3 Spoons: Journeys into Adulthood

3 Spoons: Journeys into Adulthood 3 Spoons: Journeys into Adulthood

Status: Finished

Genre: Other


Status: Finished

Genre: Other


Come join me on a psychedelically dark set of emotionally disturbing yet childishly comic tales! Or don't, as it's probably crap. But can I tempt you by mentioning that the characters include a depressed toilet, a dead dictator, an angry stockbroker with an axe, and God's testicle? If so, I like you :)


Come join me on a psychedelically dark set of emotionally disturbing yet childishly comic tales!

Or don't, as it's probably crap. But can I tempt you by mentioning that the characters include a depressed toilet, a dead dictator, an angry stockbroker with an axe, and God's testicle? If so, I like you :)

Chapter1 (v.1) - The End of the Beginning 1 - Hilltop Cemetary

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: October 26, 2012

Reads: 956

Comments: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: October 26, 2012



I walked, needlessly purposefully. I am me, I am you, I am in image all that you would imagine in your darkest most desperate moments; I am still me, and I am still you.

It is night, and I am walking by an old row of stone houses. The street lights are a dim orange alongside the bright lights coming from peoples windows as they watch their evening television, eat supper, talk to a fellow resident of the house, play a computer game or make love to their partner. On the other hand, they could be joylessly using drugs, eating unhealthy foods alone, arguing, fighting, self harming or simply staring unambitiously vacantly into middle distance in that special way that only misery and despair can enforce.

There is no-one out in the cold with me, perhaps that proves I am the only one. And yet, how can I be? How can I be the only person in this whole stupid fucking world that can see the absurdly comical yet harrowing pointlessness of the lives we humans have built for ourselves? Or is it simply that I am the only one who cares? How can we have so much technology, and use it to keep competing, fighting and belittling one another? How can we have come so far, and yet moved barely an inch? It can't just be nature, otherwise I must be a freak. A freak of peace, togetherness, tolerance, understanding, respect and emotional depth. In other words, a pretentious twat. It is not normal to want both entertainment and depth, there is only escapism or intellect- never both.

I have reached my destination is a phrase that makes us think of 'sat-nav'. Nevertheless, it is perfectly legitimate to use it when you arrive at the place you set out on a journey to reach, and my destination, although I admit I had only decided on it after leaving my residence, was Hilltop Cemetery. It is a large graveyard, and has a view that spans over a sizeable section of the city. In the day, it is a breath-taking view of warehouses, factories, sports centres, schools, parks and other large man-made structures. In the night, though, these have become invisible, and are replaced by an equally impressive yet wholly different beauty radiating from the orange glows of street lights, cars, houses and flats.

Fucking stupid bollocks I don't know what the fucking point is. I mean, seriously, what is the actual point? Why go through all this pain and suffering? Surely the world is capable of being so much better a place? Where we can trust each other, confide in one another, help our fellow human, all the time knowing you will receive the same level of trust, respect and help? Obviously not, the current set up would imply. Of course, things could change, clearly there is no physical reason a co-operative world could never exist, the shit bit is that I can do nothing to bring it about. That is to say, I could, but I most definitely do not have anywhere near enough self confidence or skills to seriously attempt it. Nor would anyone listen if I did.

Sigh. The problem is, those around me, they don't see themselves as bad people. They just get on with things, questioning little fundamental to their daily life. Confident affirmation of an idea that is easy to believe will suffice, for the most important parties involved anyway. And as, by virtue of not holding a respected position, sufficient self confidence and/or precisely the correct set of socio-political moral values, I am not important, so I am fucked. I am a target for blame, a disliked, ill-respected figure to mock. And as a result I do things wrong. I can't stand up for myself. I snap at people. I make mistakes. Then I feel less comfortable and more miserable and I do them more.

Another sigh, and I look out over the city once more. Do any of these people I'm alluding to live in these lights I'm seeing now? The answer, of course, is that it doesn't fucking matter, they're all still twats.

Or are they? Really? They have come out with some things that were definitely twatish, but then again, without meaning to, so have I. Furthermore, some of their comments have not been so bad at all. It must be considered, then, that it would not matter which group of people you could pluck out from those lights that travel over yonder, I would always be a miserable outcast. That is, if they formed a situation in which I was required to take part in socially after they already knew each other and had become knowledgeable. I would waltz in, or creep anyway, simultaneously fearing reprimand from all levels that have been created, knowing that I sympathise with one over the other but also knowing they haven't been great either and anyway they may sympathise more with the other than me. And is it their fault that I am nervous, paranoid, and making mistakes as a result? Should I not be offering my opinion and standing up for myself by clearly stating my case? Should I not just go out of my way to great personal distress and little reward? Should I not use common sense to know when something is genuinely important and when it is a silly rule? Should I not value and love life, free as I am from cancer or starvation?

