A Choice

  Orange streetlamps flicker flames onto my counter-top as I consider the knife. It’s a beautiful thing: ten inches long, with a rippled pattern down the blade. The handle is smooth in my grip- a treated wood, pleasing to touch. It’s sharp; I was just cutting parsnips with it.

What made me pause, made me look? Why do I watch the reflected light play across the silvered steel?

It would be easy, I think.

I drop it. The metal clinks against the counter, wobbling for a moment before coming to rest. I retreat from it, my hands coming up to grasp my arms. My backwards motion is halted by the wall. Down I slide, until my backside hits the linoleum. From my new vantage, I watch the knife, heart thudding.

It stays in its place, inert. Unfeeling.

I tear my gaze away, looking out the window. Glass takes up one of the four walls of my studio apartment, giving me a view out onto the town. It’s a nice view, even at night. The lights twinkle all night long, illuminating the docks and the waterfront. The calm sea waits in the dark, blacker than the sky above.

A lovely place to live. It’s good to have a reminder.

I stand, my legs a little shaky, and pat the dust from my trousers.

Need to do some cleaning, I note. The mundanity of the thought is comforting. I take a few tentative steps towards the counter. The knife awaits me, along with the vegetables. I lay my hands on the counter-top, my eyes sliding down the keen blade.

A long moment passes, with only the whirring of the stove-fan to break the silence. My arm reaches out, and fingers curl around the knife-handle. Nothing happens. Not even a thought. I shake myself, dispelling the silly unease. A relieved sigh escapes my lips, and I continue with the preparation of my soup.

Tomorrow comes in bits and pieces. It starts with the sound of my alarm, piercing into whatever dream was occupying my sleeping mind. I forget it before my eyes even open. Warmth and softness drag at me as I rise, like grasping fingers pulling me towards the grave. The image sparks a thrill of anxiety.

The knife is safe in its rack, and my thoughts are safe in my head.

I stand, and dress, and go to gather my work. Pieces of paper are scattered on my desk, marked with pencil-lines and washes of paint. I assemble a rough pile, having neither the time nor the energy to organise. An errant work escapes as I stuff the papers into a portfolio. It takes a few seconds for my sleep-addled hand to grab it.

My gaze flickers across the piece as I pause mid-stuff. It’s a logo design, like the rest of them: a rubber duck wearing a top-hat. The ridiculous image brings a tired smile to my lips.

It sucks.

The smile slips as a wave of loathing hits. I look away, my hand spasming. Deep breaths soothe the emotion, and I rush out of my studio. I have to get to work.

“Hmm…”

I fidget, unsure where to put my hands. My gaze is magnetised to my client’s lips. Her pearly upper teeth bite into her lipstick, white on red. My eyes flick up to meet hers as she looks up.

“Well-” she begins, sweeping a hand over the many pages littering her desk, “-I can’t say I expected this!”

My heart sinks into my stomach. A dry mouth prevents me from answering.

“I mean-” she looks back at my work, allowing me to break free, “-this is a lot of work for one week!”

I meet her statement with a half-laugh. My arid orifice makes it sound like a cough.

“Bless you,” she says.

I clear my throat, trying to think of what to say.

“Uh, um… yeah, I guess it is.”

Wow, that was lame, I think, suppressing a cringe.

Her gaze slides away, and I flick my eyes down to the plaque between us to remind me of her name.

Mrs. Laura Hartman.

“Um, Mrs. Hartman-”

“Please,” she stops me with a smile, “call me Laura.”

Her eyes twinkle, and I wonder if she’s flirting with me.

God, you’re pathetic, I think, shifting in my seat.

“… Laura,” I continue, not looking at her, “uh, are there- I mean… well…”

I can see her smile is becoming strained.

“Do- which ones do you like?” I rush.

“Let me see…” she mused.

My heart rose to behind my eyes as she perused the papers. Thoughts filled my head.

They’re all bad, was the first one, she hates them all, as she shuffled the sheaf, you’re fired, a third despaired. I was thinking so loudly, it was a wonder she didn’t hear me. Each movement, every subtle shift in expression, every breath sucked through pearly whites or flicker of lashes up and down or tapping of fingers on wood provoked another one.

My mind went silent for a moment as she looked back up. I hid a shudder by sitting up.

“Well, Kurt, they’re all-” Awful, terrible, laughable, trash, “-good, but not quite what we’re looking for.”

She’s lying, I know, spying the coldness behind her gentle smile and noises of reassurance. She hates them all.

“That’s unfortunate,” I say, trying to maintain a veneer of professionalism, “which ones do you like best?”

None of them, I’m certain she wants to say. But she maintains the same facade as I do.

She rifles through the papers, stopping on one that’s mildly crumpled. Dread crawls up my throat. I recognise her selection.

“This one!” Laura announces, beaming.

I wonder, briefly, how she knows. She hands me the same piece of paper that had slipped out of my grasp this morning. The little duck, with its little top-hat. Even the memory of the loathing I felt causes bile to rise. I hope she doesn’t see the tears I feel pricking my eyes.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask politely, feigning a delighted smile, “I like him, too.”

The lie is easy: it’s one I’ve repeated a lot. So many people pretend to like my work.

“It’s a shame the paper’s rumpled…” she laments. Her eyebrows mock me, curving into an unasked question.

“Yes, um…” I curse my vocal hesitation, “I dropped it.”

I can smell my own sweat. I can’t imagine the effort it must take her to not rumple her nose.

“That’s a shame!” she repeats as I fidget, “can you make some more like it?”

I nod, unable to answer vocally. The desert has spread to my throat, and I resist the urge to clear it. She hands me back my work, and I stand to leave, barely hearing our closing pleasantries. Somehow I manage to write down the date and time of our next meeting, and leave without making any more of a fool of myself.

