violence and killing people in general is concerned, I mean. ‘Poor protectors of society,’ I found myself saying at times. ‘They must be so tired after such neat and hard work.’

The three cops squeezed themselves in the two-seater car. After some politely vivid laments from the yuppie, surely because the cops were smoking inside his ultimate driving machine, they went away.

The boy was left on the side of the road, his body spattered with blood and probably dead. The dog that was learning how to pee came towards the corpse, pulling his master despite the reticence shown by the fat little guy. They both halted at the feet of this one-more-so-what victim of public security. The dog neared its head to the face of the dead boy, as if paying some kind of tribute. Then, very delicately, the dog started licking the blood off the boy’s face.

Somehow outraged by the attitude of the dog, the fat little guy slapped the animal more violently this time (take note, you people of the SPCA*). ‘Oh God! It’s disgusting!’ he yelled. ‘You shouldn’t dirty yourself like that. Eating this is dirty. Eating dirty stuff is bad. Must give you a long and thorough bath when we get home. Never do that again.’ The dog backed down.

I shut down the window and drew the curtain sensing the boring recurrence of such scenes. I went to the bathroom and had a look at myself in the mirror. I like images in mirrors, always seeming to say that I’m the best while I sometimes failed in reality to be and The Good People condemned me for it.

These days suicide takes all my time. It has stuck to me like a parasite. I question its presence at times; savour its beauty and the reaction of people who sometimes attribute a heroic side to it. I’d so much like to be a hero, someone or something, a special thing, a regretted animal. Again, if the world never comes to an end, I thought, the practical thing to do would be to bring myself to an end. In fact, if you had to choose between the world and me, what would you do? I’ll stop bothering you with what’s in my head. My poor old chemical head. The world on the other hand won’t bother you anymore with the day-to-day gnawing death that, incidentally, makes me think about suicide like a soothing deliverance. However, the itching thing is that I’m not good at suicide either. I’ve always got the guts of deciding to do it but not the guts of actually doing it.

The final cut. I’m nearly sure that I hate life and all that it represents. But I feel the same about death also. So, I’m sort of trapped in this life-death dilemma and I don’t really know what to do. In fact, most of the time, you realise, dear reader, that choice is not within the realm of the possible. Eventually, it’s life or death that chooses you. But anyway, this line of thinking, talking about suicide, I mean, is said to be out of date. Some very clever people said that those guys like me are too dumb to talk about something else. So guys like me use the word suicide as an easy way out, a means of attracting sympathy or making big money. Maybe they are right. Anyway, whatever is done or said, the whole world is just an interdependent puppet organization. In real terms, everyone just got as much as I’ve got, that is, a big and universal NOTHING.

The telephone rang. I kept staring at the machine hoping that the poor dickhead that was calling would just get pissed off by the fact of no one wanting to be on the other side and eventually leave me alone. But the sound kept droning in my head, pulling further apart an already outstretched tissue of my brain. I picked up the receiver, once again losing a battle against curiosity.

‘Hello…(ten seconds silence), hello’ the voice said. ‘I know it’s you.’

‘Yeah,’ I sternly replied

‘I was just ringing to say Happy Birthday,’ she went on. ‘I wanted to tell you that I think a lot about you, that you can count on me. We’ve shared so many things. As you know I’m going out with a rich businessman. He’s not that cute, you know. But he makes my parents and my friends laugh. He’s a bit old but that’s what I always wanted. Sorry for us. Could have been good if you weren’t what you are. Anyway, I’m happy to hear your voice after so long. You know that I care a lot about you…’

‘I’m going to kill you, you bitch…’

Beep… beep… beep… beeeeeeeeeeep… it went on.

I went through the disaster on my kitchen table hoping to find life, love, the cure for acne or my mother in miniature, fleshy like a pig, hurling dirty words from the back of a blue cockroach. Eventually, I retrieved some rolling paper leaflets (for the sacred J). Or rather, they found my hands because to find anything on my kitchen table you need some mysterious participation of the item that is being searched. In a logical suite des évènements, I did what most of you, creeps, would have done. I rolled a sacred J, putting in a certain degree of finesse in my task. It was quite an achievement. My only achievement, in fact, excluding the event of my birth on a rainy day at Ramy Hospital Ltd. I’d hurt my Mummy-Miami tremendously due to the reluctance of my oversized head to come out of her innards.

One would be true to say that I wanted to forget things. A wide spectrum of things ranging from the screaming voices in my head, the sticks on and in my bum, a whore who represented a rosy picture of the future for at least three months, phone calls (especially those between midnight and one in the morning) to the yearly decay of Christmas trees, which I found purely and simply aberrant.

