The Essence of Senescence

By Milo Twyla

When push comes to shove, Death forces them to fight their way back to life. But what happens when It decides to tag along for the ride?

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A big man, a small man, a sort-of man, a sort-of dog, a not-so great woman, an oh-so great woman, all attempting to escape the terminal institution at the end of life

• Language: English
• Publisher: Milo Twyla
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838028916

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Copyright © 2020 M.Dominguez. All rights reserved.

This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service:

Registration No: 284732666

ISBN: 978-1-8380289-1-6

Preface

With suspected dyslexia, I was a very late reader, only willing to pick up a book at thirteen years old. Film, instead, was the medium of art that first caught my fascination, and to be a filmmaker was my earliest and most enduring ambition.

Years spent dreaming of directing my first feature film, I struggled with the prospect of inhabiting someone else’s imagination. Fortunately, at sixteen, whilst gallivanting around Peru, I came to realise that I would likely never be comfortable using another’s creation. Hence, I was left with no other option but to write my own material.

The witching hour was brewing, when – frightfully ill and likely delirious, yet still travelling the winding, serpentine ‘roads’ of the Colca Valley in a dilapidated ‘bus’ – the image of five geriatrics sparked. Unable to shake the formidable apparition for the remaining trip, I eventually stopped resisting and began actively nurturing their story the moment I arrived home, back in London.

Initially, I wrote the story as a screenplay, for my future self to translate into a film. However, when relentless ideas and details overwhelmed the page, I reluctantly accepted that a larger format was required to encapsulate and crystallise it all.

And so began the inescapable venture of writing this novel. Without any consideration for the ramifications to my life, I dived head first, typing the first sentence of my opening chapter on September 15th 2018.

The diligence and equanimity acquired from self-taught GCSEs, meant that I was able to spend the next six months writing, ten hours a day, seven days a week.

Throughout that winter, I typed away on my dying laptop in the cold, quiet and dark attic. Floorboards creaking, windows rattling, it often felt that the room would be swept away by the brutal British winds. Yet I can’t complain, since this was the best atmosphere to create in and I never once suffered writer’s block.

Plot, characters, title, everything about the story was top secret, my answers evasive and ambiguous if asked. My mum, my most trusted confidante, only she was privy and even then left in the dark about most.

I was completely and utterly alone writing this book. The solitude and isolation was unparalleled, and often threatened to destroy my sanity.

I was sixteen and had birthed five geriatrics, seven decades separating us: None would understand the responsibility and obligation I felt for them; None would understand that they were real and meant more to me than most; None would understand my love for them, my happiness when they laughed, my pain when they cried; None would understand my empathy for them, instead believing us to have nothing in common.

But they were wrong. We shared more similarities than differences, were more united than divided:

I knew of their despair, of loss of all hope;

I knew of being alone, of isolation in a crowd of those assumed to be your peers;

I knew of being out of step with the world you inhabit, of being ostracised for that;

I knew of a failing body, of sickness impeding everyday life;

I knew of being let down, abandoned and punished;

I knew of being forced into a supposedly-beneficial place, yet experiencing only detriment;

I knew of being trapped without escape nor respite, imprisoned in an institution designed for those antithetical to oneself;

I knew of an existence without freedom or life;

My demons needed an exorcism and, although forced to remember repressed pain, this book allowed me to let go and move on.

This book allowed me to write my story, out of context, in another setting.

Never feeling the need to shout for attention, overlooked and dismissed by most, this book allowed me to say all I would ever need to say, to speak my truth to the many that don’t deserve to hear it and the few that do.

This book allowed me to illustrate that non-talkers are NOT non-feelers.

Having elucidated my personal beliefs, this book allowed me to release the misdirected prejudice and indignation I had held against faith.

This book thawed my indifferent, jaded heart, allowing an unprecedented optimism and romanticism to stealthily seep in, balancing out my pessimism.

My partner throughout the writing process was my main protagonist. A woman nearly seventy years older than myself, her words propelled me to persevere despite exhaustion. Whilst my other characters are inspired by all that I have met, this woman in particular is not fictitious. A mixture of my mother and myself, this woman is real.

She is my profanity and impiety, my black humour and talent for heartening even the darkest of situations. She is my ability to remain steadfast despite insult or compliment, my stubbornness and tendency to harbour a grudge. She is my determination, my idealism and ambition, my clamour for adventure and freedom. She is my love of diversity, integration and pluralism. She is my respect, revere and protection of nature. She is my intuition and philosophy.

She is my mum’s benevolence and unwavering moral compass. She is her generosity and compassion, her optimism, selflessness and forgiveness. She is her commitment to equality and truth, her advocacy and defence of those vulnerable and voiceless, failed by society. She is her warmth and maternal nature, her resilience and adaptability. She is her intelligence and competence, her shyness and modesty. She is her ageless youth, infectious radiance and unequivocal beauty.

Never did I intend for an audience of any size to read my book, only my mother. It was she who convinced me to share it with others.

