The weeks became days, the same monotonous cycle of waking up, existing, and the constant, sometimes pointless, search. Each rejection letter a tiny, painful sting, affirming what the monster inside already screamed. See? Told you. Worthless. Always. He applied to all of them. Call centers, data entry, even graveyard shift janitoring. No response. Or the nice, bland "we've decided to pursue other candidates."
His mother, God bless her, did her best. She'd bring him tea, little snacks, sit silently in the living room, observing him out of the corner of her eye. She never once expressly asked about the job, but her silence, her silent sitting there, spoke volumes. He could see the furrows beside her eyes deepen, the little slump in her shoulders. My fault. My fault again. Another burden. Another failure.
He'd force himself to eat, shower, go through the motions. Pretending tired him out, though. The weight would keep falling, but more gradually. He stopped weighing himself. Why bother? Just numbers. More proof. Of. vanishing.
Sometimes he'd have this ferocious flash of despondency in the afternoon. He'd be sitting on this park bench, this one. The sun was warm but he was cold, colder than ice. He pulled out the rumpled letter to Lily and ironed it smooth. The words, words of his own, stared him in the face. The worst novel ever written. Two solid hours of trash. The final escape option came to mind. The hotel roof. The disgusting drenching blood. The pills. They were still there. A silent, ever-present option.
This. This is it. The moment. The choice. The gift. Of God. To die. To end. The pain. The uselessness. The… burden.
He closed his eyes. He remembered the vacant cubicle in the call center. Marius's face of disappointment. Lily's faraway voice. The ceaseless, meaningless calls. The nagging, daily fear of failure. It all focused into a suffocating darkness.
And then another photo. His mother's face. Not worried, but smiling. From a memory, far and frail. Her little, warm hand in his. His father, a passing, proud tilt of the head after he'd shown him a drawing, a story he'd written as a child. The fleeting moments of connection. The love. Unconditional. Even for him.
They. they would break. Shatter. If I. if I chose. The gift. My choice. Their pain. No. Not that. Not. that inheritance.
He opened his eyes. The world kept turning. The sun kept shining. The leaves kept rustling. He stayed here. Why? For them. Only them. This. hyper-hope. A curse. An agony. But. for them. I will survive. I will. try.
He pulled out his phone. The job search app. Browsed through the listings for the call centers, the data entry. Stopped at something else. A small independent bookstore. "Part-time assistant." Not much. Minimum wage, probably. But not a call center. Not the same cage.
A book. A story. Not my story. Not the worst novel. But… books. Words. Maybe. Possibly. A different kind of prison. Or. a window. A tiny crack. In the castle.
He typed. The form was a long one. Sloggy. He could sense the resistance, the old monster that growled. Useless. Worry about it. You'll fail. Again. But he typed anyway. His fingers, still clumsy, found a new rhythm. Slower. Deliberate. Every word a small act of defiance against the nothing.
He thought of Suna, fighting Nastrophies. My monsters. My terrors. Given life. He fought them now. Not with obsidian knives, but with words on a screen. A quieter fight. But no less necessary.
The Tree of Worlds. Endless ways. I chose this one. For them. The path of… survival. Of… not giving up. Even when. Everything. Shouts. To.
He finished the application. Hit submit. A small, almost imperceptible tremor ran through him. Not hope. Not yet. But a sense of having done something. A tiny, fragile step.
He looked at the sky. A few clouds drifted lazily. The sun was setting, painting the horizon in hues of orange and purple. Another day. Done. Another battle. Fought. And… I'm still here. For now. For them.
He walked home, cooler air now, city sounds yielding to twilight. His mother would be waiting. He would eat. He would sleep. And tomorrow, he would wake. And he would try again. For them. Just for them. The monster would go on whispering, but momentarily his parents' love's echo, and the underlying, desperate need to protect them from his despair, overwhelmed it. Just. For. Now. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.
A never-ending summer. Outside was sweltering. Everyone was happily going out, playing. The computer games were irrelevant because the sun blinds everything. Except for Xing's attitude.
