Lights out
von Daniel Martin
She’d left off to Nice. One of the very few events to make two weeks seem like a whole damn decade. The moment her plane took off, I was left to drown in a thick, bitter sea of loneliness, without her even knowing of my fatal fate, my inner death sentence, the torch of my joie de vivre steadily weakening, unavoidably fading into pitch-black darkness.
I take a deep draft from my cigarette, eyes closed, thoughts drifting away. Knowing of another man enjoying her physical presence, making her laugh (damn it, how I miss her laugh), looking at her chestnut colored hair, touching her divinely curved body, smelling her aphrodisiac odor, maybe right at this very moment, drives me mad.
A cough, more of a choke, brings me back to reality – without me noticing, my cigarette burned down to its filter. I throw the stub of the balcony, pick the pack, and, after seeing that its last resident was flung over the ledge seconds ago, make it follow the call of gravity, too. Twelve stories below it shares the destiny of its predecessor, reaching the ground, left alone in the dust, mashed into the sidewalk by the steps of vacuous passengers. The ironic parallel to my own condition covers my face in a bitter grin.
With nothing left to do, no spare distraction to utilize, I stand up like a sleepwalker; walk up to the edge and look down. Twelve stories divide me from freedom, one final journey of thirty meters vertically till I am allowed to reach inner peace. One foot on the ledge, no impeding doubts in sight, I pull myself up; reaching the point of no return, sweet anticipation floods my body, my head, my thoughts. And then – nothing, vacuum, a vortex of joy renders my life and worries opaque. As my feet leave the stable ground, I pull in the last anchor to my past, heading to no future at all. Freedom, freedom, freedom. Like a plane taking off without destination, I face no earthly bonds, no imperious duties anymore. So we’ve come to full circle here. However, it is not the fall, that kills you – it is the sudden stop at the bottom. What a pathetic last thought. –
Zapp. My eyes take their time to adapt to the sudden darkness. I put away the remote. The TV has the typical afterglow when being turned off. Enough of this film-noir-monologue shit. Depressing. Drives me crazy; as if anyone could ever be in that bad mood. Plus, betcha, no one ever speaks let alone thinks in this clichéd metaphorical way, a myth worn to total exhaustion. Darn it, I’d probably kill myself too, if I always thought that way. Seems, that Hollywood writers never have real problems ‘t’all.
The ringing doorbell makes me get up and straighten my back. I open the door, and after a wet full commitment kiss, turn off the hallway lights following my girlfriend outside. It’s going be an exhausting night, if you know whatta mean.