Mitchell's Mustard Blog

June 3, 2014

Skint and Sober

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:22 pm

He sat, pondering on the things in front of him. The way things flowed past without his involvement. He could step forward and be part of the movement, the intimidating movement. It was the intimidating part that kept him in his seat, his weighted body, carrying the thoughts of yesterday and fears of tomorrow. His pint was sour. Before it had reached him, it was poured by beauty, a golden glow that enticed the many. In his hand, it was a weapon for his thoughts, a reason to sway in and out of a path he once stumbled. The days he was unstoppable, uncontrollable, invincible. It’s when the crowds stop cheering, your audience stops following, your band stops playing. It all changed, it all stopped, it was only his addictions that carried on. It had taken him years to conquer heroin, the substance that drained him of his money, his fame, his friends, but worst of all, his marriage. The rock that held him together walked out and left him with the only other rock he knew, the narcotic kind. He hadn’t seen his wife and children in nearly three years, he didn’t even know how to contact them. He feared she would one day see his name in the obituaries, and then keep turning the pages without a blink. His pride wished she knew that he was clean now. In the Hollywood life style in which he had been sold, she would come back to him, hold him and tell him all was ok. But he knew the Hollywood lifestyle was a farce, a rabbit hole he had tumbled down, with every bump, he had lost a little of him and gained a little of them. The ones that love and surround you until you’re skint and sober, dropped like a hat in a coastal wind.
The beauty that poured his last pint asked if he’d like another. Not realising he had finished the last, he had been rolling the empty glass between his palms, his wedding ring making a rhythmic chime. This is probably what caught her attention.
The new golden glow of the glass stared into his eyes, the cold on his hands, he thought of her.
He needed to pull his life together, find his family, recreate his existence. He told himself this everyday, but as always, the beauty behind the bar kept working, the stool he sat on stayed warm, and the golden glass kept staring into his soul. Once an addict, always an addict she had said. As always, she was right, wherever she was.


May 15, 2014

To Whom it May Concern

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:54 pm

To whom it may concern,

To gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

I crave your attention to cure my loneliness,
to fill the gaping hole that resides in my chest,
a decision made on impulse,
rather than a future to invest,
a hand to hold, but I don’t love you,
I shrug and confess.

I become tired of being grounded,
so I unwrap myself from your arms,
saying things that pierce your skin,
punch drunk from your angry palms,
selfish greed floats to the surface,
swallowing my good intentions and charms.

I will hurt you, its nothing personal,
to crave a love, It’s not intentional,
to gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

A restlessness that will always prevail,
love that mimics the weather,
I smiled, and nodded along,
but it was only you who said forever,
I hold my head high as I bleed from the inside,
when did together really mean together?

The grass will never be greener,
on the other side it’s just the same,
it starts with a similar breathtaking feeling,
but it just ends as a different face and name,
I’m sorry to cause confusion,
but I’m still glad you came.

I will hurt you, its nothing personal,
to crave a love, It’s not intentional,
to gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

I’m sorry, its nothing personal,
I did crave your love, but not any more
to gain, to love, to change, and to lose,
It’s what I do.

February 21, 2012

So here it is . . . . my Writers & Artists 2012 competition entry

Filed under: My Work — Tags: , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:46 pm

Also Known As

Nothing strikes despair within like watching your girlfriend cry your name in fear and pain but being just out of reach, eye watering strength doesn’t get you any closer just like a vacant prayer. Its strange how atheists turn to a higher power in such moments like it’s their one last chance. The feeling of my heart in my throat chokes down the pride, why care what people think right now because she needs me. Seeing the disbelief in her face and the reflection of life in the whites of her bulging eyes, the way her hair dances in slow motion around her panicked features. Everything seems slower under water but time will never be on my side, watching bubbles of life leave the lips I kissed just minutes before we hit. Panic hits me as she starts to relax on the other side of the window, I kick and punch but the window just won’t budge. Is it the water that’s sending her to sleep or my inability to save her in this situation? Remembering when three addictive words passed your lips for the first time, on the other side of this window those lips are now turning blue. It was my job to protect her, not endanger. Why did I have to drive? I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and realise how old I look, stirring to see her hand against my reflection. Palm spread against the transparent water cell. She mouths those three addictive words like she and the water have a silent understanding; they will be her last words so better make them count. No one can see tears under water but sometimes you just know they’re there, an empty stare as her body starts to dance just like her hair. The car and I start to part as it carries on sinking and my lungs start to burn, the car disappears as the bottom of the river becomes dark. Panic . . . . A huge intake of air. . . . No scream . . . . Sat bolt upright.

My nightmare is a cruel reminder of the past, creeping up when I’m at my weakest to rattle my bones like a toy. My bed sheets seem to learn a new constricting body hold each night whilst trying to find a way of making us become one. Sticky heat and sweaty pores used to be a summer rarity in my bed but now it’s the only way I know. I can get used to the clammy start to the day but the nightmares, the feeling that my heart is about to make an appearance through my chest never seems to be acceptable or feel like normality in the morning. I slowly shed my second skin to head towards the bathroom in slight fear of turning on the eye blistering light. Plucking up the courage whilst my hand is on the light cord I count to three. 1. . 2 . . 3. . The light exploded in to life and like every explosion you are left with the aftermath, the debris that needs clearing, the injuries that need attention and the surroundings that need reassurance. All this devastation behind one pair of eyes. I look into the mirror knowing what’s going to be staring back at me. The bathroom looks a mess, I look a mess and my life is a mess.