Xing was bewildered. He woke up in the morning, went through the employment pages, searching everywhere to find. What he said. Maybe. Another way. Ought not. Really be. This way. He capitulated again. "What am I to do? With my life? Apparently. No longer. Devotees. Everything. Hitherto. Yet recently. Everything. So bloody. Bloody hell. Everything."
The alarm yelled. "Oh god. I'm late. Get mom's thing." He hurried, pulling himself into what he discovered in the closet, and emerged.
Xing was moving quicker than ever. He descended directly, then rushed to a small office. It was an office of a family physician. "Xing," he grunted to the nurse, "Get my mom's prescription."
"Okay. See you." She passed him a piece of paper containing the prescription and the medical card. He left.
"Thank you." Xing moved slightly in the middle of the crowd at the market. He observed the people. They talked. They were cheerful. Everything. So peculiar. But lately, it was not unusual for it to be everyone out on a summer day, happily chatting.
But what about me? He thought. He looked a bit at his life. For seven years, since he was 18, he had tried to get a job, a good job with good wages, one he could have in his home town. But recently, he had had nine or eight jobs. He couldn't even think. And of course, some well-paid jobs, but also some where he was underpaid.
So. Thinking. About me. What can I do? He looked a bit. "Well. Not that broke. Enough money. Only. Something to spend on. Work situation. I will explain. Works. Not a problem. For me. But always. Disappointed."
Well. Guess. Just. Shouldn't work like that. I mean. Shouldn't work like that. Maybe. Other ways. To earn money. I need. And then. Pocket. I am fine. Yet. But. What can I do? Future. I mean. You know. Not always. Be like this.
He gazed somewhat. "But shouldn't be worse. I mean. Not like I used to be when I was young. Everything. So good. Fresh. Clean. Actually. Remember my life. Everything. Pretty dark. Shady. Sister. Constant worries. On me. Everything. Turned out. Like this. Glad. Over. But also. Feel. Shouldn't be that way."
Well. Guess. Have to figure out. What about. Starting a shop? At least. Free. Possibly. Have something. What about… And those "what abouts" started growing, like weeds. And then listen. To a tale.
The bookstore application. No reply. The part-time aide. The vast, quiet expanse of online applications. Each sent resume a tiny, helpless pebble tossed into an ocean. He had craved a crack, a chink of light. Now, he was able to behold the reality. Years. It could be. Years. Of this. This… searching. This… nothing. The realization descended on him, cold and heavy, like a mantle. The flame of resolve, created from his parents' potential grief, began to wane.
This. Is. Forever. This cycle. Of trying. And failing. Always. Falling. No. More. Cannot. Do this. Cannot. Endure.
He scrolled through his phone, no longer for job listings, but for hotel sites. His fingers flew with a mechanical ease, searching for "high floors," "city views." The final step. A quiet exit. Not the streets. Not the crowd. Sanitized. Quick. Silent. A masterful exit. As I always. Imagined.
He found one. A downtown high-end hotel. Twenty stories. A roof garden, sure thing. The photos on the computer, spotless clean rooms, views of the city, seemed a cruel jest of his inner life. He set a date. A week from now. Gave himself time. Time to write. The last. Bollocks.".
He recalled the poppy, bruised in the book. The common poppy. Not the opium type. No sedative. Just… the jump. The end. The good bound.
He crossed to the window. The endless summer day lay out before him, soaking under the remorseless, unthinking sun. Children played in the yard, their voices calling distantly. Couples strolled, hand in hand. Life. Happening. Without him. Around him. An ever-present, living warning.
This world. It keeps going. Spinning. Without me. It will. Spin. After. And that's. Okay. It is. What it is. A cycle. Of sun. Of heat. Of play. Of forgetting. For some.
He closed his eyes, seeing the city lights off the rooftop, the vast, indifferent expanse below. The plan. It was happening. More clearly now. The last escape. The end of the never-ending summer. And then, nothing. Only silence.