A Man

I have died many times. Sometimes I just need five minutes to die again.

#

It’s the one I always go to. The familiar one. The comfortable one. Like an old blanket that you hide under, smothered in your own stink.

Sometimes the gun is in my mouth. Sometimes against my temple. Each time a microsecond of release. So short that I rewind and do it again, and again, and again. It’s so clean and simple. Something to momentarily obliterate all reality and not deal with any of the mess. Every time I am there, I am happy—because it is the end.

But it never is the end.

I open my eyes.

#

I stir in my chair. The clock reads 13:03, and in that moment, it dawns on me. Tom’s fucking dog. I’m meant to be walking it right now while he’s away for the weekend.

I throw on my jacket and beaten boots and race out the door. The key slides into the lock and the bolt fires through. A satisfying clunk that brings fond memories of minutes before.

Luckily, none of my neighbors are outside to trap me in benign conversation. I usually run in and out with my hood up whenever I take out the trash. Other times I’ll look at my wrist with a hurried expression, even though I don’t wear a watch.

Tom’s dog is lying by the French doors when I arrive. I’m a little out of breath from the jog over. It’s only three blocks, but what can I say? I’ve not been keeping up with any prescribed exercise routine. How can I when I’m always so tired?

The dog gazes at me dutifully, not whining, and by the looks of things, it hasn’t shit inside. I slide open the French doors and step in.

I greet the forty-pound lump of gray fluff with a friendly tone. It reciprocates briefly before running outside and peeing on the nearest flowerbed.

I leash her up, and we go out for our walk, the frigid January air misting our breaths. We turn the corner and I see something that always chills me. A farmers’ market.

Some would laugh, but it’s true. I can handle large markets just fine, but farmers’ markets are different. There are rarely more than ten stalls, and they’re all crammed together. People mill about, but hardly anyone looks at the overpriced goods. Instead, those who choose to walk down the aisle are assaulted by the imploring eyes of each seller. I don’t want that responsibility. I don’t want to be the one they think will be their big catch of the day, only to disappoint them.

We give the farmers’ market a wide berth.

The dog takes care of its business in the next neighborhood. I loosen one of the bags in my pocket and collect the offending defecation judiciously. I hate it when people don’t pick up after their dogs. As if things weren’t bad enough.

We cut the walk short when I see an old colleague turning the corner with his own mutt. We disappear down an alley before he sees us and make our way home.

Tom’s cat orders me to feed it the second we’re back inside. I don’t mind the cat. It does what it wants and doesn’t give a second thought to what anyone else wants or expects. It rubs up against me as I peel back the container lid, plunge my finger into the cold, sticky meat, and dig out half.

A minute later and the cat is regurgitating its meal onto the floor in front of me.

I could really use a beer.

#

I expertly skip past my neighbor, waiting just long enough for him to get the last of his groceries inside before I make a break for it.

I decide to take the longer, winding back roads to the liquor store. I’ve heard it said that taking a drive helps clear the head, and I’m down to try anything at this point. But honestly, I don’t think my head would be any clearer if I drove through every damned state in America.

The hidden neighborhoods on the way are beautiful. Dense woods line the gaps between properties, hiding them from the world. There are no McMansions here, just homes on vast pieces of land. Older buildings that have been lived in, not slapped together like cardboard cutouts. I should have a house like this by now. I should have done more with my career, with my life. But I haven’t.

My eyes snap back to the road ahead just in time. My brakes let out an anguished squeal as I slam down my foot to avoid the hulking mass wandering out into the street. I skid to a halt fifteen feet past it. My heart is bounding around my chest like an untethered pendulum. Peering into the rearview, I see it standing there, unaffected. A giant chocolate Labrador. I cautiously pop the handle and step out to confront the dog. It’s standing at the end of a driveway. A driveway that descends a hundred feet and winds its way to a two-car garage and a beautiful craftsman house. A house that has risen at least 22 percent in value in the past six months.

I take one step towards the dog, and it lazily growls at me. It’s tired, and maybe senile. My best guess is that it comes from the house down that long, serpentine driveway.

I tell the dog it’s OK in my sweetest dog voice. It growls again.

I tell the dog to go fuck itself.

It looks at me one last time before turning to wander back down the drive. As it turns, I realize that instead of calling it a chocolate Labrador, it would be more appropriate to describe it as a chocolate tumor. Its flanks are old, drooping, and flabby. A multitude of fatty lumps and unidentifiable growths adorn the sides and underbelly, one of which will probably kill it eventually. Each one seems to drag the dog closer to the ground. Bald patches and beetroot red sores fill up the remaining gaps. The poor fucker. It would’ve probably been better for me to hit it.

