Last night, I mentioned a short story. This is it =]
He strode along the street, purposefully now, along the street toward the monolithic, grey office block where he worked. Everything around him seemed to blur, a great swirl of light and sound encapsulating everything around him. He shook his head swiftly, trying to capture a focus on the hustle of the people, scurrying around, trying to get out of the rain. Something about the image made him think. The rain? Then he realised, and stopped under a doorway, wiped the small, salty droplets off the lenses of his glasses and continued walking, the world in sharp, albeit gloomy, focus.
He passed a newspaper stall, with its obnoxious, shouting occupant and its attention-stealing headlines of war, death and other miseries. Maybe one day, he mused, newspaper editors would realise that people would much rather read about things like elephants on acid, and have the wars and murders tucked away on the inside pages, like obituaries. Nice thought, but one that would never happen. That’s why he liked to keep his column irreverent, just to inject a nice little dose of the surreal into people’s lives. The po-faced businessmen running the paper, however, merely saw of him as a waste of space, an empty column to fill when a talented writer came along. Unfairness was, it seemed, an inevitable fact of life, just as hope was not.
He continued along the street, pausing briefly to toss a coin to a beggar, legs curled up under a blanket. With a start, he realised that he recognised the man. Beneath the thick, scraggly beard was the face of a man he knew from times long past. He stopped walking and did a quick double take. The man who was lying on the street, curled up under a dirty blanket, had been his best friend at school. He stood still for a moment, watching his old classmate mumbling incomprehensibly at passers-by for their spare change, until somebody bumped into him as they hurried past, shaking him from his daze, reminding him where he was. He strode on down the street, still contemplating the meaning of what he had just seen. They’d both been equally talented, equally motivated, and yet their lives had taken such different turns. Was that the randomness of life, that two people so similar to each other could push themselves through the same paths in life, making the same decisions, to such different conclusions? Life, he knew, was cruel and largely pointless, but he hadn’t expected such a sharp reminder, especially not now, when he needed it the least. What was the point of working at life when everything hinged, simply, on luck? Luck was the only thing keeping him from the streets. But equally, a poor turn of luck could put him there
He walked into the office in a daze, colliding with the glass door twice before he realised it was there. He drifted past all of the other workers as if they weren’t there, and sat quietly in his anonymous cubicle. The more he thought, the more he realised that there was no substance to his life any more, no meaning. Nobody had even greeted him when he entered the office, never mind ask him why he was so clearly distressed. He slowly rose from his chair and made for the long, spiralling glass staircase. He passed the editor halfway up, and made an attempt at a smile, but the withering look he received in return made him wish he hadn’t bothered. He made his way up the stairs with the slow, resigned walk of a man who has long since given up. He staggered up the stairs, up one floor, and another, until he finally reached the roof. Heart heavy, he swung the door open and was greeted by a cacophony of noise and a bitter cold. With a sigh, he stepped out onto the characterless grey rooftop, into the storm. In an effort to wake his mind and body, he filled his lungs and shouted incoherently at the top of his voice. He waited for the exhilaration, the purest of feelings. When nothing came, his head slumped. What did he have to do?
The lightning flashed around his head, the crashing of the thunder and pounding drumbeat of the rain providing the perfect soundtrack to his last, desperate act. He saw the ravens jostling for shelter to keep dry, away from the ferocious storm raging above. As he stood on the roof, memories began to come alive in his head, unbidden. Things he’d long forgotten, things he’d hoped to never have to remember again. Fractured images flashed around his head, hammering into him like bullets, forcing him to his knees.
Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives.
He saw himself hanging in mid air, floating like a stone. While he was busy contemplating this metaphor, he saw himself hit the ground, and heard the sickening thud of his body on the cold, wet concrete below.
The fear of death is more to be dreaded than death itself.
He saw himself lying in a hospital bed, tubes and wires spiralling away from his broken, battered body.
The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live
He saw the priest praying at the end of his hospital bed, and the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t believe in God.
You’re only truly alive the second before you die.
The realisation came swiftly, abruptly. He had done this before. The knowledge made it easier, the knowledge that he could do it, the knowledge that he would do it. He got up and walked, serene against the backdrop of the violent storm, to the edge of the building, where he stood, gazing out over the city. All he could see was grey on grey, with a little black for the sake of variety, stretching for miles with no letup. He took a deep breath, then stepped forwards. It felt as though he was never going to hit the ground, just tip upwards and fly away, such was the adrenaline high caused by being this close to oblivion.
Love it, hate it, rip it to shreds, I don’t care. But >some< kind of response. God knows, there’s bits of it that I don’t think go quite right in there. But… yeah. You have enough to read. I’ll stop.
