Deadbeat

Wolfsaugasse 3, Brigittenau, Gottfried’s tenement block.
Sunday morning, October 14th, 1888.

Looking at the tips of my fingers, I noticed that the glabrous skin looked like dried prunes. And when I gently pushed in the shriveled skin, it would not spring back as quickly as usual. Some of my fingers had turned white. My pink even turned slightly blue. But all of them felt cold and numb, with the sensation of being poked lightly with a thousand needles.

Why? I cried to myself. Why do they, and can they, always take unfair advantage of others? Use another’s vulnerability… for their own benefit! I did not want to take out the loan. But I had no choice… did I? Every day, I’m worse off than I was. Do I have no right to be happy?

Involuntarily, my whole upper body started to contract its muscles. I could stifle them at first, but soon they made me burst out short, cough-like breaths, followed by a warm drop of liquid hope that left not only the gland of my eye but also my soul.  

Why does this world… always benefit one group of people… unfairly… to the detriment of others? Demanding back more than they have given. If I only knew… If I only knew how bad it was going to be… I would have never done it…

I felt how the warm tear made its way over my cold and dried-out cheek, how it passed my trembling chin, and how it finally fell into the still, tranquil water. Its impact created a little crowned crater. And for a moment, it seemed as if that little piece of my soul tried to reach back to me, but it soon fell back, floating with the rest of the tear-filled water.

I don’t want to face another day. I don’t have the strength anymore… The pain is just too much.

Reaching out to the porcelain sink, I grabbed the letter, put on my round glasses, and read it once more:

Without any further thought, I experienced a complete loss of muscle function. As if something went wrong with the way messages would naturally pass between my brain and muscles. I slid down until my ears had submerged in the teary, cold water. All of the world’s noise disappeared, except for the light footsteps of my heart, echoing in the cave of my ear. In that pounding silence, a thought occurred to me: Maybe I should just drown myself?‍

It made me think about all the Israelites that sojourned into the wilderness of Sinai, how they wandered the desert without food or shelter. How they, too, must have journeyed into that dark place in their mind. That place each one of us goes to when everything falls apart, loved ones are distant, death and doom lurk, and nothing but a black fog of nihilism surrounds us. And how they still had the will to power through, to overcome it. No, Gottfried… I ordered myself. You can’t… You just can’t leave… At least not without leaving something behind for Zara and Tzirre.

But as soon as I stood up from the bathtub, I started feeling dizzy, like getting off a very fast merry-go-round. And with the force of gravity momentarily calling my blood circulation to a halt, the door in the room started moving to a place it was not supposed to be. With some help of my limbs, I tried to reposition my base of support. Of course, as luck would not have it, I grabbed nothing but air. And so, as a reminder of me taking my first steps, I just stuck out my arms and hoped for the best. With a high-pitched ringing in my ears, I was able to pass through the door opening and grab the chair of my writing desk.

Dipping my pen in the inkwell, I started writing:

While writing those words, I felt the build-up of emotional tension – the one that had been taking hold of me – leaving me, sliding right off my shoulders.

Pressing the hollow, tubular nib of my fountain pen on the piece of paper felt like holding the key of a dark cage, unlocking me from the endless, pressuring, suffocating darkness that I had been living in. Its calligraphic action felt profoundly liberating, finally exposing my eye and heart to the light of the outside world, allowing me to take a breath of fresh air. Above all, it felt good; good to no longer pretend I had not been trapped, good to accept this truth I had denied for oh so long.

With an inner peace that was as wide and wavering as the ocean, I laid down my pen, right next to the letter, and stood up. Nodding my head, I gave it one last look and told myself: It’s good like this. Now a man determined, I walked over to the twisted rope on the kitchen table, which I tried to stretch as hard as possible. Strong, I affirmed to myself once more, not too elastic. Perfect.

By doubling the line back onto itself, I made it a loop and ran the end back towards it. I felt completely absorbed in doing it, like a grandma knitting a sweater for her grandchild—fully immersed, fully involved. And on that level of energy, I continued, laying the end over the doubled lines, making one, then two turns around the doubled lines, until finally, I slid it into a perfect, almost praiseworthy loop. And in doing so – by completely being engrossed with the task at hand – I completely lost my sense of space and time.

Right between the wooden beam and the ceiling, there was a small hole through which I could push the other end of the rope. When I had fastened the ligature, I hung onto it and swung it like I would back in the day; on one of those tree branches at my parent’s place. With the certainty that it could support my entire weight, I swung back and forth with it just a little longer, reminiscing that rocky feeling from when I was young and free, not having a care in the world. When I stepped on the chair, I felt like I was simply witnessing the event, untroubled about what was about to happen.

Suicide is not an act of cowards, I reassured myself. I don’t care what they say. It’s not wrong. When I slid the noose around my neck, I felt as if the world no longer tried to fight me, but that, instead, an inner peace embraced my spirit. Is there anything in the world I could be less entitled to than my own life? To my own personhood?