I look at the pavement. It seems that is what is expected, that I should just be able to go about it all confidently, as doing so seems to bring the rewards. Mistakes are not made, and when they are, they are easily rectifiable, and no-one shall reprimand you. Funny how the levels correspond.

But for all I keep saying how much it is other peoples fault, my psyche is such that it can't seem to handle the situation. It wouldn't matter who. Or would it? I have friends, I get on with people fine elsewhere.

Or do I? Actually are my friends not capable of showing dick-headed behaviour? Intolerance? Lazyness? Is there any hope left?

I look at the gravestones either side of me.

John and Irene Phillips- lovingly taken 1992, reunited 2000.

Ronald Gareth Jenkins- rest in peace 1937-1999

Joan Couldwell- never forgotten 1929-2008

Sarah Louise Rippon- our lost treasure 1965-2005

Robert, Jennifer and Joey Harper- regretfully taken from us 17th June 2002 aged 32, 29 and 8

Deacon White- always a song in our hearts 1946-2009

Margeret Clarkson- in loving memory 1921-1998

Daniel 'Jack' Chelmsford- 1932-1992

Do you know what I find most depressing about all this? It is not the more tragic younger deaths such as the Harper's, nor is it the perversely bland and forgotten looking gravestones such as Joan's and Margeret's, nor even is it the chaotically weed ridden grave of Ronald that has blown over in the wind and broken.


It is, in fact, the mind numbingly banal sentiments engraved upon their stones. Do any of these comments mean anything personal to the people whose rotting bodies and dry, broken bones lay in those graves? Daniel, for fucks sake, does not even have a message!

Although, does Mr. Deacon White hold some salvation for us all? Was he, perhaps, a talented musician who never made it? A passionate lover of music whose enthusiasm enriched peoples lives? Or even someone who every week, without fail, got up after a few pints and belted out a few at a karaoke night? Was he indeed a person who did something relevant to the caption designed to honour his memory now he is no longer with us?

What the hell does it matter. Chances are, everyone in this graveyard was some-one who just got on with life, did a job, had kids, had a pint, went to church, went on holidays, watched tv, and all else uninteresting. What none of them ever did, I suspect, was rock the boat. At least, not in any serious, genuinely well thought out positive manner anyway. No, chances are, they were just more bodies going through the motions of perpetuating our pathetic existence.

Or were they though? How the fuck do I know the first thing about any of them? Maybe one of the people in here is the person most similar to me throughout all of history. And fucking hell, we probably wouldn't get on over some fuck-arse stupid moment. Nevertheless, maybe, in this graveyard, there lies revolutionaries, peace-niks, rebels and troublemakers of the greatest kind!

And yet, in death, there is nothing. Nothing on these graves, with their wilted flowers and gothic lettering, to suggest anything of real inspiration.

Then I should do the opposite, and in death I could stand out! If any of them did. Look at all those lights turning off over the city, the unquestioning masses going to bed to get a good nights sleep in order to be well rested for whatever pointlessly unrewarding day they have laid out in front of them. I shall compose a letter, one that will make the national news given the nature of what I am going to do! Force the whole world to take note of the shit some people can't take, the misery we have to live in!

Which means I need to write it, so I walk as fast as my shitty aching legs will take me, back to where I live, looking at nothing as I walk, 100% focused. I arrive, praising abstract notions for the lonely quiet that greets me when I arrive. Paper, clipboard, pen, vodka, scissors. Straight back out. The same determined psychosis. Back to Hilltop Cemetery.

I sit down on a bench, my back to the dead and my face to the living, then I write. I write and write and write, and it is a scribbled rant, I know this, but in there is exactly how I feel, why I feel it. I am sat there writing for around half an hour, or it could have been a day, or possibly 2 minutes. At one point a ridiculously late night dog walker walked past, they ignored me. I don't need to tell you what I wrote, it is more or less the same as this. A bit more personal perhaps. A bit more psychotic at times. A bit more designed at trying to encourage people to feel a hint of guilt over how I feel. After all, I'm not perfect, but I genuinely try to be the nicest, most ethically aware person I can be. And there is no doubt many don't. And it is not just the chavs, crooks and politicians. It is the student who has no idea, sympathy or tolerance of the difficulties other people have and how this can turn someone into worse person. It is the supervisor who uses their position to casually belittle staff who lack confidence and/or make honest mistakes. It is the man who boasts of his sexual conquest, physical strength and social contacts, and designs his boasts to place himself above others in the estimation of his peers. It is the straight laced and sober person who sneers at the the user- they are not as cool as they think. It is the party animal who sneers at the straight laced and sober- they do not hold the moral high ground they claim they do. It is the person who works 50 hours a week, all for themselves, no time and respect for those that do not wish to give their life to a career. It is the lazy person who has inherited enough not to have to work very hard, and who subsequently cannot allow for the difficulties others face.

