An endless summer. The weather outside was sweltering. Everyone was having fun going outside, playing.
The computer games are no longer needed since the sun blinds out everything. Except for Xing's attitude.
Xing was stumped. He awoke in the morning, scanning the job sites, looking all over to see. What he said. Maybe. Another way. Should not. Really be. This way. He capitulated again. "What do I do? Regarding my life? Apparently. No longer. Enthusiasts. Everything. Previously. But lately. Everything. So bloody. Damn. Over."
The alarm blared. "Oh my god. I'm so late. Pick mom's thing." He sped, backtracking himself from what he found in the closet, and outdoors.
Xing hurried faster than ever. He descended directly, then sprinted to a little office. It was a family physician's office. "Xing," he mum-bled to the nurse, "Pick my mom's prescription."
"Alright. See you." She gave him a sheet of paper containing the prescription and the medical card. He left.
"Thank you." Xing then moved a little around the crowd in the market. He looked at the people. They talked. They seemed to be contented. Everything. So unusual. But recently, it wasn't unusual that a summer day saw everyone out, talking cheerfully.
But what about me? He considered. He thought about his situation some. He had been job hunting for seven years, ever since he was 18, for a job, a good-paying job, one that he could work in his hometown. But now, he had had nine or eight jobs. He could not even count. And so far, some of them with good pay, but some where he was paid too little.
So. Thinking. About my situation. What can I do? He looked rather. "Well. Not that destroyed. Enough money. Only. Something to spend money on. Job situation. I will tell you. Jobs. Not the problem. For me. But always. Disappointed."
Well. Guess. Just. Ought not work like that. I mean. Ought not work like that. Possibly. Other ways. To make money. I need. And then. Pocket. I am okay. But. Yet. However. What to do? Future. I mean. You get it. Not always. Be like so.".
He looked partially. "But shouldn't be worse. I mean. Not like when I was young. Everything. So clean. Fresh. Actually. Remember my life. Everything. Pretty shady. Dark. Sister. Constant trouble. On me. Everything. Ended up. Like this. Glad. Over. But also. Feel. Should not be like this."
Well. Guess. Have to work out. What about. Opening a shop? Least. Free. Perhaps. Had something. What about… And the "what abouts" grew like weeds. And then listen. To a story.
The bookshop application. Nothing. The part-time assistant. The soul-destroying, empty desolation of cyberspace applications. Each CV sent was like a tiny, harmless pebble cast into an infinite sea. He'd wanted a crack, a sliver of light. Now, he could see the truth. Years. It might be. Years. Of this. This… searching. This… nothing. The truth struck him, cold and heavy, like a shroud. The spark of resolve, forged from his parents' potential sorrow, began to fizzle.
This. Is. Forever. This cycle. Of trying. And falling. Always. Falling. No. More. Cannot. Do this. Cannot. Endure.
He scrolled through his phone, no longer for work sites, but for hotel apps. His fingers moved with a detached economy, searching for "high floors," "city views." A final stage. A discreet departure. Not the streets. Not the chaos. Clean. Quick. Quiet. A perfect exit. As I always. Imagined.
He found one. A downtown hotel. Twenty stories. A roof garden, no doubt. The pictures on the computer, immaculate rooms, panoramic views, seemed a cruel parody of his inner landscape. He chose a date. Next Friday night. Gave himself time. Time to. what? To put together. The final. Pieces. To write. The last. Nonsense.
He recalled the poppy, pressed between the pages of the book. The ordinary poppy. Not the opium poppy. No sedative. Just. the leap. The end. The perfect leap.
He walked to the window. The endless summer day stretched out before him, bathed in the pitiless, uncaring sun. Children at play outside, laughter drifting faintly. Couples strolling, arms around each other. Life. Happening. Without him. Around him. A constant, living reminder.
This world. It keeps going. Turning. Without me. It will. Turn. Afterwards. And it's. Fine. It is. What it is. A cycle. Of sun. Of heat. Of play. Of forgetting. For a few.
He closed his eyes, picturing the city lights from a rooftop, the vast, uncaring space below. The plan. It was shaping up. Planar now. The ultimate exit. The end of the boundless summer. And then silence. Just silence.