I get back in the car and restart my trip. Everyone loves dogs here. They lavish them with attention and gifts. But there are so many that people get careless. I once watched a neighbor collecting the mail while her aged terrier sauntered off the curb. The owner paid it no heed as she fussed over some mail lodged in the mailbox. I was about to call out when the truck came around the bend and flattened the dog. I quickly turned and went back inside, peering from behind the curtain like some old nag. I watched her remove the leash from the dead dog, only to be later chastised by animal control for not leashing the dog. She’d fucked up for sure, but she didn’t deserve that.

I open a beer when I get home. Then I sit and listen to you, and I agree. There isn’t much hope.

#

Tom is waiting for me when I step out of the elevator at the office.

He’s smiling and holding a coffee. I’ve known him since I was nine, but I’m pretty sure Tom has never really known me. He’s the closest thing to a best friend I’ve ever had, and I guess I just keep up the ruse for the sake of it. Secretly, I’m hoping that one day I’ll be found out and he can abandon me without remorse.

He thanks me for taking care of the dog and slaps me on the back. I tell him it’s no problem.

He asks me what I am doing on Thursday. He has the intonation and tone that I know and fear. He’s going to ask me if I want to go out to a bar with him and his other friends in some vague attempt at compassion.

I don’t have time to think of a viable excuse, and he cuts me off, as he always does when I start making my excuses.

He tells me it’s a new bar on 5th. He’s going with his team, and I should join. Apparently, the bar has killer mojitos.

God. Mojitos. Kill me.

I say I’ll think about it. He smiles, knowing he’s likely won.

He nods and leaves me standing there. Ambushed and frustrated at 8:15 on a Monday. The week has only just started, and I’ve already added another item to my list of things to dread.

#

Thursday comes around too quickly. I’m eating lunch in the office cafeteria. The headache above my left eye focused to a piercing needle by the banks of penetrating fluorescent strips overhead. Lunch breaks are the worst. It’s like being back at school. We all huddle on the communal benches to eat the free lunch that our employer provides. A partial excuse for paying us 9 percent less than the market average. The surrounding chatter is the usual droll. Some inane discussions about an awful reality show and its social media coverage. That or someone’s kid did something hilarious or tragic. I force a weak smile when the situation calls, but I mostly keep my head down and eat. To round things off, I can see Tom is finishing up in line, and a seat just freed up opposite me.

It’s strange, spending the good part of the week avoiding your only real friend, but sometimes it’s necessary. 

Unfortunately, I catch his eye as he’s turning around, tray in hand. His eyes glint, and a thick smile spreads across his face.

He says hi, asks me how I am. I tell him I’m doing good. Lie.

He asks if I am still coming out to the mojito bar with him and his team.

It’s best to think as quickly as possible in these situations, but to also be casual in your response. Disappointed but not devastated. The only problem is, Tom has heard all my excuses a thousand times. They only work with new acquaintances now.

I say I’m tired, and I’m not sure.

He laughs because he’s heard it before. Then, he tells me how it’s nearly the weekend, and we’ve got an easy day in the office tomorrow.

The walls are closing in now. I’ve forgotten to feign an oncoming illness in the days prior, and it being January, other excuses don’t abound.

He sits there chewing on his mediocre salad, long devoid of its crunch. Hopeless and longing to be swept into the trash. We agree on just one drink; that is doable. I tell him I’ll hold him to it.

I get up and shuffle between the benches, trying my best to avoid hitting my seated colleagues in the head with my tray as I go. Polite smiles await me at the end of the aisle, each one eagerly anticipating their seat next to someone they can hardly bear.

#

I pay little attention to Tom as we drive to the bar. He’s talking about a colleague who has irked him yet again. This time, he swears, he won’t take it anymore. I nod and offer affirmatives and the occasional drawn-out curse to show my support. Mostly, I just watch the orange iridescent streetlamps go by.

One … two … three ….

Tom’s always been the one to know people; love them, hate them, theoretically and humorously plan their demise. It all makes me wonder why we still hang out. Things were kinda reversed when we were growing up. I wouldn’t say I was popular, but I’d been at the school a few years, and Tom was the new kid. We hit it off pretty much instantly through a mutual affinity for violent comic books. We’d act out scenes from Judge Dredd and fly around our bedrooms. Things were fun back then. I was fun back then.

