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Maybe if he would have a gun, it would be easier… Drops of bright red fell on the broken tiles of the bathroom floor. Would it wash off? Would it remain a rusty stain on the surface? Or would it seep through the crack into nothingness, combine with the cement, the wood, the bricks of his Alaskan home? He knew the cuts he made were never deep enough. Any damage he could do didn’t even measure up to the prevalent scar tissue. A gun would be just one tremble of his finger. He’d done it before… he did it every night… his feverish dreams keeping him from ever waking up truly recharged. It had been so easy. No, easy was the wrong word. Quick. It had been quick. It would haunt him an eternity, but for them, it was over in the blink of an eye. He pressed his eyes shut so tightly – wondered if he could give himself an aneurysm. Would he pass out, at least? Crack his skull open on that same tile, mixing fresh blood with the one from his feeble attempts to make it all stop.
A wave of despair hit him, over and over again, like waves do, crashing into the shore, into the little boats, barely hanging onto their anchors with flimsy ropes. Chains would work better. Chains had made sure he stayed in place… knew his place… that time when there was still one reason to hold on to life. They’d hurt the boy, they’d find him, they’d do even more than they’d already done to cancel out any chance of a happy future for him.
Sometimes he dreamt of the three of them together. No, that’s a lie. He never dreamt it, it never actually came automatically. He daydreamed, he made up stories in his head. The three of them playing video games, as they had, memories were easy fountains of fantasy. The three of them on an adventure – this took more energy from him – camping maybe? Would she have liked that? He felt a stab realizing he’d never asked and never would know. The three of them moving into a house, in the country, view of some green mountain, forest backdrop, breathing in cool healthy air. He’d have stopped smoking, he was sure of it. They’d take the dog on long walks, laughing when he’d come back with a piece of wood twice the size of him. The three of them marveling over her belly getting bigger….
He punched his fist against the wall – he couldn’t allow himself to think of that, it might give him hope, that something might still be out there for him. The hope would, like a cancer, grow. 5.25 in the morning. Could he go out, walk it off, walk away from it? Would he die of hypothermia? Would it be painful?
The bench he sat on had that breathtaking view. Why couldn’t he see the beauty of it? He deserved this pain, all the awful things he’d done, all the lives he ruined, it was too late now, there was nothing left to save. Round and round those thoughts in his head, he couldn’t snap out of it, it paralyzed him, weeks went by and he didn’t know night from day, didn’t remember to sleep, didn’t feel and felt everything all at once. He shivered. The hoodie was warm, but not up against the northern freeze. He could hardly hear the wind. Could he get his hands on enough pills to do it? Without drawing suspicion? Would it matter? Could he hurt more people if they knew who he was? He buried his face in his hands, felt the hot tears leak through his fingers.
Then he felt something else. A cold wet touch to his hands, a furry creature nuzzling its nose between his fingers, leaping up against him. He looked up. It was the dog! The one from his dreams. It wasn’t of course, but he could fool himself one more time. He felt his lips involuntarily take the shape of a smile. “Heeey little man, what’re you doin’ here all by yourself?” But he wasn’t. All by himself. A round face with blushed cheeks in a red winter coat came running towards him. “Oh God, I’m sorry, this leash is just worthless, he’s so enthusiastic. You’re not afraid of dogs, are you, disturbing the sound of silence up here?”
Jesse looked into the kind eyes, matching harmony with the ones he’d looked into just moments before, funny how dogs and owners… Maybe, maybe we’re not doomed.