In the very beginning, I secretly imposed a six month deadline, which fell precisely on her birthday. I finished on February 28th 2019 and the last two weeks preceding the big day were spent practically mute, fearful that I would ruin the surprise. Never separated by a secret before, it took every ounce of self-control not to spill my guts to her.

The morning of March 14th 2019 was the first time my book and soul were to be read. Presenting my manuscript to her, the astonishment on my mum’s face was unforgettable. She immediately began reading, sending me running for my bed, overwrought, with music blaring from my headphones and a pillow clutched to my eyes. Thus began the most anxious wait of my life.

Whistling brought me downstairs, where I was pulled into a hug. Her squeezing arms telling me all she was unable to articulate, my mouth flew open with six months of restrained discussion. Her opinion is the only one I’ve ever valued, so her love and pride of the book is the ultimate satisfaction.

And so, I go into this process of publication without any need for validation, but instead in the hope that it reaches someone in need. Someone in need of a laugh, of a cry, of confrontation, of reflection, of enlightenment, of reassurance, of adventure.

~ CHAPTER 1 ~

Morning’s first light streamed through translucent windows, onto Zephy’s sleeping, laughter-lined face. Her jade-green eyes fluttered open, coming into focus on the naked man lying comatose on the other side of her kingsized, hammock bed. Echoes of the previous night reverberated throughout her groggy head, cognisance drowning her foggy irises.

I’m still alive? Fucking hell!

Despite her continued fatigue, she sat herself up stiffly. The only remaining blanket slid to her waist, exposing pert nipples on creased and sunken breasts. Her lawless, silver hair cascaded down her back into chaotic ringlets. Her freckled face and poised neck were imprinted with pillow marks from the deepest of sleeps.

With a crestfallen frown, Zephy glanced dispiritedly around her vast, open-planned apartment, where vibrant duvets, blankets and pillows were scattered across the floor. Discarded clothes trailed towards her, sitting on the circular swing-bed. But her terminal depression eased as she studied the yet older man beside her, a sated smirk tugging at her swollen lips as her body tingled.

Her muscles ached as, with tired reluctance, she scooched off from the levitating mattress and over to the adjacent armchair. She donned the purple, velvet robe that had been draped over it, concealing her firm but fading, five foot frame of golden-caramel skin.

She noticed the empty jar of homemade lubricant on the bedside table, then the woven wastepaper basket beside her battered feet, revealing a laudable number of used condoms and crumpled tissues. She swept both up and, on light feet, floated across the eclectic central space to the bathroom. She emptied the basket and placed the jar in the sink, before relieving her weak bladder and washing her worn hands.

Zephy then glided across the warm, oak floors to the corner kitchen, where pale grey cabinets softened the flamboyant and divergently-patterned tiles. She jabbed the kettle to life as it sat next to the souvenir magnet-covered fridge and pulled herself up the stairs whilst the water heated.

The wall was lined with art, with press clippings and with hundreds of photos, spanning almost a century. Some photographs were old – black and white, and faded – whilst others, more recent, were vivid and glossy. Nevertheless, all were mounted in multicoloured, clashing frames, arranged in an arbitrary fashion.

Zephy found herself panting slightly, her venerable heart pounding by the time she had reached the top of the stairs, where the mezzanine overlooked her entire flat below. A rack of muddy boots and a bristling door mat were its only occupants. However, a striking, violet front door beamed out into the space.

She clenched the banister for a few, uneasy moments. Once she had caught her breath and calmed her heart, she unlocked the front door. It swung inwards, revealing the door’s unpainted exterior, where the dark, walnut wood remained bare, with the numbers ‘7~250’ carved into its heart.

Whilst open, the door was identical to the countless other doors that were posted, at equal intervals, along both sides of the endless hallway. All were uniform and monotonous, only punctuated by numbered sequence, except for Zephy’s entrance door, at which multiple newspapers were laid out, ready for collection.

Fanned out on her threshold, each and every front page was emblazoned with the same photo of a comet, with similar headlines of astronomical reference. Zephy grabbed the papers, nudged the door shut and hurled herself back down the stairs to the kitchen, where the kettle was now whistling.

Opposite the dazzling kitchen tiles, aged, oak shelves clothed the wall, upon which were stored innumerable and miscellaneous bottles, jars and vials, each with a handwritten label. Some labels, written in plain English, bore common content: essential oils, organic herbs and bath salts, whilst others were tagged with foreign script: bizarre ingredients – plant and otherwise – and homemade brews and balms, tinctures and tonics.

Open, on the counter below, were books of varied size, thickness and condition. All were handwritten, most tattered with yellowed and fraying pages. However, some shared the same leather binding, the same near-perfect condition, the same right-tilted, cursive script, charming doodles and detailed diagrams.

Zephy plucked a hand-sculpted mug from a cabinet, pinched out a few leaves of sage from a jar and brewed her tea. Whilst bronze essence steadily diffused throughout the water, she snatched a packet of chocolate biscuits out from a floor-to-ceiling junk-food cupboard that was crammed with synthetic goodies and every other imaginable indulgence.