Things changed as we got older. Tom garnered new friends and grew out of his shell. I stayed inside mine, and now it seems to be shrinking and hardening with age. We drifted apart for a while, as happens to us all, but in the final year before college, we reunited through grief. Tom’s older sister died in a hit-and-run one night walking back from a bar. They said it was instant, but they didn’t have an open casket. All I could wonder was how it had happened. Which part of her broke?

I helped Tom as best I could. At least I had experience in the matter after my dad.

During our years in college, we started a new phase in our friendship. In this new phase, Tom took the lead and balanced his regular friends with his weird best friend. He tried to intermingle us as best he could. An effort that was a sheer act of will on his part sometimes.

And so, it continues to this day.

We park around the corner and hop out. Tom’s now telling me that some other, new, friends he recently acquainted himself with are coming too. My mind goes from having one large drink to half a small one. I knew all the people he’d said were coming. I wasn’t prepared for fresh carapaces.

At least it’s warm inside, and this new bar—although not my scene—has the right idea when it comes to lighting. A deep amber, like freshly poured bourbon, cast shadows on the high ceiling. Within moments, Tom’s arm is around my shoulder. We’re into introductions so fast that my mind hasn’t fully transitioned inside.

A tirade of five or so new faces, each with names I’m soon to forget. But past the baying crowd, sitting in the booth, seemingly too nervous to get up, is her.

Her eyes are round and set slightly apart. Two glorious ovals of hazel. A mole to the side of her left eye is her defining mark. Her hair tells the story of a long day at work.

I awkwardly slide into the booth and Tom says he’ll grab me a Jack and Coke. My eyes cautiously and fearfully meet hers for a moment. Her eyes flit away and then back, and then she smiles. I should say hi, but I stutter. She beats me to it, introducing herself, telling me which of her friends she has the honor of being dragged along by. She pretty much says just that, and boom, there’s our connection. I tell her about Tom, how he’s my best friend, but cocktail bars aren’t my thing. Before we know it, the rest of them are falling into their seats around us. They say hello to me, see my face, then quickly return to the conversations they were having with people they know and trust.

But it doesn’t matter what any of them are doing or saying. It’s the feeling you only get with a few people—even fewer for me. The feeling that despite never having laid eyes on one another before, you know you’ll get along.

I talk. She talks. We both have shitty jobs and we both dislike cocktail bars. We each have no siblings and we’re happier for it. Her dad’s not here anymore. My mom died five years ago and my dad even longer. We like the same films and books. We both had dreams of doing more than we are doing. She plays with her hair in a way that shows she’s both not aware of what she’s doing and terrified of what she may be doing. I tell Tom I’ll stay for another drink, then another, until I’m on my fourth. She’s still on her second.

Her friends get up to leave, including her ride. She says how nice of a time she’s had, and I use every ounce of bourbon in me to ask for her number. She blushes and gives it to me. I hastily add it to my phone and read it back like I’m taking a message for my boss. She smiles and says farewell. She doesn’t look back over her shoulder as she leaves, though. Why didn’t she?

#

By the time I get home, having endured some of Tom’s questions and light banter, as he would call it, I’m ruminating. Did it really go that well? I’ve had limited success in the past, and all of them turned into tragic farces. Was she just talking to me to be polite? Why didn’t she look back?

I probably said something wrong.

She probably gave me a fake number.

I should text.

No, I shouldn’t. Creepy.

Two or three days, right?

I know I did something wrong.

Even when I do text her, what will I say? She probably won’t respond.

What’s the point?

I fall into bed. There’s a hint that the room may do a somersault. Then I’m gone.

#

Three days have passed, and my messages have seen no response. In fact, it doesn’t even look like she’s read them. The first message—two days after our meeting—was casual. I followed up this morning and again in the evening. Each one seeming more and more like a lost cause.

So, now I’m drinking my third bourbon and my fourth beer. Not great for a Sunday night, but what can you fucking do?

Really, none of this should come as a surprise. We all know what I am. You know. I know. Undoubtedly, she knows too. A waste of space. No hope. No fun.

I rest my head on the couch. I just need a minute to think. To try to change things.

I close my eyes.

#

A stiff breeze ruffles my hair as I look out over the undulating sea. Beneath my bare feet lays a patchwork of rocks, dirt, and drying grass. Looking out from the edge of the precipice, I feel ready to bolt from my own skin, but also, oddly welcoming of the endless space below.

I’ve always hated heights.

There is no one else here. No one to please. It is just me, the wind, and the water.

