Breathing death

As he exhaled his breath floated across his face like a specter. He brushed his hand against the blunt object in his coat pocket and his teeth chattered mechanically. “This is it Jim, you can do this.” Somehow the words were less soothing than in his reflection at home. It was nothing new to him. There had been countless before, each with their own distinct flaws. But she was different. Finding that one miniscule deal breaker actually took some effort. It didn’t really bother him that her nose whistled in tune when she slept. Or her tendency to snap her P’s when she spoke. Realistically speaking, he had ended relationships for much less.
It wasn’t so much that Jim was incapable of being in a relationship. There were plenty of times when we he was content playing boyfriend. However once it crossed a point, the point his friend affectionately called “the point of no return,” things began falling apart. It was a phenomenon Jim was hardly aware of. If you asked him, he could recite in great detail every ex-girlfriend’s short comings. But there was never a solid reason. Couples often joke about their partner’s qualms to get a good laugh at parties. To Jim, it was always his sign to abandon ship.
But those memories faded and Jim slowly and methodically began rubbing his hands together. However he wasn’t cold. The sun was descending, but still quite warm. His face and shoulders felt tepid and familiar. He couldn’t tell if his stomach was nervous of the task at hand, or from lunch. It churned like a washing machine. He hadn’t been paying much attention before, but now found he was down the street from her house. He noticed with absent mindedness the faded stop sign. “If only I could,” he whispered to the wind. In turn, there was suddenly a gale which struck his chest. He continued walking, and her house appeared more and more in the pink light of dusk. He could see the pine fence painted white from a summer ago. He could see the jagged bricks which outlined the property. Crab grass and flowers painted every inch of her front yard. Things began looking familiar, yet Jim was ill at ease. He knew she was inside, getting ready for a night at the movies. Only Jim knew how the night would really go. He exhaled again carefully, letting a parade of breath escape. “You can do this. She’s better off anyhow.” Even his inner voice was duping him. She practically worshipped the ground he walked on. She went out of her way to please him. All the while his efforts were hardly worth noting.
Maybe it would be easier to just drag the relationship along. No harm in letting things play-out, after all. Perhaps if things continued the way they were, she would break up with him. Sooner or later, she would get sick of his illness. He smiled up at the plum sky. “Tracy, how could I forget about Tracy?” He recalled how she was a bit insane, more so than him. Jim always suspected she suffered from multiple personalities, although it was never well documented. Quite often, in their more intimate moments, she would burst into uncontrollable laughter without warning. Other times there’d be violent fits where Jim could hardly control her tears and pounding fists. He never knew what to make of it, until she diagnosed herself at a party after too much wine. Before he just sort of tolerated it, even getting a little kick out of the wild emotions she allowed herself to be consumed by. A part of Jim was jealous because Tracy seemed so sure of herself. That she was absolutely comfortable in her own skin. Everything he felt was bottled deep within his heavy soul. Sometimes it would spill over like an ocean of sorrow, but never in the company of others. Jim’s jealousy of her “free will” was the perfect excuse to break up with her. After all, she wasn’t fit to be in a relationship. It seemed cruel at first. The inner voice never lied. Tracy was better off without his hollowness. Her emotions guided her, while he was suppressed and rotting.
It wasn’t unusual then that he could never explain how he felt. Sure, there was the thin film lying just above the surface. He heard himself mimic others countless times expressing happiness, thirst, hunger, sorrow. But the words never meant anything. They never do. People perceive meaning. When Jim said he was thirsty, someone would offer him a drink. But he never felt the dry scratchy desert in his throat. Sure there were times when he was younger that he could call “happy.” These memories grew in his mind like tumors pulsing and bulging. It was a constant reminder of what he had been, and who he had become. How then could Jim ever express his feelings to another? So he was content passing from human to human without ever thinking twice.
These humans, girls, would try to understand him. But it always failed. Only a few times did someone come close to cracking his stoic surface. Ashley certainly tried. She was tall and generally pretty with a constant smile to match. For a while she served as Jim’s greatest remedy. They often took long walks and he would pretentiously quote French philosophers and she would nod intently. Jim felt that his speeches were beyond her comprehension, but that was what made Ashley appealing. She loved him for his fragile inner workings, bit for his outer intellect. She was always eager to understand his dialect, eager to ask questions. She never contributed to the conversation. She was content with sitting and breathing him in. Her eyes always shined and her lips would purse. This was exactly the sort of compassion Jim needed. His words would hang heavy in the air like cigarette smoke, and her smile would reflect off it like a silver glow.
