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I had hoped that on arrival the weather would be performing
dramatically; that the buildings would be looming out of thick fog, or
that thunder and lightning would be battling in the sky. Or perhaps
that there would be uncharacteristicly clear and warm weather for the
time of year, with surreal blue skies and crisp shadows. Instead,
above me was the standard grey that there isn't a suitable metaphor
for; the kind of grey you expect in the first week. It was raining
slightly.

Flash forward to summer.

At two o'clock in the morning it is still quite hot. I can feel the
heat radiating off the concrete of the footpath beneath me and the
bricks of the wall on which I am sitting are keeping the backs of my
legs pleasantly warm too. I can see clearly, because my eyes have
adjusted to the darkness, but for someone turning off the well-lit
main road and onto the avenue it will seem very dark. Their
vision will be further impeded by the plane trees that line this
road. I am waiting for the right person to come past. I think I'll
know who it is when they arrive. I stroke the heavy piece of pipe on
the wall next to me. Surprisingly, it is quite cool to the touch.

A couple of men walk past, talking loudly to each other. They don't
notice me.

Time passes. The night has an almost metallic smell to it. I can hear
the trees growing.

I hear light, nervous footprints approaching, and I become alert. It
must be three o'clock by now. I would check my watch but it's too dark
to see the dial properly. I've chosen the part of the wall between the
two sodium lamps performing the most feeble impression of the sun
imaginable. I'm right; it is an undergraduate returning to college,
possibly from some late-night tryst. I pick the pipe up, and silence
my breathing.

I can taste blood in my mouth, so I reason that I must have bitten my
tongue in anticipation. It doesn't matter. My victim is close now.
Closer. Closest. I jump.

Hitting out with the pipe is like hitting a cushion so I hit and hit
and strike and strike and there is no noise but just the rushing of
blood in my ears and in my mouth and I keep hitting even though an
annoying little voice in my head is keeping a tally saying "twenty" so
this is why there "twenty-one" are so many stab wounds in knife
assaults "twenty-two" because it's so easy and I have to hit lower now
because she has fallen to the floor "twenty-three" and now it is time
for me to run so I run.

I'm back in my room and after washing the blood from the pipe and my
hands in the sink there doesn't seem to be anything better to do, so I
log on and read my e-mail.

I find that if I stare at the candle in my dimly lit room long enough,
I start to get tunnel vision. This is how I want to exist at the
moment; I want to feel that the end is closer now, and I want the
darkness to gather around me. Soon it will all be over. I take a last
glance at the keyboard in front of me, and prepare to type in the last
two sentences.

I swallow the final tablet in the bottle. It worries me to think that,
at the end of it all, it is quite possible that the only death I am
really responsible for is my own.