The seaside hotel. He'd booked it. Not the highest level. But high enough. Ninth. Llooking out over the vast, uncaring expanse of the sea. The journey had been a haze. Bus. Train. Cab. Each a larger step away from the known, away from the stifling routine, away from the shadow of his former life. He checked in, the clerk a tired-eyed girl, her smile sweet. Like mine. Always sweet. Until now. No need. To force.
His room was small. Clean. Unpersonal. One bed. A postage-stamp balcony. And the sea. An endless, glinting blue under the unyielding summer sun. It called to him. Not a despairing siren call, not quite, but an expansive, silent promise of nothing. Vast. Like my emptiness. Swallow me. Whole. No trace. Left.
He put his small bag on the floor. One set of clothes. The folded letter of Lily. The poppy novel. His phone, low battery, a reminder of his isolation. He was on the balcony. The sea breeze, salty, sugary, caressed his skin. Below, tiny figures dotted the beach, bold flecks of color. Squealing children laughing helplessly, their cries carried on the wind, a bitter counterpoint to the void within him. They do not know. The void. The whispers. They frolic. Blind. Happy. Lucky.
He stayed there for hours. Just watching. The waves, an unrelenting beat. The sky, an unbroken blue. The horizon, a sharp line dividing two nothingnesses. His head, a cacophony of jagged pieces.
Reiner. Zoe. Lux. Crimson. They appeared, without provocation, from the depths of his mind. Not the game's screen. Not the pixels. But here. In the wide ocean, the endless sky. They were on the beach. Not some distant Numinean sand, but this sand. The sun beating down, casting the heat upon his skin.
They were fighting. Fighting Odell. A great, dark form that wavered over the face of the water, its edges indistinct, but sinister. Reiner, sword a blur, danced with furious accuracy, but his strikes found nothing. Nothing but air. Zoe, her movements fast, exact, tried to center her power, but her hands flashed weakly, fading into nullity. Lux, the black Arlechino, his commanding stance faltering, struggled with a non-existent force, his movements large, theatrical, but utterly futile. Crimson, Adel of the red hat, always so brilliant, ran round and round in circles, his laughter now a demented guffaw, his talents muted, stilled.
They've arrived. They're fighting. For me. Or… for themselves. But… they can't. They are… stilled.
He noticed witnesses. They watched and stared. Not amazed or terror-stricken. Amused. A man pointed, laughed, "Look at that odd troupe. Some kind of performance art." A child giggled, "They're playing pretend, Mama!"
Pretend. Yes. Always. Pretend. My fight. Their fight. Just. pretend. To the world. To the humans. To the ones that do not see. The war. The real war. Inside. Out.
Reiner bellowed, a wild roar of fury, but nothing materialized. Only a quiet, near inaudible exhalation of air from his lips. Zoe waved her arms wildly, trying to conjure up a shield, a wall, but her hands moved through air, nothing. Lux tried to command the sand itself, to rise up and blanket Odell, but the grains merely tumbled in the wind, unconscious. Crimson, his face contorted in silent scream, frantically tried to ignite a spell, but his hand smoldered briefly, then went out.
They're muffled. By people. By the indifference. Of the world. My world. People like me. All my cries. My agony. My despair. Just. wind. To people. To the world. To Lily.
Odell, the black form, seemed to expand, puffing out larger, nourished by their powerlessness, by the sheer indifference of the human world they were in. No longer a battle of flesh and blood. It was a battle for attention. For existence. And they were losing. Losing very badly. Because no one observed. No one heard. No one cared.
Xing experienced a bitter, icy wave of sympathy. They are me. My battle. My cries. Unheard. My strength. Lost. Silenced. By the everyday din. The ordinary. The absence. Of comprehension.
He recalled his youth. The solitary hours. Creating these worlds. These individuals. To fight the darkness that others could not see. The whispered "not enough"s. The constant threat of "failure." He gave them power in his mind, voices, abilities, grand quests. But here, on this shoreline, in this "reality," they were at his mercy. Subject to derision. To scorn.
The classic battle. Downscaled. Performance art. My life. Downscaled. A melancholy. Spectacle. To myself. To the few. Who care. To watch.
He witnessed Reiner kneel, his sword hitting the sand softly. Zoe fell, running tears down her face, but they evaporated in the heat, unspotted. Lux was rigid, a defeated statue. Crimson fell, his red hat twirling away, a abandoned toy. Odell hummed, a victorious, silent thrum, radiating outward slowly, solidly.