“So what happened…” Jim stopped and considered this for a moment looking vaguely at some grass peeking through the thick concrete. His hand once again smoothed over that foreign protuberance near his heart. Ashley would constantly bring him awful things. A bland humus dip with stale pita bread. Horrible mix tapes filled with unrelenting cacophony. He always tried to appreciate her generosity, but gratitude was just another meaningless emotion. After a while, her offerings became utterly annoying. He found himself creating elaborate stories to hint at her. She never understood. She thought she was playing girlfriend…”and why not get gifts Jim,” she often asked. There were no words to explain, only the bile which had spewed from my lips so many times before.
Then came that familiar friend; solitude. No one worried how Jim was feeling. No one questioned where he was heading. No terrible surprises at work or home. Jim was free to drink too many pints at the local bar and stumble home without the pending clash. Things were perfect for a week or two. Then remorse, without warning. It had been there lingering all along. The small things begin to appear first. Sleeping alone in a bitter bed. Walking, fingers interlocked, among the hustle of a busy street. Those late night phone calls full of passionate breath and sincere laughter. And so it became that Jim would miss his latest casualty. He missed Ashley. He even missed Tracy and her lunacy. Emptiness is a powerful entity. A piece of him was lost forever, and that is always a disheartening realization. Desperation. Settling. Soon Jim found another meaningless relationship to exist lifeless in. He was trapped like a caged animal. It was a hideous, familiar cycle. The cycle had a scripted beginning and ending. Jim was responsible for the interior.
The evening began surrounding him as he reminisced. Soon the sun too would suffocate under the darkness and he would be more alone than ever. Jim exhaled again, carefully releasing a parade of smoke. How could Sara know just how much he loved her? So much so that he needed to disconnect from her completely. Night had finished painting the sky, and what was so clear to Jim had become distorted and incoherent. He noted what must have been the jagged brick which surrounded Sara’s house. The Oak tree in her backyard had become a giant, swaying menacingly. The sky was bruised, purplish, hanging over the world. Jim mindlessly glanced at his watch, paying more attention to the muffled ticking than to the actual time. It was 8:04. He was late. Yet his daze kept him mesmerized with the murky surroundings and his own thoughts.
“Maybe I’m wrong about Sara,” he whispered, again as if someone where listening. A brisk wind caught the giant, and it bent violently from side to side. “No, you’re wrong,” Jim said, answering the giant’s gestures. A revelation suddenly hit Jim like a brick to the face. He was content. He felt a numbness grow steadily from his toes and sweep across his entire body. “I’m happy.” He said the words this time out loud, and was startled by his own hoarse voice. He began shouting, as if the giant could not hear well. “I’m happy.” “I…am…happy…” Nearby a car door slammed and a dog sang its song to the moon. Jim was overcome by a strange emotion. Everything had suddenly become illuminated, tinted yellow by the street lights lining his path. The giant had changed too. Flailing arms had become branches, and its disapproving fingers had become leaves.
His heart suddenly pressed harder and harder against the lump in his coat, as if to remind him of the task. He could hear his heart beating in unison with the sounds around him. He repeated the four syllables which had cleared his head. His heart beat even harder, as if questioning his new found life. His chest was protruding now, and the object grew larger with it. Jim could see that his breath had become strained, for now little puffs circled his head. He quickly looked down, expecting to see his heart exploding through his chest and landing on the bleak sidewalk. Suddenly the object was not hidden, but formed a noticeable protrusion in his coat. “Had it been this obvious all along?” Paranoia as he imagined everyone he passed calling the police to report him. Above him the giant crept forward and threw itself back. It was no use. He couldn’t fight it. His hand mechanically slipped into his coat and stroked the blunt object, as if petting a child’s head who did something right. His eyes grey dim. Jim was alone.
He sighed, this time moving too quickly to notice the escape of air. His soul matched the night. The shadows of the street lamps no longer illuminated him in a yellow glow. They formed a dark shade across his face. He was hiding. His feet were moving quickly. First one foot, and then the other repeated. The clicking of each step echoed against the houses, but Jim never noticed. The giant was drawing closer. He squinted and the words “Johnson Residence” appeared in front of his nose. They became more and more clear. His fingers were now massaging the blunt object. His finger tips were cold against the steel of freedom. His chest was heavy and tender, his heart pressing firmly against the coat. His hands formed a tight clasp against the object, knuckles turning white from the grip. Jim exhaled, and a fog surrounded the words he knew so well. His other hand clenched into a fist, and he carefully brought it to the wood door. “This is it Jim. You can do this.”