Summer Cycle

He teetered out of the apartment, tipsy, into the summer night. The still air was refreshing on his shirtless skin. His bare feet enjoyed the freedom of the cool night. He was blessed to have a terrace. He should be grateful.

A peppering of stars reached out to the city below, even as the city itself attempted to suffocate them with its own lights. He leaned out over the railing, shoulders over the abyss, and studied the dark pavement five stories below. He wondered what would happen if he jumped. If this time, he had the spine to do something. To face the stupid animal instinct that prevented him from ending a meaningless, painful existence.

As usual, he did not.

He stood for a time, raising himself onto his tiptoes, the guardrail separating him from oblivion now at his waist. He wondered what anyone would think if they saw him. A shirtless man with half his body wobbling in the open air. He realized that he cared about what people thought. Strange. Or perhaps not so strange – he was considering the impact of the future. Look at that.

Coward. Pathetic.

He had drunk six beers tonight. Fuck. That wasn’t even that much. He should drink more, but he had nothing left in the apartment and all the stores nearby had closed hours ago.

He focused on the asphalt below. It probably wouldn’t hurt much, right? One second of decision, and one second of fear. Perhaps a bit of pain, but surely not much. Then, it would be over. Finally. It was like the first swim in summer, when the water was still a little too cold. A moment of courage and a leap was all it ever took. Take the plunge and find relief.

What would nonexistence feel like? This was a frequent focal point of his imagination. He guessed that it would be similar to losing a memory or blacking out – an occurrence with which he had become well-acquainted. And what a bizarre experience it was. The moments immediately preceding the blackout scrubbed themselves from memory. Do they still exist? Of course. Did he ever consciously perceive them? He supposed so, in much the same way that he was experiencing this exact moment, hanging over a ledge. But what became of them once they disappeared? How could he reconcile experiences eradicated from his memory with those that he was currently undergoing, considering that his mind would inevitably erase the latter just as it had the former?

Fuck, he was god-damned drunk.

A car rolled slowly along the street below before stopping directly before his building. His bare torso still hung recklessly above the abyss, exposed. He stood motionless, breath held. The alcohol dulled his brain, making stillness easier. What would they think if they saw him?

He backed away.

He felt guilty. Like a coward, but also like a creep. As though he were some kind of voyeuristic peeper checking out Susie next door. The red lights of the car flashed, then dimmed. Somewhere in the distance teenagers shouted raucously. He silently observed these things, his eyes sliding in their direction, seeing nothing in the midnight gloom.

The car door opened, thudded closed. A fat woman stepped out and hurriedly waddled towards the building next door. He thought that he recognized her as one of his neighbors. Not that it mattered. He wouldn't have been able to pick out most of his neighbors from a lineup, nor they him. He doubted if they would recognize him even if he, for instance, splattered on the sidewalk in front of them.

She disappeared as she reached the apartment building, concealed by the awnings below. He took a step forward and once more leaned out over the balcony ledge. This time not so far. This time, he knew the truth – he would not jump. Not today. He was too much of a chicken shit.

The teenagers continued chatting and laughing somewhere in the distance, their voices bouncing from the walls weirdly so that he could no longer tell from where they originated. He wondered what they would think to see some half-clothed weirdo leaning out over a balcony’s ledge. With this thought, he gathered enough of his senses to realize that his reputation still mattered. If he were to continue living, he would prefer not to be perceived as mentally unstable, as a cry for help, or as someone pitiable. He needed to maintain a sense of dignity, at least publicly, lest he become further isolated.

Silently, he stepped away from the ledge, back into his apartment. His warm, safe apartment. What did he really have to feel bad for, anyway?

Maybe he should cut himself tonight. Perhaps that would make him feel better.

The next morning, the sun baked the dry world below, transforming the city into an oven. He hid in bed, overheated in an unconditioned apartment, with his head aching from the previous night’s drinking. Eventually, he gave up the prospect of further sleep and took to scrolling mindlessly through pictures on his phone. His brain was desperate to consume anything that could entertain and distract it. This went on for hours.

When he finally dragged himself away from his bed and his screen, it was to gorge himself on everything edible within his refrigerator. That completed, he fell once more into bed and continued with his previous preoccupation, alternating between restless sleep and endless scrolling. More hours passed as he lay there sweating.

Fuck this.

He dragged himself out of bed and into the shower, washed quickly so as to build momentum. As he dried his hair, he searched online for a biking route to load onto his phone’s GPS. Options abounded – he lived in a mid-sized European city surrounded by farms and forests that were themselves crisscrossed by an extensive network of bike paths. He quickly selected a route that was both ambitious and unfamiliar to him. Minutes later with his head still pounding, he pushed his bike from the building’s shared garage. He hopped into the saddle and began to pedal furiously.

For the next five hours, he worked the pedals for all he was worth. Given his drinking and binging habits, he was in surprisingly great shape. This was because of a simple philosophy that he had over time developed: productive masochism. If he wanted to inflict pain on himself, as he so often did, then cardiovascular exercise was a productive way to do so. In this way, he had converted a portion of his mental struggle into a physical one. He would run until he couldn’t walk and cycle until he passed out. He would swim until he was on the verge of drowning, choking on water as he dragged himself ashore.

For some reason, pain provided catharsis to depression. Cutting, however, left ugly marks that were inevitably discovered. Discovery resulted in questions. Questions to pity, which he hated most. Pity to isolation, as people tend to abandon those they pity – because really, who has the time? Everyone has enough problems as is. Isolation to further self-hatred. The cycle repeats itself.

He had tried to break it, but the world loves to put people in a box. Now, breaking the cycle was no longer the goal. If hurting himself felt right, then he would do so in a productive way. He hated himself, but he also hated the world for abandoning him.