They are dying. My creations. My strength. My escape. Dying. Because I. Cannot. Give them. Voice. Cannot. Give them. Power. In this. Mundane. Brutal. World.
There was a bitter blast of wind on the balcony that rattled the railing. Xing trembled, retreating to the hallucination. The beach below remained thronged. The children still screamed. The sun still seared. The forms of his characters had disappeared, dissolved back into the emitting heat.
It was. a warning. A final. Message. From me. To me. Even the fantasy. Fails. Here. When. There is no hope. No power. No… voice.
He swung off from the balcony, the heat of the sun a real weight on his shoulders. The room's air conditioner hummed, a steady low whirring. He reclined across the bed, staring at the white ceiling. The thoughts battered him in disjointed flashes, each one a hammer blow to his already broken mind.
The worst book. Am me. My life. A bad plot. A terrible character. No ending. Just… fade. To black. And gray. Always gray.
He thought of the hotel staff. The cleaner, the cook, the bellhop. Like his game's background figures. Faceless. Utilitarian. Not like him. They are. They do. They give. I… just take. Air. Food. Room.
The ocean. So vast. So apathetic. So… conclusive. The perfect place for disappearance. A peaceful, casual death. No fatal leap off a roof. Just… a stroll. Out into the water. Until nothing.
No. More. Grief. No. More. Fear. No. More. Failure. Just… calm. Or… nothing. Yes. Nothing. Is better. Than this.
He closed his eyes again. The image of the waves, coming in, endless, inviting. He felt the cool water, the gentle pull. It gave forgetfulness. He imagined himself, a tiny speck, merging with the infinity. Losing shape. Losing. everything.
The gift. Of God. To die. Yes. A gift. And I. Will take. It. Soon. Very. Soon.
He recalled the letter he had started. The worst book. He had not touched it in days. Weeks. Since the cinema. Since the job rejections. Since the weight loss. Since Lily. All. entangled. A downward. Spiral. Into. this.
He pulled out the creased paper. Spread it onto the bed. "Dear Lily," it began. He stared at it. The words mocked him now. The anger, the hubris he had written it in was there no more, replaced by a dead, throbbing resignation. What's the point? No one cares. No one reads. Worst book. Will be. Not read. Not missed. Like me.
The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner. He was utterly, totally alone. A weighty, suffocating loneliness that permeated his marrow. This vacation. This refuge. Another prison in a different sense. A gilded cage overlooking the void.
The ocean. It lingers. My name. Xing. Come. Be one. With the nothing.
He did not know how long he stayed there. Hours. Perhaps a whole day. The sun shifted, warming the room orange, purple, rich inky black. The sound of the air conditioning was so much more pronounced, buzzing through his head. He had not eaten. Had not had a drink. His body felt light. Removed.
So close. There. The edge. The last. Step.
His phone was buzzing. He brushed it off. Buzzed again. And again. Persistent. Like the waves. He stretched forward to reach for it, his hand trembling like a foreigner's. His mother. Calling. Again. And again. And then messages. "Xing? Are you okay? Call me. Please."
His father. A message. "Son. Call your mother. She's distressed."
Distressed. Yes. They would be. Sad. If I… No. Not this. Not again.
The thought of their grief. A deadened pain in his chest. A little, persistent beat against the vast emptiness. A crack. In the castle. A thin ray of light. Shit. Dammit. Hyper-hope.
He raised himself up. Slowly. Torturously. He looked at the telephone. His mother's eyes. His father's. In his mind. Their tears. Their pain. No. Not that. Not… my legacy. Their pain.
He would not be a Nastrophy to them. He would not drink their happiness. He would not disappear. Not like this. Not for them.
He panted, his body screaming for sleep, for food, for forgetting. But his head, for now, did not yield. Not today. Not like this. Not for them.
He could sense the feeling would never be lasting. The hollowness would come back. The whispers. The fear of failure. But for now, in this silent, impersonal hotel room, gazing out over the unresponsive sea, he came to a decision. Not to live. But not to die. Not yet. Not for them. And maybe, just maybe, that was an start. A tiny, tenuous, hardly perceptible start. The ocean continued with its endless beat, a vast, unresponsive witness to his puny, despairing resolve.