Happy

by Fionn Rogan

I was enjoying the crackle of the loose-packed tobacco being pursued by the dull orange burn drawing down the shaft of the cigarette when I noticed the light. The sun beamed down through a frothy morning sky pregnant with promise. Hanging through the aluminum window, the cold dew of the windowsill felt damp to my elbows and I savoured the gentle nipping of the breeze on my naked chest. 

Starlings chirped, sung and frolicked in the bare branches of the beech tree in the back garden and I thought between the sixth and seventh inhalation, 

“Fuck. I’m happy.”

It crept up along my calf. Skipped along my thigh. Erupted across my back, gripping my neck and reefed my head back forcing out breathless heaving guffaws. I was throttled by the joy. I surrendered to the crippling glee as sheer optimism and hope for the day thrashed me and threw me to the ground. Powerless to resist the smothering grin being painted across my lips I realised that if I didn’t share this feeling it’d kill me.

Strangled by delight, writhing upon the ground I wrestled my phone from my pocket. Dragging it before my face I brought up Facebook with trembling fingers and posted, ‘I love you all.’

The message’s delivery to all my friends confirmed by a tiny tick, I collapsed against my bed with a sigh. Feeling the unbearable happiness lift from me a soft contentedness glided into its place. Warm and bathed in light I hummed and let my limbs float softly down by my side. Calmed by the red haze behind closed lids I was shook awake by the shrill ring and clattering call of my phone.

Three Facebook notifications. Friend x, y, and z have commented on your status.

“Fionn, are you ok?”

“Is everything all right man?”

“What happened?”

And then my mother called.