My eyes weep from the sharp wind while the sun heats my back. I’m confident this will work, but I swallow the pills anyway, washing them down with bourbon.

Stairs used to be a real problem for me.

I take a deep breath and step off. In that instant, it is not beauty, but a lurch in my stomach. It’s the same sensation I’ve felt when I’ve missed a step on my way downstairs in the dim morning light. I am now slicing through the wind of my own intent. The rocks and the white caps rise incredibly fast. I see it coming, but it barely registers.

I open my eyes. 

#

I don’t know when I first heard you. I don’t remember when I first figured it out. But I know you are the one who lead me. The one who told me I could move on to another place. A place where things may be different, better, even hopeful.

#

For once, Tom is not waiting for me when I get into the office. Instead, he’s at his desk looking downtrodden. The office manager, Kate—who I am sure has always wanted to fuck Tom—is sitting on his desk. Her face is one of pale sympathy as she speaks with soft, inaudible platitudes and pats his hand.

Most days at this hour, I’ll avoid Tom. He may be my best and only friend, but I take time to warm up in the morning. Today, however, is different; today she texted back. I was wrong, it worked. My messages aren’t failures at all. She’d just had some issues with her phone, and she hadn’t got any of my messages. She called me instead. We’re going on a date! For once, I can’t wait to tell Tom. To laud it over him.

Uncharacteristically, I march over to his desk, greeting him warmly. The office manager glares at me, disappointed, shaking her head in a way that suggests I should fuck off. Tom grumbles a welcome in response. His computer is off. His coffee looks cold. His eyes are red. Has he been crying?

Yes, he has. Because his fucking dog is dead.

It bolted out the door when he was heading out. It caught sight of a cat, and of course, the cat chose to run, and then all the instincts kicked in. All but the instinct to look out for passing cars on 30th Street. He didn’t give any details, but we can all guess.

I tell him how sorry I am, and I am. I liked his dog. I’d known her for years. I think about the woman with the flattened dog at the mailbox.

Tom says he’s going home. Kate sees him out, looking caustically over her shoulder at me like I somehow cockblocked her. Tom will just have to hear my good news another time. For now, it’s all for me.

#

Tom and I hang out the following evening. He’s still grieving over his dog, although he is back at work. I tell him about the revelation of the pinging sound when her message came through. How it gave me the kind of hit I only ever got when I was a teen doing coke at house parties.

He’s excited for me, telling me how he’s only met her once or twice before, but that she seems cool. He says she’s hot too, teasingly reminding me I’m punching above my weight.

Over the next three days, I seriously wonder if I am. I prepare for her to flake out or cancel, but it never happens. On the day of, when I muster the ability to message her and check-in, she replies in the affirmative. She’s looking forward to it.

#

She should have been here five minutes ago. I’m already halfway through my drink and contemplating another. I’ll either be more confident when she arrives or on my way to forgetting that she thought better of the whole thing. I turn to the bar, and I’m trying to gain the bartender’s attention when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, and there she is, smiling. She’s in a heavy coat, looking relieved to be in from the gloom outside. She rubs her hands together as I tell her she looks great but cold and ask what I can get her to drink.

I get another whiskey. She has a gin and tonic.

And that’s it. We talk and talk like we did before. There is no awkwardness. I somehow make her laugh. She makes me smile.

When she excuses herself to the restroom, I cautiously remind myself of when I’ve felt like this before. Of dates that seemed to go well but never saw a second one. Or when they have gone well, how I’ve found myself with someone who’s eventually grown bored, realizing their mistake. She feels different, better.

We go to another bar for another drink.

We dance.

We kiss.

We go back to hers.

We make love. This isn’t a random fuck. This feels right; we feel right.

#

I don’t care what anyone says. Having someone you care about in your life makes a big difference. Even work doesn’t seem so bad. Tom heard I may get promoted to team leader if I keep things up like I have these past two months. That wouldn’t be so bad. A raise and a few more prospects. Perhaps things could be turning around for me, for once?

I’m not sure what they’re really turning around from or to, but at least it will be different. Maybe this place will be better for me.

We see each other most nights. She has some exercise class on Thursday, and I’ve taken to going to Tom’s every Monday. We blow off steam from day one of the workweek. We play video games and talk about my love life, and how for once, it is exceeding Tom’s, who’s been striking out lately. Of course, we joke about this, but I still remember all the years it’s been the other way around.

I tried cooking for her last Saturday. I won’t say it was good, but she liked it, and it did the trick. Three times that night, in fact.

