i will

You will listen. You will listen to every single word I utter; each is as important as the next. You will remember every detail of my speech. Everything you hear is fact. Nothing will be disputed here. Imagine that I am the voice of God. I have the power to take your fate from you and guide you down the path of my choosing. You will listen to my every word and comply with my every whim. Your memories will come to the surface of your mind. You will remember. You will remember your past and inhabit those thoughts with an open mind.

i will listen to your every word
i will relive my memories

You were at home. It was Sunday afternoon. The sun was bright, unusually so for that early in the year. It was March. The day was dry and you decided, no, you were told by your wife to cut the lawn. You wouldn’t say it, but you would rather sit in the front room with a cup of Earl Grey: your favourite tea. With reluctance, you made your way to the bottom of the garden, to the shed, to fetch the lawn mower. You noticed a fence panel was broken. You assumed it was next-door’s cat, Kitty. The rhubarb needed relocating, a job for the autumn. The violet lily-bulbs needed replanting. The shed door was stiff, but you couldn’t remember where the oil was. You snagged your finger on the doorframe while heaving out the mower. You were in pain. Can you feel it? You started mowing. Vibrations ran through your hands – through your arms – your whole body. The sun made you sweat, but you had to continue. Your wife smiled from the house; you had to continue. Your garden was large so you pushed on. The mower droned on endlessly, wearisomely, monotonously, and you felt yourself drifting. You veered off the garden into the hedgerow. A stone chipped at the blades and stalled the motor. You were angry. You couldn’t continue. Time passed. Your indigo shirt was stained with sweat and oil. You couldn’t finish mowing the lawn because the lawn mower was broken. Your wife was upset because you didn’t mow the lawn. You feel: ashamed. You feel ashamed because of Peter Morgan.

i cannot console my wife

September. You were reading the paper. It is your favourite past time. You enjoy the local stories. You felt like you were part of a community. The paper was thin in your hands. It reminded you of Christmas when you were a child. The wrapping paper was thin and easily ripped. You were reading the paper. You were reading the local stories. But with each page, each story, each paragraph, each word, each letter – your eyes lost focus. You found it harder and harder to read, up to the point where the newspaper was a blur of strange symbols. You were reading the paper. It was your favourite past time. You couldn’t enjoy the stories because you couldn’t read the words. You couldn’t read the words to help yourself relax. You started to worry about the world. You started to imagine the world passing you by. You were panicked. You couldn’t relax. You couldn’t relax because of Peter Morgan.

i cannot relax
i fear for the world

December. You were listening to the radio late at night. The warmth of your home surrounded you. You felt safe. You were listening to Moonbow. Repeats on Radio 4. Master Alexander, the one in the band, said, ‘An actor’s voice is his greatest instrument.’ You know nothing of acting – only real life. You were on the brink of sleep. You could feel a dream forming in your mind. The beach. A perfect memory. But on that beach you saw Peter Morgan. The radio silenced; the lights faded; the heating waned. The warmth vanished and the steely blue light of night made you feel: vulnerable. You spent the night lighting candles and wrapping your children in thin blankets, like newspaper. You prayed, like you so often do. They said they were cold. You couldn’t make them feel warm. They will fall ill. You couldn’t make them warm because the heating wasn’t connected. The heating wasn’t connected because there was a power cut to your whole road. There was a power cut because of Peter Morgan.

my children are ill
i cannot keep them safe

You will listen to my every word. Your will is mine, and your life is dictated by my voice and my voice alone. God guides your path. You path will lead you to Peter Morgan. I am the voice of God – a voice that visits you at night. I do not exist. This room does not exist. Your binds do not exist. You are free. These choices are yours. This is your life.

i will lead my own life

You are at home it is the middle of the night. You can hear the sounds of cars passing the road outside you house. You can taste stale fuzz on your tongue. It makes you think you are unwell. You are not ill. You are in perfect health of both mind and body. You cannot sleep because you are angry. You are angry because you do not have enough money for bills.

