Prismatic

Alistair Jackson stepped back and admired his handiwork. With the
limited resources at his disposal, and considering his lack of
experience in the field, he'd done a pretty good job, he reckoned. It
was the first thing he'd been proud of in a long time. He hadn't
realised how difficult it was to find a decent piece of rope these
days, and his flat didn't have many decent places to fix it. He'd been
tempted to give up the whole idea as too difficult, but for once in his
life he wasn't prepared to admit defeat.

He placed the chair slowly, deliberately in the centre of the room,
adjusting it slightly to ensure it was on a firm base. In his mind, an
infomercial rolled. Over a montage of smiling children and happy
couples, a sonorous voice chimed:

"Do you have money worries? Are relationship difficulties getting you
down? Maybe you're lonely, or you have health troubles. These things
happen to all of us at times in life."

The montage shrank to become a backdrop in a studio, and on walked a
Colgate-clean American presenter in a chunky knitted sweater.

"Well, all that could be at an end, soon! Hi, I'm Dan McMahon, and I'm
here to introduce a great new home remedy that is one hundred percent
guaranteed to get rid of all your problems!"

Dan McMahon inserted a dramatic pause, as if he wanted to say "What's
that? I hear you ask." His smile became even wider and more sincere,
and he prepared to let the viewers in on a secret.

"Suicide! The solution to all your problems!"

Alistair didn't feel particularly suicidal that day, but he'd come to a
decision, and a man had to stand by his decisions. When he didn't think
about his situation, he could appear remarkably cheerful, even to
himself, and sometimes he would catch himself smiling.

It wasn't unhappiness that swung his decision, although he wasn't
particularly upbeat. It was just the unbearable thought of this
non-life stretching out in front of him as far as he could see, a flat
desert of emptiness, broken up here and there by the occasional cactus
of misery or a mirage oasis of hope. What possible improvement could
there be? Even if he did manage to pick himself up out of this slump,
there would be another one along in a few months, or a couple of years
at most. The trouble was that he'd asked himself if there was more to
life than birth, school, work, death, and been unable to come up with
an answer more satisfying than a half-hearted 'Well, not really'.

He thought about leaving a note. It seemed to be the form on these
occasions, after all. What would be the point, though? Who would read
it? Maybe a policeman who would be more interested in getting home
early than in paperwork and the dangling corpse in the centre of the
room. Maybe a friend or relative would Well, sooner or later somebody
would notice that he hadn't been around for a while, and send out a
search party. Wouldn't they? Maybe not. He was sick of making no impact
on the world, of just chugging through the days as if he was marking
out a prison sentence.

He placed his right foot on the chair. He was surprised how empty he
felt. He had thought he'd be in tears, or he'd feel as if he was saying
a defiant 'Fuck You!' to the world. He had thought that he'd at least
feel something. He wanted to say some famous last words, but he had
nothing to say and nobody to say it to. As he stepped up onto the
chair, he became aware of his bladder. With his mind preoccupied by
other things, he hadn't realised how badly he needed a piss. He was
half tempted to say fuck it. What did it matter? He'd be past caring
soon enough. But he stepped down again. It wouldn't do to be remembered
(even if it was only in the police canteen) as the bloke who'd died
with piss in his pants.

He walked out into the hall. The sound of his upstairs neighbours
arguing could be heard above the pounding beat of the music from kid
next door's stereo. He pulled at the toilet door. As usual, it was
sticking. He paused a moment, and gave it a sharp jolt. As usual, it
gave way first time. He smiled to himself. All in the wrist. His smile
faded as he realised how unfortunately true that was. He reached up for
the pull cord to switch on the light. As usual, it eluded him. The
scabby little string with the randomly placed knots swung back and
forth as he pawed ineffectually at the air. He really should do
something about that. He let out a half-chuckle as he realised the
absurdity of it. The whole reason for killing himself was to get away
from all that petty crap. He wouldn't have to think about emptying the
bin or cleaning the oven or scrubbing the bath any more. Not that he'd
really given these things a great deal of thought during his life. It
was strange to think of his life as being over.

Finally, he caught hold of the light cord, and gave it a quick tug. For
a split-second, the bare bulb glowed, before going out with a
ping.

"Bugger!"

The thudding of the bass from next door was no more. The lightbulb must
have taken out the electricity in the whole house when it blew. He
smiled as he thought of next door having to go round and reprogram all
their digital clocks. The sudden peace was almost blissful. The only
sounds were the dripping of the leaky gutter and the gentle cooing of
the pigeons outside the window. He looked up towards the sound. The
window was filthy. He never had got around to cleaning it. Just another
item to be added to the list of things he'd never done. The grime lay
sprawled across the pane, mixing with the stray flecks of peeling paint
from the frame. Something held him there a moment, as the clouds
shifted to allow a shaft of sun to unfold into the narrow space between
buildings. Light came sliding into the bathroom like the Silver Surfer,
animating the dust that lingered in the air.

As he stood there slightly dazed, patterns of light danced slowly on
the dirty lino. He watched for a while, entranced by the simple beauty
of the shadows. He looked up at the window and watched the drips
falling from the gutter. They arrived at the hole in the pipe, swelling
into a fat little bubble which paused on the brink until the weight
became too much, plunging downwards into oblivion. As they fell, they
would pass through the wedge of light, catching and refracting it with
a beauty that Alistair could never have imagined. The sense of wonder
that he felt was almost painful, a fire burning in his brain that
shocked and amazed him. He turned round, gave the door a sharp jolt,
and went to the shops to buy some new lightbulbs.