However, she has started mentioning her mother, and that I dread. God knows what her mother will think of me. Despite what she says and whatever new shirts she puts me in, I’m still gaunt, unshapely, and constantly in need of a shave. It would not impress me to see the likes of me brought home.

#

Another month passes. Another month where the dread that I’ll be found out, and alone again, gradually subsides. Things are still exciting, but comfortable. We’ve had those nights of listening to music and talking about times in our pasts that pain us. I think she was more honest than I was. The sex is still outstanding. Most of the time, she comes for me rather than the other way around. It feels good to not feel like I am begging for something. She hasn’t brought up visiting her mother recently.

We go to the zoo, gigs, and restaurants. I meet her friends. She’s already met Tom, so there’s really no one else for her to meet from my side. Going out isn’t so much of a chore now. We talk about our plans. It’s too early to discuss moving in together, but we’re both secretly wondering if this could be that kind of relationship. That we might even stand a chance.

You are quieter right now. That scares me. I guess I’m just seeing how long I can make it last before the inevitable happens.

But I’m happy. I can’t believe I said that.

#

I’m sitting on a bench outside the office with Tom. He’s smoking his obligatory post-lunch cigarette. The sickly sweet smell entices me, as it always will, but that’s one thing I’d managed to kick—for now.

There is always a lull of satisfied fullness after lunch. Today it was rounded off with an apple pie dessert—my second favorite, behind cherry. We take the time to contemplate and digest. Then, after a time, conversation returns to us. Usually prompted by a colleague we have a specific opinion on entering or exiting the office. 

Tom says he has something to tell me. I’m not thinking much of it. He always has something to tell me. Something that makes me regret my own life choices.

He tells me he is leaving. He’s found a better job elsewhere. Something with more prospects and a significantly higher salary.

I hope he doesn’t notice the pause as my gut falls away, and I realize I’ll be stuck here in this shithole forever. Now I won’t even have him around to drag me through it. But I smile. I tell him it’s incredible, and he deserves it. He says that something will come along for me before long, just like she did. He says he’d rather have someone like her than a new job. I agree, but I’m not so sure. I really hate this job.

We say that nothing will change. That we’ll still meet, drink, and play video games. I know that is a lie.

My dad used to tell me he’d always be around.

#

I’m in bed. Even though I’m not shitting my brains out like I suggested, I’ve called in sick from work. I just can’t face it.

Tom leaving has hit me far more than I imagined it would. The office has become the same dire drudge day after day. I never realized how much I depended on his perpetual cheeriness. The promotion he’d suggested may happen for me has evaporated since he left, too. I miss my friend, and I don’t hear from him much. The shine of my new relationship with her has subsided and fails to mask the misery. I’ve wondered if it can’t cover over these issues, then is it strong enough? Am I good enough? How long until she goes? I can already see the potential areas of conflict. Subtle little behaviors. Sniffs and table manners. Expectations and hopes. I see the cracks forming, and I guess I wonder if I should just bring a sledgehammer down on them now.

She comes into the bedroom.

She asks me if I am OK.

What the hell does OK even mean? What is the definition of someone being OK?

I tell her I’m fine.

She’s too insightful. I liked that at first, but now I realize what she may use it for. Why couldn’t she just leave me alone?

Sitting down on the bed, she pushes her fingers through my hair. I squirm indifference and pull the sheets tighter.

She says she’s seen this before.

Her dad, she says, was depressed for years after her mother left him. He’d been healthy and lively but later withered in his bed, spoon-fed on fast food news and resentment. He didn’t kill himself, unless self-neglect can be considered suicide.

So now I’m her dad?

I say I don’t know what she’s talking about. That I’m just sick, but I know she knows. I know she knows about you, and you know about her.

She says it happens to all of us. That whatever I am feeling is OK. Her nails gently massage my scalp, and a shiver runs through me. I look up into those eyes and that mole to the side of her right eye, which I think I preferred under the other eye, in the last place. For a moment I believe her, and the tears start.

It’s a whole five minutes until I can gather myself, but I have nothing to say, and she says that’s OK.

Then her phone goes off and she’s late for work. She kisses me, tells me to take it easy, and do something that makes me feel better. I tell her I love her, and after she leaves, I close my eyes.

#

I am in the kitchen of my old apartment. It’s dingy. The once white cabinets are stained yellow from cigarettes and unwashed hands.

I pull open the drawer. The one with the good knife in it. The one remaining good knife from the set my aunt bought me. I never used it to cook, only to pierce the lid of microwave meals.

