Coming Down in Brighton

J.J. Whelan ‘25

His vision was blurred, and shadows danced across the ceiling of the dingy Brighton flat like ghosts mocking his downfall. The curtains were closed, but slivers of grey morning crept in through the gaps. Brighton was a wonderful playground at night, but a city that slept until the sun went down.

He struggled through the stale fog of sweat, smoke, and regret. His mouth tasted like chemicals, and his head was full of shame.

He didn’t know if he was alive or still tripping. The days had merged into one another; there were no clocks, no sense of time, just a constant cycle of intoxication. Somewhere between the third night and the fifth sunrise, he had lost count. The pool competition was the reason they had come—or at least that’s what they had said. He laughed bitterly at the thought now; no one had even touched a cue.

His so-called associates were long gone. Some peeled off early, while others drifted into strange hotel rooms or tangled nights with women whose names no one bothered to ask. His associates all wore the same kind of jewelry: gold curb 22-inch chains with a small gold spoon attached. This was a symbol of their South East London manor. Over the course of the week, they had consumed everything—pills, powders, shots, tabs, lines—and to wash it all down, copious amounts of alcohol. Enough to numb a continent. Enough to kill a weaker man.

The money had flowed freely. Cards slapped down on bar counters, folded notes handed to cab drivers and strangers alike. He hadn’t looked at his bank app even once. He didn’t dare to now.

And yet, here he was, curled up in a makeshift bed made from a threadbare coat and a beanbag cushion in a flat that stank of death and the aftermath of wild parties. His body ached. His mind was wrecked. But the worst part was the silence after the storm had passed; all that remained was stillness. Stillness and shame.

Now came the hard part.

Back to London. Back to masquerading. Back to routine, family, jobs, shops, and small talk. Back to a world where people remembered what day it was. He had to face the mirror, and, worse, he had to face himself—the version of him who still had to play normal. The nice man George who answered phones and emails, and responded to “How was your weekend?” with a lie and a laugh.

He rolled over, groaning, reaching for a bottle of warm water or vodka; he didn’t care which.

There was no epiphany here. No grand realization. After a lost week in Brighton’s nightlife, now came the slow drag of consequences and the bitter taste of coming down.

Time to go home and face reality.