i am angry

Why are you angry?
i cannot feed my family

Why can’t you feed your family?
because i have no money

Why do you have no money?
because i pay too much tax

Why do you pay too much tax?
because my contract is incorrect

Why?
because i was tired when i signed…

Why?
because i haven’t slept well in the…

Why?
because i am angry

Why are you angry?
because of Peter Morgan

You are at home. You are awake. You can feel a strange pang in the depth of your stomach. A stabbing pain. You are hungry. Old stairs creep in the darkness. You hope your wife doesn’t wake. She would be displeased. You feel light. You feel beyond the weight of the world. Nothing can hurt you if you are careful. You are always careful. The fridge is in sight. It is dented from when Kitty ran under your feet and you fell. You remember the pain. You remember your wife, kissing your forehead. You remember the dent. You can see it clearly in the light from the alley beside your house. It is so clear. You don’t approve of the changes. It makes your kitchen glow with a bright, bold starkness that could invite burglars inside. You open the fridge. Your eyes do not need to adjust to the light. No food. No drink. There is nothing. Your hunger is left unfed. You are hungry. Your children feel hungry. Why do you feel hungry?

because of Peter Morgan

It is Thursday, early evening. Delma is bringing out her wheelie bins next door. She smiles to you and waves. You shoot her a smile and wave in return. You are polite. You are not an unreasonable man. What does she have in her bins? You stand silently, watching the traffic. Seven cars, four bikes, a van and a coach. You spy several teenagers, five in all, shouting and screaming along the road. They are coming in your direction. You are not an unreasonable man. You give to charity. You gave nearly a thousand pounds to cancer research after your wife’s father died. You watch the teenagers throw empty, green bottles into your garden. You watch them trip and fall over the wall between your lawn and the pavement beyond. You watch as they trample your flowers. The cosmos are crushed. The daisies are dead. They were murdered. You let them die. It is not their fault. You know whom to blame.

Peter Morgan

Fire. Your house is ablaze. Bright yellow flames grow high into the night. You stand outside your house beside the dead daises and the crushed cosmos and weep. Your wife and children are trapped inside. Where is the fire brigade? You don’t know if your eyes are stinging from the smoke or from the crying. You wait. Where are your saviours? Where is your hope? The sky is burnt orange. You smell burning. Wood burns, ash falls, the screams stop. How do you feel?

angry

Yes. Anger – rage. You can feel the fire burn inside your mind. Rain extinguishes the flames, but your thoughts are fervidly alight. You can feel it inside your heart, burning. Your wife is dead. Your children are dead. All the flowers in the garden died. Why? The mower is broken. You cannot read the paper or listen to the radio. The fridge is empty. The power is out. The light is too bright. The bulbs need replanting. Your eyes sting. You are not ill. Your mind is free and clear. You are a reasonable man. You know who is to blame. Tell me. Who do you blame?

Peter Morgan

And what must you do?
sob and cry

And when the tears are gone?
feel: in pain

And when the hurt is gone?
i will rage

And when the anger has burnt your soul?
i will extinguish the flames

You will leave your house at exactly forty-one minutes past seven. It will be raining, heavily; heavily enough for the crack in the conservatory roof to leak. You will hear it from your bedroom where you will take the bag from underneath your bed. You will ignore the leak. If your wife asks you where you are going, you will ignore her too.

i will ignore my wife
i will ignore everything except Peter Morgan

You will follow the road leading north from your house. You will follow the path
through the park. It will be dark, but
i will not be afraid of the darkness

The shadows will be there to guide you through the night. You will follow the
stars. This is
my dream

i will see several teenagers, drinking
i will ignore them
nothing matters except Peter Morgan

You will reach the bus stop. A shoe will be hanging from the roof. Your mind
will
wander for a moment, but i will keep focus

Peter Morgan
Nothing matters except Peter Morgan.

You will turn into Billet Road. You will stop and wait behind a tree when more
teenagers come towards you. You will
not be seen

You will pass ‘Rainbows’, the playschool where your children went when they
were seven. Your children
are dead…
Yes.
and my wife?
Yes.

You will arrive in the city. London is a world away, but yet so close. Peter Morgan made a life for himself in the city. He worked his way through the ranks, through the laws, through the filth of the city.

He is
corrupt

The reason why
i cannot sleep at night

i will keep to the shadows
i will keep hidden… if i am careful i will not be seen

You will go to Spectrum, the restaurant where you met your wife. You will recall the night with fondness and will walk a little faster.

i will skulk in the alley behind the bar, keeping to the shadows
i will reach into the bag,
it will be there.

Peter Morgan will be inside the restaurant.
i will find Peter Morgan inside the restaurant
He will be at table seven.

What will you do? i will kill Peter Morgan
Why? i will set the world free
Would you be happy you will make the world happy
Peter Morgan will be dead you will save the world


But will I save myself?

the last colour you will see is red.