The kitchen knife sat on his lap as he contemplated his entire life; the futility of it all. His barren, unhappening, colourless life. He held the cheap plastic dudgeon, placed the blade horizontally on his skin, and with one swift movement slit his wrists. There was no stifling. Death was silent after all. Through the course of his fascinating dull life, he has found fiction to be so much more truthful. Maybe that is what guaranteed the authenticity of the phony Kalon so enchantingly. Made the applied quaintness mesmerizing.
She stood in front of him, smiling, as the blood engulfed the stolen rose gold Rolex. Isn’t your entire life supposed to flash before your eyes in the last moments? “Bullshit”, he thought. What is there to see anyway? Is not all life pathetic and futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach. We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Or worse than a shadow- misery.
Blood flowed more than he thought it would, and kept on flowing until it had covered every single object in the room, till he was floating on it. But the salinity seemed too weak to hold his weight, he was drowning, gasping for breath, his vision went dark. He could feel himself being vertically aligned, until he wasn’t drowning anymore. He was standing on something, he felt concrete.
The liquid moved away to reveal floor, staircases. Is he supposed to climb these? What was he doing in school uniform? He is supposed to reach somewhere, somebody is waiting for him. No, she had no knowledge of his existence…. Yet. She?
He soon ran out of breath while climbing the stairs, the world moved on to escalators for a reason. As he stood at the entrance of the library he remembered why he was here. Dropping off maths before the finals of 12th standard was one of the best decisions ever made. Only if the school library had real books. You don’t call staple food delicacy. He was denied entrance.