Possible Novel: Excerpt.

Been a while for anyone who reads this...ive been on something of a creative binge lately (cue wanker alert) and am about ten pages deep in this thing. This is a short bit, but would dig knowing if there is something there.
Be honest, Im a big boy (with the feelings of a small girl), ha. Seriously though, slam it if it need be slammed.
Thanks......



Patrick felt as though he had been reborn into a shittier world. Without any sort of human contact, not a foot in any door or a finger in any pie, he was completely alone now and, as much nasty incentive he had given people to stay away from him, there was nothing he hated more than being alone.
The one little thing that made him any sort of human was gone and it would never be back. He was lucky to find someone so young and unassuming. His own kind would never take him in, he was too damaged- like a broken toy that was of no use to anyone because it wasn’t fun anymore.
‘4 O’clock at St. Andrews’ jumped out again at the end of the bulletin. He would have to go, there was no way he could avoid the chance to thank his young friend on the off chance he was heading to something better. The news faded into something about a sperm bank and Patrick reefed the plug from the wall with a weak tug.
He rumbled out of bed with the aching bones of a grave digger and puttered around the house. It seemed a long time since he had dressed himself properly and an era since he had donned the suit. The suit was a looming thing that Patrick hadn’t much fondness for. It stood in the closet as though being worn by someone’s spirit.
It had been an all purpose outfit; weddings, graduations, court dates, funerals. Each made him sad at the state of himself, for different reasons. Funerals, unsurprisingly, most of all; at each one he was sure he would be the next to go.
The suit had only been worn on one happy occasion, his graduation from high school. It wasn’t the sort of- we made it, we are on to better things, kind of feeling. He had wanted to get out of that, away from people and learning and bullshit since he had gotten into it and that suit ushered him out in style.
It was new when he had worn it then, by now it was thirty years old, but it still fit. He hadn’t bloated like so many do in their middle age, and had stopped growing at sixteen. So, except for the fraying seams and the old bones and flesh that occupied it, it looked as though it was purchased last week.
He lit a cigarette and walked to the cupboard. He looked at the suit and in a moment of fight or flight seized it and put it on in a rush. It was still eight hours until the funeral, but he knew he wouldn’t have the courage to face the dismal garments if not for now.
Then he went to the bathroom and rubbed a handful of warm water over his scratched scalp and through his thick beard. He looked at his ageing face for a moment and let out a chesty sigh. He could see every bad decision written in fine print amongst the malar bags beneath his eyes and the narrow creases of his forehead. He turned and went to the veranda.

T.