I used seven matchsticks before I eventually succeeded in lighting the soul-soothing device. I took in the first puff, making sure the smoke descended through my throat and settled in my chemical belly. I trapped the smoke in for at least fifteen seconds, a fairly long time. The dizziness rose like magma out of a crater. I inhaled more smoke, more again, more… more… In my humble experience, it was really first-class stuff I had in my hand. Images started flashing in my chemical head like interactive photographs. I saw the pope excreting in a pink salad bowl, a dog making love to a cow (or maybe a cowboy), Bono singing naked in a giant cup of yoghurt and a mountainous heap of crashed car. I felt physically weak and mentally lost. I was laughing without any sensible reason at myself, at the joke my life was, at the joke the world really is.

A moment later (i.e., three hours according to normal and healthy time), I came out of the lethargical stillness I had been in. I made some tea, the ideal complement of the sacred J, and buttered some really sick-looking slices of bread. I took a lot of time with the bread, as if I was thoroughly performing the preliminaries of a sexual intercourse. So, by the time I finished the buttering, the tea was all but cold. I dipped the slices of bread in the tea and placed them in a large round plate in the middle of which was flatly drawn a phallus (these plates are manufactured by Ramy Plates And Other Kitchen Utensils Co. Ltd). I stared at the result for a minute but it evoked nothing, as usual. No artistic features of a Van Gogh or Salvador Dali, not even a vacuum. So not letting my imagination be crumpled by nothingness, I made holes with my fingers in the drenched bread. Still, nothing seemed to take form. Eventually, discouragement took full control of my potentially first steps in visual art and urged me to eat the dejection that could have been called bread slices a moment ago. They tasted atrociously insane. Even the rats that I innocently ate in times of money shortages appeared to be finger-licking good compared to the artistic nonsense that showed in front of my chemical eyes.

I really (and sincerely maybe) think that rats are nice to eat. The true and, since now, unrevealed secret lies in the manner and conviction the dish is undertaken. Of course, you’ve got to have rats and a little love for your cooking. Big ones. Filthy ones, with their teeth showing when they try to smile. Those who are selfish. Those who fear larger animals coming their way and eating their food. In fact, it’s not easy to find rats these days. Everywhere has become too clean. Everyone was too clean. It was no more like in the good old days when everything was a cliché (oh the clichés!). They could be found in any corner of any road. In garbage bags not tightly shut or not very resistant to scratches, mainly. In railway stations at night. In middle class households, scaring old fur-wearing ladies who are sometimes more scary than the rats themselves when they have their make-up on. However, it’s really hard these days to find them, with all this sanitary-police stuff preventing or merely trying to prevent the long awaited doomsday when rats would rule our pure and innocent world.

Anyway, let’s go on with the recipe. It is advised to choose preferably dead rats. Not those who have been crushed by a lorry, a car or an ox cart, but those who have passed away with a more or less natural death. Like strangulation with human hands, for example. Carefully lay the rats in a salad bowl (preferably yellow in colour and made by Ramy Salad Bowls Co. Ltd.) making sure that no blood is spilt on the kitchen table or wherever you’re placing the bowl (for the police might ask you a lot of questions later if they suspect you to be a serial killer of the then leading race of rats). Add ten centilitres of vinegar (or more if you got a particular affection for vinegar), two to three pinches of salt, pepper, wild herbs (really wild ones), ten millilitres of yellow urine, ground ecstasy pills (three or four would surely do), two cups of sugar-free yoghurt, cumin, half a bottle of heated beer and two hundred grams of bread crumbs. Stir the whole thing well for three minutes or so. Then leave to rest for about six hours (if you’ve got the patience, naturally).

After the long and melancholic wait, put the mixture in the oven for about half an hour. Or else, if you feel extremely hungry, you can eat the mixture crude as it is. But it’s at your own risk. Serve with the cheapest wine that you can buy at Ramy Supermarket Store Co. Ltd. Make sure to go there before half past six, after which time there’s a very long queue at the cashier that might wake up your envy of killing someone or radically everyone.

Realizing that my mind was spiralling towards the fact that rats are not that bad for consumption and that no one except some in the Korean Republic really gave a damn, I went to the closets, remembering it’s reclusive power. I had a long and soothing pee, even saying whooooooh when I finished. I came out of the bathroom, sensing the reluctance of my eyelids to stay wide open. So, in my half-asleep state, I put on a pair of jeans, the dark blue one, I later found out and a shirt, which said Eating People Is Wrong. Last, I fetched my shoes amid the cat excrement from under my bed and opened my chemical door.

The brightness of the sun made me sick, as always. I put a first step outside hoping that a whole new story would start. I descended the stairs with a calm and regular pace, pretending not to see the construction workers swearing at each other and the children playing their war games with their fake plastic guns. Soon I was on the sidewalk, strolling aimlessly across Mamis Street. The beaten-to-death kid was still lying there. By now, the