Tom sat at his desk, paralysed for work, voices screaming. Again he studied and sniffed the stain on his index finger, now many layers deep. His self-harm ritual had burgeoned to a full-blown death wish. Every thirty minutes he would shuffle downstairs, lock himself in his car and administer another dose. The act was devoid of pleasure, the pain immediate and sharp. With every drag he imagined a tumour nestling in his left lung, greedily devouring that which made it stronger. Smoking had once brought relief, stilling his panic and sating the force that wanted him dead. Now it was means to permanent peace, but one no longer imbued with the consolation of erotic fantasy.

A photo stock book lay open before him. Tom flicked to 'Going on Holiday'. Mauritius, Micronesia, Thailand, Tahiti, even Australia. Flawless shots of cobalt skies, powder sand and transparent seawater.

Tom's eyes smarted and grew hot. So much beauty; so much world; so much life to be enjoyed. But not for him. At thirty-three he'd voided his right to visit such places. In systematically destroying his body, he'd reneged on a fundamental deal with God. The cancer surely clutching at him was God saying: 'I gave you a perfect life: money, love, career, health, imagination - and you threw it back in my face. Journey not then among my creations, you petulant, self-indulgent f*ckhead'.

A tear splashed onto the expensive paper and ran into a Jamaican estuary. This was as close as Tom would get to Paradise and he wondered if he could hold it together for another eight hours.

To be continued...