It is a fucking million things that are far too numerous to mention. Well thought out, read about, watched about and if possible discussed morals, with all viewpoints coming into play, that's my dream. What a mad dream eh? Shouldn't I want to be rich and famous? In other words, have every consumer good I could ever want and a top spot in the popularity/respect stakes?

The whole damn world is sickening. I feel a bit sick now. Probably the vodka. Then again, all the things I am afraid of, bitter about and scarred by rushing through me is pretty fucking naasea inducing too. Nevertheless, I scribbled down a section on them all. Any guilt I have. Any acknowledgement of anger I feel is deserved. Any sadness that has been forced on me. It was a critique of myself and the world, delivered by a pen in a freezing cold hand, a quarter bottle of vodka and and a tear, by some-one insignificant.

But not for long. My final comment on the paper is thus;

I wish my gravestone to read-

'While I Rest In Peace, my final wish is that you can all begin to Live In Peace'

Then I throw the paper and clipboard onto the pavement in front of me, and turn to face the gravestones. I slouch and look down to the ground, and wished I could cry. I open my eyes in the cold, hoping it will force them out. It works, as I soon find my face wet with pointlessly enforced tears. Then I sit up with purpose and resolve, and I whisper;

“It's time to join you guys.”

I took the scissors out of my pocket, and swigged the final droplets of vodka from the bottle. I roll up my sleeve, look around, put the bottle under the bench and place a scissor blade against my forearm. I look around once more, then push the blade against my skin. There is just a hint of pain. I looked around one final time, then pulled back.


It's just a scratch. I put the scissor blade onto my arm and pull back again, far less anticipation this time.


Another scratch.

Then I start scratching and scratching, but only vague hints of blood shine through. It is a pathetic, derisory attempt.

The gravestones. The living twats behind me. Resolve.



That's a good one, fair bit of blood pulsing out, but it's only the top of my arm, not even worthy of a hospital visit. Still, again!


It has a sibling!

But it is still no more than a flesh wound, it will heal. Shit, might scar, that will be embarrassing. Ruined my jumper too (?)

Now then, the wrist? No I don't like that. Something about wrists. My neck. Yes. I have scissors, that fits. I close them up and dig the point right into the centre of my forehead, so that it hurts nicely. Then I open up the scissors and hold a handle in each hand, and place the blades either side of my adams apple. I hold them there. Tears are no problem now as they stream down my face. My hands are shaking. I hold them there longer. Do it! I dig them in and fasten them over just slightly. My breathing is restricted and I can feel definite pain despite the adrenaline and psychosis. Is that sweat, tears or blood dripping down from my neck? I don't know. I hold them over my neck still, expecting something to happen, but of course it doesn't. Why does my life not flash before my eyes? Would I prefer to be saved and the note still found? No, I'd hate the attention from that. Probably. Why do I not just SNAP! the blades together yet? I am resolved. Remember what you are doing. I am to join the dead and martyr myself for the cause of being a nice and open minded person! Yes! That is it! Now! I feel it! I feel the blades against my neck, the mundane frivolity of scissors! I know I am nothing in life! I know I will never be anything in life! I know in death, I will never even know of my failure! Rest In fucking Peace at a fucking minimum! I am choking against the metal of the renaissance! I am holding the handles of the everlasting love! I am sat here on the mount where all shall cease to be, and humankind may finally achieve salvation! Not from an abstract deity! Not from someone who claims he knows everything! Not from someone smartly dressed! Not from a noticeable person at all, but from someone who has had it with all the shit that exists! Someone that was too pathetic to stand up for himself or what was right, but who when he cannot be put upon, intimidated or demeaned, can deliver a timeless message that can live on throughout the ages! A message of love! Peace! Open-mindedness! Respect! Togetherness! Tolerance! Democracy! Study! Fairness! Happiness and joy through self awareness, contentment, security and inclusion! A better world, where no-one will feel like this!


I threw the scissors away, stood up and hit my head against the bench then collapsed in a heap on the grass. I laid there for an indeterminable amount of time until I heard the voice of another human being. I walked home, ate a microwaveable pasty and a bar of chocolate.


© Copyright 2021 Hill saint Rodent. All rights reserved.


Add Your Comments:


Other Content by Hill saint Rodent

More Great Reading

Popular Tags