Thomas decided to begin his life at fourteen, what was before was forgotten and what followed he derived from an idea. Thomas was reviled at school for the wilful and indulgent way in which he set himself apart.
The idea that nature was pure and that as part of it he embodied purity became him. He reasoned the natural must be correct, whatever its end, however brutal its means. In the idea the prevailing landscape of brutality is demonstrably true and therefore he concluded sufficient.
On this morning the soap he lathers across his body does not purify but it is necessary, as is the hard bristle brush and the scalding water. Red skin and the singing cuts on his hands and neck howl as he scrubs harder with a bullying efficiency, he punishes his body zealously, directing the shower full against his skin. His corona has a graze that is raw.
Thomas has never sworn, even though he can be angry and vengeful, Thomas has never loved though he can be tender. Thomas is lithe and well worked, superficially attractive, attractive to queers mostly and angry about their interest in him. There have been women but mostly there has been just him. Thomas is a harsh man, quick to judge but funny, he has had some success.
Drying himself in the squalor of the bathroom doesn’t matter but only one dirty towel does, he wishes he’d looked for a clean one before he’d got in but it’s too cold to wander wet back out now to see if anything had been washed and dried. And anyhow, he’s not one to want to expose himself unnecessarily and he'd long learnt that aftermath is no place to linger. His clothes are damp and cling unhelpfully when he pulls them on, light blue herringbone cotton collared shirt, three buttons at the top undone, the rest left in haste where they were before he’d ripped it off, trousers a little crumpled but of good wool, orange leather brogues over cashmere socks bought from an on-line discount store.
A stream of profanity crashes into him as he steps out of the bathroom, closing the panelled Victorian door and tousling his hair into something that resembles grooming. He keeps it short now as he often forgets to carry a comb. He likes to leave the fabric of things tidy, to maintain balance, the girl and the room are a mess of morning after disgust and resentment, despite her pleading there was no way he’d budge and help her.
Thomas picks up the phone and dials a number he’s dialled before, hands the handset to her, presses his fingers to his slightly pursed lips and turns away. The flat door is heavy and with an old Yale lock it sounds final as it slams shut behind him.
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