It has a solid, evenly distributed weight. I run my finger along the blade, just enough to draw a thin stream of blood and know it is up to the task.

The light on the oven clock is blinking. Watching. Judging.

Aren’t I meant to have a warm bath for this?

A quicker option is required. I don’t have long.

I hold the knife by the handle, bringing the tip toward my ribcage. I stop, place two fingers on my rising chest, and check where the pulse is strongest.

I line up the tip, place both hands on the grip, and look straight ahead.

It feels like being punched. Punched and winded. My hands drop to my side. Looking down, I can see only the handle of the knife protruding.

My heart is still pumping, but slower with every beat. Blood pools around the blade, seeping out like ants fleeing a nest doused in boiling water. I stumble and catch myself on the countertop. I drop to my knees; the impact sending a searing jolt through me. I can’t breathe.

It’s less than a second. But it’s peaceful.

I open my eyes.

#

It’s 1 p.m. Three days later. I am still in bed, and I don’t know why it hasn’t worked. Why don’t I feel better? Why aren’t things different here? Why are things only getting worse?

I hear the jangling of keys and the front door opens. I wish I’d never given her keys. Why has she come home? She knows I just want to be left alone to rot. Doesn’t she?

She calls out a welcome. I grumble below the sheets so low she’d never hear it. Maybe she’ll think I’m asleep and go away.

Why do I think this way? I like her, don’t I?

She comes into my room, creeping, with a smile on her face. She’s brought me my favorite pie from the bakery. A gooey and sweet cherry pie. I haven’t realized how hungry I am until this moment, but strategy dictates not to appear too relieved. I just want to be left alone. A moment of brightness will break my resolve.

I say thanks anyway. She puts it down and sits next to me. She tells me about her morning and her frustrations at work. I roll away and face the drawn curtains. Somewhere out there, a dim and dying sun is trying to fight its way into my room. My fortress of shade, suspicion, and stink.

She finishes and then tells me that Tom is arranging a night out. She says it’d be nice to go along with the entire group, like how we met. It would be good for both of us.

How could she ask me this right now? Can’t she see where I’m at? She’s always thinking about herself and what she wants. Playing it off as it somehow being a benefit to me. Why would I want to be with those people? They’ve added nothing to my life and never will.

Even though my mouth says maybe, my face tells the true story. This is the turning point. Her face sours, and I know that somewhere inside she remembers her father. Yet, behind it all, I see her resentment born from fear. She sees in me the rotten death of him. How he choked on the fumes in the garage. That’s what happened here in this world. She suffers more here. Am I making things worse doing what I’m doing?

She asks me why I look the way I do. Do I even want to feel better? Then, she asks what I want her to do.

I shrug.

She tells me that if this is the way I want to be and I don’t want to be helped, then I should just lay here in my own shit. She leaves with a vicious glare.

I turn over, wrench the pillow up, and slam it down over my head. Further buried inside my tomb.

The door slams and closes the world out. All that is left is my breath and the hum of the heating system.

I think about the feeling of my teeth on a cold metal barrel. The muzzle pressing into the roof of my mouth.

It would be better.

Then I hear you.

Are you going to cry? Go on, cry, you piece of shit. You fucking pussy. You’re a waste. You’re a ruiner of lives. Go ahead and cry. Cry or die.

No matter where I go, however I try to escape, you’re always with me.

Do yourself in.

Maybe if I try again? Go somewhere else?

I close my eyes.

#

Thrash metal, high speed and unyielding, screams out from the car stereo. I put my foot down on the accelerator.

The roads are devoid of life. Just me and the concrete. The endless fucking concrete upon which we build our pointless lives.

I push until the engine, near to its breaking point, shakes the whole car. I tentatively reach down and pop the seatbelt loose, freeing myself of the bindings. Ahead, the road divides. A perfect apex of cement laid out ahead of me. Three feet tall, a cleaving barrier.

I cross lanes so that the intermittent lines slice through the core of the car. I hold on tight to keep my aim true. It is only at the last moment that I let go entirely.

The impact is so sharp and sudden that I am moving forward through the windshield before the airbag has a chance to think about giving me severe neck trauma but keeping me alive. As the body of the car concertinas, the windshield cracks, making my exit slightly easier.

I am in the air for what seems like an eternity, staring at the black sky ahead and the deepening ground below.

I hear a crack at the base of my skull as I meet the earth. My face splits open.

I open my eyes.