Melissa, even her name rolled off the tongue oozing with sexuality and confidence. She was what’s known as a true muse to my lost way of existence, an inspiration to do what’s right in this world of wrong doings. On the night of our four year anniversary we went to her favourite restaurant on cobbled streets in the heart of Cambridge, as always it was amazing food with great atmosphere. The entertainment was from the regular pianist we had got to know over the years who had become a good friend. He was an aging man with the heart and soul of a teen, plunging his fingers on notes that could stop you in your tracks or tap your foot without effort depending on his mood. We discussed our future. Discussed our love for each other and laughed about our plans.  This was the night she happily told me good news she was expecting our first child; this isn’t the reason I will always remember that night. I will always remember that night because that was the night I killed her.

Watching the light behind her eyes extinguish no more than a metre away, imprinting that image into my soul. After her empty shell had descended to the bottom of the river my only logical thought was to leave, get away. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they would come looking for me. I wouldn’t have the answers to their questions. They would never understand that question after question about losing my world to a murky river would send me over the edge. I wanted to swim down to find her, hold her, open my eyes and realise it was only a horrible trick from a playful night time mind. I could hold her body in mine and just drift with her, we could both slowly submerge to another existence but I was proving to be a coward. My guilt wanted me to live, to have this story and to be punished for my own decisions.

Standing in this bathroom where the tiled walls had an off white tinge, the smell of untreated mould was unbearable. I looked a gaunt version of myself in the mirror; my reflection reminded me of the junkies that lived in the alleyway behind our flat. She always used to say they looked like they wanted to be someone else, that’s what I needed to do, lose my identity, lose me. It wasn’t safe being me in this current setting. Handing myself in wasn’t an option. I knew I should, if not for her family then mine but I was scared. She wasn’t here to help me anymore; she would have known what to do. I knew nothing about losing who I was, to lose how I looked; all I could do was go into hiding. I found a motel that didn’t need my name as long as I was paying in cash, unfortunately the place looked and felt like somewhere you would only find people who had no identity. Ideal for me as I didn’t want to be found, it was what I needed but couldn’t be further from what I wanted.

She was so wonderful; I can picture her smiling in the restaurant. The beautiful black dress and diamond necklace that complimented her pale skin, I can see her in slow motion, slightly blurred like an old film recording. She had the most amazing smile, the smile that always kept my attention. I always knew whatever problems came our way her smile would defeat and conquer, I needed that smile now. From the celebration of news that I was going to be a father I decided to have a drink for the occasion, I should have made the decision to get a taxi home. Playing over and over in my head but I can’t change it, clearly not ready to take responsibility of fatherhood due to poor judgement that evening. I’ll always be paying the price.

We decided to take the back roads home coming out of Cambridge. Both feeling excited about what is yet to come of our lives we were joking and laughing on our way back. Right at that moment I felt invincible, nothing was going to stop this beautiful woman and I enjoy life. Distracted by the sweet sound of her voice and laughter I misjudged the unlit corner next to a river in a little village. The seconds it took for the car to leave the road and hit the water felt like minutes, the bank was raised so the car lifted off like it was from a ramp. Seeing the fear in her face, the smile had gone.

The rush of cold water against my skin paralysed my thoughts and common sense, panic set in and survival became all that’s known. I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt when we hit, I never did like wearing them and she hated that about me. Under the water I was on the outside of the car looking in on her; I must have been thrown through my window. I had it open a little just to let fresh air into the car. As much as I tell myself that playing it over and over in my head won’t change what’s happened I still do it, my biggest fear playing on a broken record.

I felt dirtier stepping out of the shower than before I stepped into it. I was getting used to the wet dog smell from the complementary motel towels I used to dry myself off with. I sat, I paced the room. I had nothing but memories to keep me occupied. I sat and stared at a picture of Melissa that still haunted a compartment in my wallet. She was sat with a smile just like times before, a figure with his arm around her belonging to someone I used to recognise. Some mornings I would find myself styling my hair like the man in the photo to see if I could strengthen the recognition but the beard on my face would just confuse the moment. These days it just felt like an identity was slowly drifting in to the past, hidden by the beard and lack of sleep. By looking at the couple in the photo it was hard to believe I could have ever found myself in a situation like them, they were becoming strangers and the picture could well have been cut from the back of a magazine.

I could hear the sirens whilst I lay on my bed, my body felt like stone. The sirens were louder than ever before but my body seemed to ignore the pounding of my heart. I could feel my heart pound in my head; the pounding seemed to match the sound coming from the door.  I lay staring at the ceiling thinking of the other side. As I heard people shouting out in the hall way I just thought of her smile. I didn’t react when the door was forced off of its hinges. I didn’t react when the room was filled with uniformed police. Losing my own identity meant I started to lose the memories of her, she was part of the figure I recognised in the photo not part of the man I had become.

“Is this him?” said one officer,

“Yeah this is him . . .  also known as Dan Mitchell” the other officer replied whilst dropping the wallet in a plastic bag.

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