Fuck this. Keep moving, push through. Get to the next bit of shade.

The sun cooked him mercilessly as he found himself unprotected in wheat fields for long stretches of time. The paths were narrow, and they required that he share them with others who had come out to enjoy the summer sun. Occasionally, other cyclists would appear in front of him and slow him as they lazed along at a leisurely pace. It was infuriating. He would rush past them as soon as the smallest opportunity presented itself, occasionally recklessly. Sometimes he would surprise them, and several of those that he passed had the gall to be angry at him. In both cases, the stupid fuckers should have gotten out of his way. They would shortly disappear, left behind as he hauled at his pedals, chewing through miles and miles.

His head continued to ache, and after an hour or so, his neck and back joined the party. An hour more, and each bump in the road sent a jolt of sharp pain up his ass and through his wrists. His balls were chafing; his skin was burning. At one point, a bird took a shit on him. The projectile clipped his arm and splattered on his leg. Fuck you, too.

None of it matters. Shut up and stop being a bitch. Keep moving. Get to the next bit of shade.

By the time he finally stepped off the bike, he felt as though a horse had kicked him in the back of the neck. Even now the sun glared down upon him. For over an hour he had felt vaguely dizzy. His legs shook as he stumbled up the stairs to his apartment. He tasted copper, and each breath tortured his lungs. His stomach churned and his heart thundered in his ears.

He sat in a shower under lukewarm water, passing in and out of consciousness. Eventually, hunger drove him to move. He changed, leaving his filthy clothing strewn across the floor, and staggered to the nearest convenience store. He bought pizza, chips, and ice cream. As he had with breakfast that morning, he gorged himself on it, leaving nothing behind. Blood rushed in his ears as his heart continued to pound.

A bottle of wine tempted him, but his earlier indulgences had already pushed him near to vomiting. He decided to lay down first, even though it was far too early to sleep. Blood still pulsing in his ears, he fell down onto his cluttered bed. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the mattress.

Thank fucking god.

The merciless summer sun continued to rage through the last day of the weekend. His apartment sweltered in its heat, eventually driving him from the comforting embrace of sleep. His body ached, but his heartbeat had leveled out and his lungs no longer troubled him. His hangover had also passed – a day without alcohol had its perks, who would have thought. He ate what food he could scrounge from mostly empty shelves. He showed restraint, not eating until he was nearly sick with it. Another improvement.

The silence in the apartment was too loud, and he decided to go for a run. As he had before, he rushed out the door, pushing himself in a way that almost certainly would lead to injury. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Don’t think.

Running was more difficult, and his body gave out after an hour and a half while he was two miles from the safety of his apartment. As it had the day before, the sun cooked anyone who fell under its gaze. His stomach churned and his skin burned, but he drove himself forward. He fought his way back to the safety of the apartment, where he could hide from his own self-inflicted suffering. Relief awaited him there, and he was so exhausted that he might actually be able to enjoy it.

He could be grateful for this and much more if he took the time to consider. If he took the time to be less of an unthankful little shit, he might appreciate that he lived in a modern society with modern convenience. He had regular meals and a place to sleep that was safe. More than safe, it was downright luxurious. He had a stable job, and a cushion of savings. He had time for leisure and health to enjoy it. With blessings like these, how could anyone not be happy? How could he be so ungrateful that on most days he would consider himself lucky to be run over by a car while out on a run?

It hardly mattered whether he was born this way or whether he had learned the behavior. “I am what I am,” so saith Popeye the Sailor Man. As he stumbled through the hot sun, he had to concede the point. He was what he was. Happiness was not an option for him, and apparently neither was death. One way or another, he had to live with himself.

These thoughts skittered along his brain as he waddled home, his heart jackhammering under the strain he put it through. The last two miles took a full hour, during which he frequently stopped to wrestle his bowels into submission, fighting not to shit himself. Thankfully, he made it to his apartment without incident, waddling undignified to the bathroom.

Something else to be grateful for.

A thunder shower broke the summer heat that night. Wind whipped the warm air and rain pummeled the hot pavement – a violent yet surprisingly refreshing combination. Streaks of lighting formed spiderwebs across the black sky, one rushing upon the heels of the next in rapid succession. Thunder roared and shook the buildings below, terrifying and relentless. It was as though an insane god had decided to throw a tantrum – screaming and weeping into the uncaring night.

At first, the storm had frightened him, his base instincts once again trying to save him from a perceived threat. But his rational mind ultimately won out. What was the worst that could happen? Would the lighting strike him dead? Would the thunder shake the building down around him? Would the rain flood the streets and drown him? Was that what he was afraid of?

Hardly.

Once more, he found himself standing on his balcony. His bare skin slick with rain, the thunder roaring at him and shaking the ground beneath his feet. His face turned to the sky, he could see the lighting through his closed eyelids.

It was a beautiful night to be alive.

The routine of life restarted the next day, the beginning of the work week. He woke up with an alarm, showered, and dressed. He tidied up his apartment, which had become littered with empty beer cans, pizza boxes, and dirty clothing. Once satisfied, he locked the door behind him and limped down to the main entrance. His body groaning from the beating he had inflicted upon it during the weekend.

Fall, Winter, Spring, Summer. It was all the same in the end. An overarching cycle encapsulating the miniscule one that was his life. The cycle dragged him from one day into the next, from one week into the next, from one year into the next. He thought that he preferred summer for its light and warmth, but it hardly mattered. Like everything else, Summer would eventually fade, and Winter would eventually appear.

The rain of the previous night had washed away the heat of the weekend, and he stepped outside into a cool morning. The sun peaked out cautiously from behind a herd of lazy clouds trudging across the sky. It was a beautiful day to which he paid little mind. He had to catch the bus to work.