The Choice

The Choice

  A pungent odour of pollution and human existence hangs in the air. Cars, their passengers caught in their self-contained fury at the world, choke the arteries of the city. The people, each engaged in their own private thoughts, each partaking in actions that will decide the fate of their worlds, charge from place to place. The acknowledgment of anthers world, if indeed they are acknowledged at all, is with ridicule and hostility, for to the people nothing can be as important as their actions at this precise moment. A rain begins to fall, coldly violating these worlds, bringing anger, resentment, joy, despair and countless other emotions pouring from them.
  He sees none of this. As He walks, He sees nothing of these worlds, of the emotions and thoughts that swirl and crash together within them. To him they are as ghosts, for although He knows that He can touch them, can reach out at any moment, to him they do not exist. He feels nothing for them, as He is sure they feel nothing for him, no guilt for the woman who-does-not-exist whom he collides with and lies bleeding, no sorrow for the beggar who-does-not-exist who sits starving by the kerb. No pity even for the mother who-does-not-exist, whose screeching baby reaches from a makeshift crib as she huddles beside it for warmth.
  He picks up speed and soon leaves the city behind, so-called civilisation fading to but a glimmer on the horizon. In its place stands nature, her rugged appearance at once beautiful and terrible, her face sullied by the by the rain and winters cruel bite. Or so, He supposes, those who-do-not-exist would believe. To him it means as much as they do and He does not notice any of it, for the endless miles He trudges and the countless hours He spends thinking of nothing.
  He arrives. He does not know how He knows this, nor for what purpose He has come. He strides to the precipice, and peering over the edge watches as the waves crash against the granite below. I will wait, He thinks, and the purpose will come.
  As He waits, something odd happens. He begins to reflect, as He never has before, on his life. He thinks first of his mother, or at least of the woman who held that title. He thinks of the pain, physical and mental, remembers the harshness and the severity of her punishments. He remembers her intoxicated rants on his absent fathers inadequacies, can smell the mix of alcohol and cigarettes on her breath, can hear the coarseness in her voice. Yet He feels no resentment.
  He remembers his first kiss, his body pressing against hers, locked in an embrace fueled with adolescent lust. He remembers the rejection afterward, the look of revulsion on her face. And yet He feels no anger.
  He remembers his wedding, the look on his wifes face as her veil was lifted, the tears in his father-in-laws eyes as he gave his daughter away. The smiles on the faces of the congregation, the words of the priest, the exchanging of rings, the tender kiss. But, try as He does, He can recall no fondness.
  And He can remember the divorce, the burning rage as everything he worked for throughout his life was snatched away by... He thinks the word could have been "whore", but now it is unimportant. He no longer feels any resentment towards her, does not blame her for the drinking, gambling, his life spiraling out of control. But He does not feel these are the reason why He has come.
  Searching, He casts his mind back to the people who-do-not-exist. Perhaps, He thinks, they hold the key. He studies them in his mind, scrutinises every inch of what He can recall, trying to find a difference between They and He. His limited knowledge of them, how little He remembers, serves him nothing. He cannot even recall a face of the hundreds, thousands, millions whom He passed on his way. Trying harder than He has tried for anything before He tries to pierce their minds, to feel what they feel...
  And suddenly, He knows. Resentment, anger, joy, rage, pity. All things that drive their worlds, keep them from shattering into a billion tiny pieces of nothingness. He focuses all his efforts on himself once more, piercing every shadows of his mind, beating against the great iron doors He suddenly find there, that bar his path to a place He once knew. He begins to realise, here on the brink, why He has come.
  It is not that He has let go of the emotions that He feels towards the key players in his life, those who shaped his life to this point. They have vanished, barred behind the doors, taking with them everything that once made him who he was. This is it, He knows, the difference between I and those who-do-not-exist.
  He no longer feels.
  The beating of his fists upon the door grow louder, threatening to blow his head apart with each new pound. He stands, face contorted in pain, nails digging into the palms of his hand until the blood flows freely from them, pouring out of his body and with it taking his will to fight. In this moment He finds his purpose, what has drawn him to this place, and suddenly knows that his life has been leading to this very moment since the day He woke and for the first time, He realises, felt nothing. There is only one choice, one simple decision that will decide the fate of his world, and in one last exertion of will He throws himself against the doors, bringing them off his hinges and crashing down.
  He feels sudden elation, and for the first time in an age He smiles. His purpose is fulfilled, his task done. He looks down at the waves once more.
  He chooses.