#

She comes back the following day. Only this time, I’m not in my bed. Instead, I’ve risen from it. The sheets are in the laundry and I’m making breakfast. Her smile warms the room. The dancing light coming through the open curtains reflecting in her eyes. All thoughts of her father’s suicide are gone. I offer her coffee, and we talk about how to get me better.

No drugs. I insisted. No drugs.

I tell her about how it is because she has never known you (but I don’t mention you; I swear). I tell her what it’s like to be unable to move. How my body aches and twitches with frustration, guilt, and regret. How I know that somewhere deep inside is where I still reside, but that the hard shell keeps me in. Nothing comes close to cracking that shell. There is no gap to squeeze through.

So, we tried all the other things: walks outside, meditation apps, and writing what I am grateful for. It even seemed to work for a while. I thought it could work. I tried to get better. And to some degree, I did.

But I know you’re still here.

Aside from the hollow and friendless existence without Tom, there is her mother. She’s wanted me to meet her for a while and, according to her, now is the time. How I’ve been, the trauma we’ve been through, has strengthened us, she says. It’s proven—to her at least—that we are meant to be, and somehow, she can save me.

I am clammy and fidgeting as we pull up outside. She parks, pauses, and smiles. She tells me not to worry. That her mother can be judgmental, a bit set in her ways, but she’ll like me.

I am reminded of a conversation days earlier when she told me of her previous failed attempts introducing partners to her mother.

I wish I’d put this off. I wish I’d said no. I don’t know why she is making me do this. Isn’t it obvious that I don’t want to, even though I said yes? Even Tom wasn’t around to provide an adequate alternative.

Her mother is shorter than her. Wearing a brown floral dress, her face is welcoming but writhing in judgment. I am polite. I am the best I can be. I stand up straight. I answer questions clearly. I smile.

All this, and I know I am still not up to snuff. 

The entire visit is awkward. We sit and talk. We look at her flowerbeds in the backyard, although her mother stays seated and calls out to us all the things we should appreciate. I am asked about my family, and I share how both my parents have passed on. I tell her mother what I told her: my mother died of pancreatic cancer and my dad of something to do with diabetes. I didn’t tell her mother what I hadn’t told her: my dad nearly drank himself to death and then finished the job with a rope in the basement when I was eight. My dad had his own version of you, you see.

The visit ends, and my body goes limp from exhaustion. This has felt more like a formal interview than a potential welcome to the family. I’m relieved that it is over.

I ask her two days later if she’s spoken to her mother and if I did OK. She says yes, but her voice wavers. Her eyes flit away as she fusses over something to distract from it, muttering about how her mother had a migraine that day.

I know I have failed. I go to lie down, and I close my eyes.

#

My head and torso are drenched. My pants speckled with darkening and spreading blotches. The smell is thick, and my eyes convulse in an attempt to escape the vapors.

Reaching to my side, in this desolately quiet place, my hand falls on the packet. Small and mass-produced. The packet that made its way across all the land and sea to find me at this moment—to serve its single purpose.

It slides open with the kind of scraping satisfaction of dry hands on fibrous paper. Inside, my fingers dance over the small splinters until they land on just one. I remove it and slide the pack back together, flipping it on its side.

The whoosh as the match lights seems to echo for generations in my mind. It is here for mere seconds before it will be gone for good. The molecules burned out, waiting to be reborn in a new form millennia from now. The fire burns white at its center as I touch it to my chest.

The heat spreads instantly across my torso, around my skull, and down my arms. I jolt with the initial shock and wince. Of all the moments I’ve had, this is the most drawn out. My head drops as the top layer of skin flakes away. The shock becomes a sting, becomes unbearable, then numb.

I lie down on my side. The walls silhouetted with my flinching figure as my eyelids seal shut, followed by my nose and mouth. I feel my ear melting into the ground.

I open my eyes.

#

I can’t remember when you came into my life. It feels like you’ve always been here. Lingering in the background behind my jelly-filled eyeballs.

I’ve sealed you in that room occasionally. But eventually, you break out of it. Every time, you bore through my skull and into my waking mind.

I am confident you will never leave nor diminish. You are always here with me, struggling for control, often winning. That is until I can silence you for a little while. Move on to a better place, another life, waiting for you to catch up. Because no matter where I go, I can’t shake you.

#

Her mother has cancer. Stubborn bitch hadn’t let on when we were there. Looked perfectly healthy. Stage 4 brain cancer, apparently. I looked it up; that’s pretty much the worse you can get. Half your head is a tumor when it’s stage four.

