A forgotten story I found in my notebook the other day... (Part un)

“Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone.”
― George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

It was five-thirty on a Thursday morning.  In some parts of the world, I could imagine, bursts of color screamed through the sky.  But this was London.  Gray-fucking London.  I sucked down the cigarette -- I could see Montgomery in his most loathsome moments as he torched down the end of a cigarette with naught but lung -- and shamed, discarded it just as quickly.  A near-audible groan of disgust.  I looked down at my remaining tobacco -- three cigarettes, tightly-rolled, still remaining.  I agreed with myself that there would be one more by the time I was out the door.  My mind was no place for cultivating shame.  

I dressed, having forgot to bathe. I was fully clothed at this point and the thought of the effort of--well, it was too much.

Out the window: some dirty street.  An oxen bleated as its owner directed it, and its closest fellows, to the slaughter.  Some children were laughing, running circles around Mr. Brown.  What he was doing in this neighborhood--well he was like to catch a beating if any of the regulars saw him this far north.  The sounds coming through the window as muted as the sun through the clouds.  

The homeless man finally managed to shoo the children away, his curses having being joined by threats.  They knew about his left hand.  Another bleat but at this point the oxen had succumbed. 

I could smell freshly burning tobacco.  It had been a long six months without Montgomery.  A tan frock coat waited for me, and once abused to an acceptable level of cleanliness, I slipped gingerly into it, shifting cigarette from hand to hand.

"Boots," I uttered out loud.  "You forgot your boots."

I fought briefly with one before I found myself on my rear.  I took a good long hit on the cigarette and sat there contemplating my lot with a fervor that can be conjured by only the most self-pitying.

There was one good thing: her shadow had seemed to be replaced by the one developed by my depression.  It was no comfort for me to be so self-aware, either.  It only seemed to further dampen my will--my resolve--that I, educated, well-mannered, of sound mind, could not lift myself out of it; and being thus, I certainly could not ask for the aid of another.  Whispers become rumors become fact and there was already enough whispered about Montgomery and I that I was in no mood to further their progression.  

It was a desolate path I walked --made all the more treacherous knowing that it was--in some part--self-created and self-fulfilling.  What more frightening thought than thinking that you were the creator--propagator--of our own insanity?

There are the lies the beautiful tell us and then the ones we tell ourselves.  I much prefer the former.

Author's note: I'll include some comments with Part Two regarding where I thought/think this would/might go.  I do have a path forward but no vision of the challenge that is presenting itself--usually the problem is inverted.