After placing her unorthodox breakfast onto the kitchen island and clambering onto the stool, her entire form suddenly dissolved over the counter into a despondent, Dali-esque puddle. A malicious, relentless grief corrupted every feature of her shattered face, which she now squeezed in an insanely-tense grasp. Distraught with pain, she desperately choked down woeful sobs, before clenching her drowning eyes shut and swallowing down a tremulous gasp of breath.

Almost at the flick of a switch, her body then stiffened. Robotically, her wilted spine straightened, her slumped shoulders uncurled and her pallid face unpinched. When her eyes reopened, she was now chiselled with today’s forced, emotionless expression.

As if her collapse had never occurred, she routinely unfolded the newspapers and tore into the biscuits with fidgety fingers. Clawing for distraction, miserable pupils devoured the celestial articles, her salivating mouth demolishing the chocolate cookies.

~

A shrill phone screeched on Hattie’s bedside table, stopped, then screeched again. Despite the silken restrain of a sleep mask, she growled awake and snatched the touchscreen up to a pointed ear. Hmpf.

Good morning. This is your six-thirty morning wake up ca– Hattie seethed and cut off the overly-effervescent voice, carelessly slamming the sleek phone back down. With fists clenched in fury at the disturbance, she fell back into an imperious and procrastinating sprawl in the middle of her plush, king-sized bed.

After attempting and failing to fall back asleep, she ripped off her mask and glowered into space. Her alabaster skin was bright but surgically tightened, eliminating all trace of rumple or wrinkle. Although alone in her bedroom and merely slumbering, her black-brown eyes and thin but bow-shaped lips remained stained with immaculate makeup.

Hattie angrily threw back the wheat, tan and blush-coloured bedding, and slithered down the high mattress. Her well-pedicured feet landed onto bitterly-cold marble, yet she remained unperturbed, instead rather invigorated.

She prowled over the ice floor, across her white Neoclassical boudoir. The room was monochromatic, barren of any personal effect, housing only a bed, a bolstered bench and a bedside table. The walls were bare but embellished with blended, baroque carvings.

She entered a similarly albino, ensuite bathroom, tinted only with brass accents. The marble surfaces were again devoid of clutter, everything hidden deep within concealed cabinets.

Hattie stared at herself deprecatingly into the expansive mirror. She blanched, she scowled, she huffed, then looked away, her reflection causing her offence. She slapped the counter impetuously and a cabinet opened below, revealing a cavern of creams, gels, balms, sprays, curlers and straighteners, all organised to perfection.

Expeditiously, she culled out fistfuls of cosmetics and began her daily, fifty-minute beauty regime, peeling away layers only to replaster once more.

~

A tin alarm clock squealed on Ernie’s bedside table, then ceased from senescence, but not before he blinked awake from his light slumber and sat up from the striped bedding, slowly easing each grating joint.

The analogue clock still ticking but sufficiently silent, Ernie shifted his petite physique around and gazed mournfully at the uninhabited space in the bed beside him. His eyes slowly lifted to peer up at the framed photo of a grey-haired woman on the bedside-table, glass now protecting the fragile edges from past pining clutches.

Familiar, sharp stabbing pain pierced his heart and he instantly kneaded his knuckles across his ribs. As his powder-blue eyes flooded with tears, he ripped his gaze away from the photo and frantically scrubbed his hands over the length of his face as if to banish not just his tears but also his continuing grief.

Still sniffling and with oversized pyjamas hanging from his shoulders, he hoisted himself up from his lumpy mattress and slogged across the pine floors of the space that resembled a cell, rather than the home of a long-lived retiree. The monastic room was cramped and could only fit a mismatched, self-assembled bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, its off-white walls clean of decoration and memory.

Ernie plodded into his basic bathroom, preemptively installed with rails and seats for an older inhabitant. Although he lived alone, he routinely closed the door before using the toilet. Stooped over the too-low sink, he then washed his weathered hands under scalding-hot water in a futile attempt to loosen his throbbing, rheumatic joints.

Disconsolate, he lumbered back to the bedroom, over to the wardrobe and drawers. Half-empty, each held a simple collection of clothes, conforming to a cloud of white, light blue and navy. Without considering harmony or trend, he selected a single outfit and carried it into the bathroom, yet again closing the door behind him.

~

Although the phone’s baritone alarm boomed on the table beside him, Jules was already awake, staring morosely at the ceiling. Without wavering his glum, ash-grey eyes, he expertly jabbed it to silence as he did every morning.

Although reluctant to face the day and its usual troubles, he heaved his burly body out of the plush bed of Egyptian cotton sheets. Sliding into hand-sewn, suede slippers poised waiting for him, he trudged through his bedroom, across the glacial, marble floor, each also ill-suited and void of character.

Jules braved the continuous white of the bathroom, where counters were buried beneath messy colognes, gels, shaving soaps, brushes and chrome razors. The room-length mirror was still splintered in the corner from the same, violent force that had cracked the sink.

After standing over the toilet bowl for too, too long, he hunched exhaustedly over the sink counter and stared into himself at the mirror. His eyes were sunken and sallow from sleepless nights,