She told me over the phone. She cried; she bawled. I did my best to console her. But it’s tough when the compressed voice emanating from the small speaker belongs to someone who thinks it’d be fortunate to have the excuse of a brain tumor.

She says she can’t see me tonight. That she has to see her aunt.

Another night alone. She doesn’t turn to me for comfort, and why would she? They’ve all left. My mother, father, Tom. Why would anyone stick around?

Things were looking so good. It’s only a matter of time now.

#

It’s strange how things all tie together. You can easily connect one event to another when you know things like I do. When you observe, you see.

Ever since the news about her mother, she’s become more distant. We only see each other once or twice a week, rather than every day. She says it’s because of a project at work and her mom’s illness, but I know better. She’s probably fucking somebody else already. Somebody who isn’t a wasted meat sack. Somebody who lives up to her mother’s expectations before she checks out. Somebody who can be who she wants them to be.

She arrives at 11 p.m., three hours late. My botched attempt at dinner is cold. She flies in, flushed and apologetic. I say it’s OK (lie) and ask her where she’s been. She tells me it’s the project this time, not her mom. They’re almost done, almost ready to launch, but things are crazy. I ask if she was really working this late.

She pauses. Then I know. How right I was about things tying together.

She tells me she went for a drink after work. Just one, just for thirty minutes. She needed to blow off some steam, what with everything going on. She said Tom had arranged a meetup with her work colleagues.

I did not receive a call from Tom.

I know in that one moment that it is over. I know I am worthless. I am certain that my best friend and my girlfriend are fucking. I know he is better than me. It makes sense he’d leave his job where he saw me every day. It would make the whole thing easier to hide. I know she is best rid of me. I know deep down that she is good. I don’t blame her; it’s what I deserve, after all.

She knows I’m pissed off. She tells me that Tom tried to call.

I show her my phone. No missed calls. No voicemail. No messages.

She tells me I wouldn’t have liked it anyway. A new bar so far up its own ass that it can see the next drink being poured down its throat.

I ask her why she didn’t call me?

A pause.

She tells me she didn’t want to bother me because she thought Tom had called already and she was only staying for one drink.

My eyelids become so heavy. The corners of my mouth descend to their familiar resting spot.

Here it comes. The end.

I tell her what I think. I tell her I know what her dying mother thinks of me, what she thinks of me. I tell her about Tom and how he has abandoned me, and I understand why. Then I tell her I know why she’d rather be fucking him.

She pulls up. Her face now contorted into red belligerence. She yells about how she’s been trying to help me. How all she does is for me. How she’s working hard so that we can have a good life when we move in together.

She wanted to move in with me and suffer through my filth?

She tells me she understands now. That I don’t want to be helped, even if I could be. How Tom has told her about how he’s tried all these years. How she has spent so much time trying to help. 

She throws her jacket on and tells me to go fuck myself. The door slams behind her.

That is better. Back to normal. You worthless cunt.

My gut drops and I stumble. I regret. I hate. I close my eyes and try to compress the tears into stone.

You did this. You wanted this. But I won’t let you. Not this time.

I run out the door.

#

The door crashes into the wall, the handle leaving a permanent hole.

Bursting out into the night, I do not see her. It’s raining. The lights of passing cars reflect on the droplets, blinding me.

I look to the right, to the side street where she sometimes parks, and I see her turning the corner. Her jacket flapping behind her. Her hair bouncing in anger as she strides out of sight.

I call out, but she doesn’t hear me. The cars and the rain drain out my timid attempt.

Why did I have to react that way? Do I really think that she and Tom are fucking? Would my best friend of all these years really do that to me? I need her. I need her to help me. Of course, I was wrong, like I always am, but I can get better with her.

I can’t let her go.

I step off the curb, but I don’t see the truck cresting the hill moments before I do. I don’t hear it either. Only the pounding rain and the cavernous echoes in my chest.

But I feel it.

I feel a crushing weight at my side. My hips and legs snapping and disintegrating, bone piercing skin.

I’m dragged down towards the rain-drenched tarmac. A dark body looms overhead as my intestines are flattened. Its back tires skid as it plows on through, crushing my balls and what remains of my legs. I hear crunching and bursting. The ever-growing pool of blood and shit flowing around me, mixing with the unforgiving rain.

The truck grinds to a halt down the street.

I think I hear her screaming.

I open my eyes.

Thanks to William H. Duryea for giving me this opportunity, my excellent copy editor Mark Askew for his hard work, and my wife, Mary, for her love and support.