Unhinged

I've been working for the bank for about 23 years now. My last pay rise was in 1993.

I stood outside the building in the rain. My suit was becoming saturated. I never liked it much. I've had it since 1993, you know? I celebrated my payrise by getting myself an expensive, lush suit. But it's worn out now, I've been wearing it so long it feels like a part of me, woven into my skin. I no longer have a personality, just the suit. I crunch numbers everyday, no one speaks to me. My wife left me in 2005, she took the children. I don't think any of them were particularly fond of me anyway, I never really made much of an appearance. She'd cook me dinner, always lukewarm by the time I'd got to it. We hadn't made love since 1999. What woman wants to make love to a suit, anyway?

That's all I am now, another face in the crowd. My features are ageing faster than I am. My features are irrelevant, because the suit is me. Some nights I sleep in it because I cannot bring myself to remove it. Could you take out your soul before you slipped into your nighty? Rip out your heart as you brush your teeth? It's not an extension, it merely is.

So it's raining on me. I can feel the cold raindrops slapping insultingly on my bald head. Did I mention I lost my hair a year after my divorce? The Doctor told me it was stress induced, and that I had a tear in the lapel of my suit. I thanked him for pointing it out, then sat in my car and wept for an hour and fourteen minutes, before returning to the bank.

I take my cigarettes out of my pocket, pull one shaking hand towards my crinkly mouth to place one of my lips, and the other to light it. I inhaled deeply and began walking down the street. There were a lot of children, a school trip. The line snaked as far as I could see. I didn't like it.

What are they looking at? What, my suit? Yeah, I've had it for a few years so what? Leave it be, it's mine.

All their eyes are picking me apart, devilish little fuckers. What do they want? Where are they going, for that matter, what School trip requires them all to be on the high street. And the line never ends, Jesus. They keep coming, staring, judging, laughing at my expense. Because my suit is old? I told you to leave it! I could feel my face breaking out into a cold sweat, I don't usually get nervous. I tried to take a drag of my cigarette but my arm wouldn't lift. Lift you bastard! My knees began to tremble and they were all still fucking staring at me. Everything began to spin, as I stumbled on their gaze became more fixed and greater in numbers. I fell to my knees, I was vulnerable and weak and these children wanted to get me. I forced my arm up and held my cigarette aloft. One of the children approached me slowly, and the sky began to turn a deep crimson, the rain turned into needles and the child grinned sickly in my face. "Be gone!" I screamed, and with that plunged my cigarette into its cheek. It recoiled and yelped and cried and I shouted "Victory!" as it fell to the floor. I heard a faint voice in the distance, it sounded like "Oh my god what is he doing? What's he done?!" but I don't know I was too busy trying to finish the child off.

I felt something grab my shoulders and pull me back. Then there was a sharp pain in the back of my stupid bald head, and every colour in the world faded slowly.