I wait for the train. I’m alone with the concrete slabs, standing behind the yellow line. I watch the trains arrive and leave again on the other track. Clicks and clacks, clacks and clicks, the rush of air and the smell of rain in the air.

The meeting plays over and over in my mind. Every detail, from the tiniest expression to the biggest gesture is pulled out and dissected. My shoulders sink, my eyes turn downwards.

“Stupid,” I mutter, “idiot, loser.”

The words are echoed by the thoughts pounding in my head. A robotic voice peals through the air, announcing my train. I look down the tracks, the weight of my thoughts pulling at the corners of my mouth. The train is coming. I watch it grow larger and larger.

All it takes is one step.

I shiver as I find myself genuinely considering the idea. I lean slightly forwards, feeling the flow of the wind pushed ahead of the carriage. It’s warmer than the winter air surrounding me. My shivers cease for a moment.

It would be easy.

Would it?

Over in a moment.

Definitely.

Painless.

Painless.

I stop, my foot raised. Would it be painless? Maybe for me, but what about everyone else? What about the train conductor, the passengers, that would have to live with seeing me scattered across the tracks? What about my client, that would be set back at least a couple of days? What about my family?

They’ll get over it.

Would they? I cringe at the selfish thought.

“HEY!”

I jump, turning towards the voice, setting my foot down. A man in a high-vis jacket is glaring at me.

“Get behind the yellow line!” he orders, gesticulating.

“Right!” I say, stepping back, forcing a dumb smile, “sorry, I forgot!”

He doesn’t believe me, and neither do I. But he leaves it alone, returning to the warmth of the station. The train arrives, and the moment is gone.

I consider my reflection in the mirror. I haven’t shaved in a month, and I have something of a beard. It’s not exactly thick, but it covers my face. Shadows cover my deep-set eyes, giving me a somewhat mysterious air. I preen, a bird admiring its feathers.

At least I’m good-looking.

But the feeling flees as soon as I take off my clothes. I can hardly stand to look at the thin, weak arms, the flabby belly, the thick thighs. Hair, coarse but thin, furs my chest and arms and stomach. I look like some sort of threadbare ragdoll.

Oh, no I don’t.

My shower is too long, longer than I can afford, but I can’t bring myself to leave it. Here, the water chases my thoughts away. Here, I can pretend to be worth something. Soap and suds wash away the smell of my sweat. I watch the soiled water whirlpool down the drain, my eyelids heavy against the flow of hot water.

No matter how long I stay here, I can’t chase away the chill.

My hair is still wet, as I heart the leftover soup from the night before. The cold clings to my head, sending shivers up and down my back. I only hope that the soup will warm me. The smell of parsnips slowly fills the air.

I’ll be smelling that all night, I grump, then chastise myself, but it smells nice. Stop with the negativity.

The soup is good, even reheated.

At least I’m good at one thing.

The thought is lame, barely limping into my brain.

Well, good enough, right?

I snort.

Dinner eaten, I sit down to work. The crumpled duck practically leaps off the page at me, as I lay out fresh paper, pencils, markers, and paints. My pencil is dull, so I grab my box-cutter to sharpen it.

The wood shaves away with ease, the cutter paring away the thin lacquer like butter. A point emerges like the peak of a mountain. When it reaches a good length, I set the cutter to one side.

Time to draw.

I lean forwards, pencil in a loose grip, and put lead to paper. Ideas come quickly, image after image flashing through my head. My pencil follows shakily, trying its best to replicate the flashes. Success is rare, and fleeting. For every smooth line and inspired curve comes a squiggly shake and stodgy mark.

After the fifth such mistake, I drop my pencil, my head settling into my hands.

“What the hell am I doing?” I demand.

I’m supposed to be a professional.

I look over my attempts, and the self-loathing rears again, mounting higher and higher with each passing moment. The logo Laura had liked was pathetically bad to begin with, but it seemed like a masterpiece next to the shoddy attempts laid out here. I throw the paper down before the bile passes my lips.

Trembling, I close my eyes, trying in vain to steady my breathing.

I can do this, I tell myself.

I open my eyes, and see the drawings.

I can’t do this.

Tears blur my vision, and I sit back, fighting to not sob. I laugh instead, a false, hollow sound. Like everything I do. In this moment of weakness, I spy the box-cutter. Suddenly, I am quite still. The tears don’t fall, absorbed back into my eyes as I watch the tool.

It would be easier than the knife. I think.

I reach out and grab it. The blade clicks out, click click click. It’s not as pretty as the knife, but it’s much sharper. I set it against my neck, feeling the pulse of my heart through the blade.

Just one short stroke, and it’s all over.

Feeling fades away, emotions draining into a deep, dark hole. Clarity comes, sharp as the implement in my hand.

You can’t keep doing this, Kurt.

The thought is clinical, logical, devoid of the pressing weight of my negativity. The cutter comes down, and I place it on the desk in front of me. My pencil joins it, sitting side by side. I stare at them as I think.

This is no way to live, I realise. Always vacillating, never going one way or the other.

I consider the drawings again. Are they really that bad? Here, in this place of cold logic, I can’t tell. Nothing feels real.

It doesn’t matter, I think.

I don’t know where this certainty is coming from, but I know that it could let me do anything. I could take the plunge, or I could step away from the abyss. The cutter, or the pencil.

Is it worth it? I ask myself.

I don’t have an answer. All I have is a choice. Live or die, change or cease. I can’t go on as I am. Perhaps it’s pathetic, to think that- but it’s the truth.

Time to choose.

I reach out my hand.