Chatterton





      His death flitted past unnoticed by the busy streets below. The flame of his life flickered and died. Only the sky, it's colour reflecting the deadly poison that had taken the young writer's life, seemed to know of his tragic death.

      He lay motionless upon his hard and dirty bed, his arm hanging to the floor, his head rolled to the side in an almost unsightly fashion, causing drool to drip from the side of his mouth to the floor, where it landed on the remnants of his most prized works, torn beyond recognition.

      The death of Thomas Chatterton was not a peaceful one, although the look on his face said otherwise. His beautiful, youthful face said 'here is a man who was happy to die and who had nothing left but death in his future. Here is a man who chose his death, rather than allowing his hunger and failure to consume him.'

      His death had been agonising. It had been torturous up until the seconds before his final heartbeat, where-upon he had turned to gaze on the torn manuscripts and allowed a smile to play on his lips for the first time in months. His eyes closed slowly, weakly...and he was gone.

      The physical pain he suffered in his last moments; the stabbing pain in his stomach that had caused him to retch and eventually disgorge the bile that burned in his belly, the dryness in his throat that caused him to cough uncontrollably 'til it was raw, and the desperate agony that coursed through him when he fell to the bed, his bowels voiding themselves; all of this was nothing compared to the emotional torture he had put himself through in his last months.

      He had screamed and he had laughed hysterically through the tears of a broken, defeated man who only had one glorious choice remaining. His cries had rung through his room and out through the window where the sound shivered in the air and then disappeared amongst the babble. He had torn his jacket from his back, shaken his scarlet hair into a messy frenzy and kicked one of his shoes across the room, smashing a dirty, spotted mirror, discarded on the floor.

      He thought back on his life for a moment; on the torment that was his life; and found nothing there that could conjure even the slightest rise in his mood. His love of books, his research and especially his poetry were the only things that could and ever would content him, but he had no fond memories to call his own.

      And yet despite this, he was happy, in an odd, almost sick way. The fact that he could look back on his life and see nothing worth mentioning made this so much easier.

      Although his body lay lifeless now, in the last moments before his skin paled to a deathly grey, the warmth of his youth shone through. His clothes appeared richer and more colourful. His fiery hair seemed to glow in the dull light of the tiny room, warmer and brighter than it ever had in life.

Erica Cochrane

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