ADDICT: Thoughts of a Guilty Man

Just Another Tuesday

A cold wind whispers through my hair, and lifeless leaves dance to the ground. The autumn chill is slowly settling. With my hands in my pockets, I try to warm myself from the sudden cold that came with the evening.
The sky is a beautiful shade of deep orange, with wisps of clouds streaking across its face, decorating the evening for the romantic and the melancholy. Migrating birds sing praises as they pass by for the beauty even my disassociative brain cannot deny.

The dying sunlight tells me that it's nearing six. Another reminder to reset my internal clock, because my watch is telling my stomach that hunger is an hour early. It's rare that I feel hungry at this hour. At any hour, for that matter. 

I haven't been eating much of anything out of hunger lately. No, I do it out of necessity. Nutrition is a basic necessity, and despite my own struggles, I have access to food. I don't like to waste. Despite my mouth refusing to taste what I once loved, even when my stomach rejects what I know I need. I have to eat. 

It's the only thing I know I have full control over in my life. 

I can regulate my intake. I can decide what to eat, when, how much. I can even stop eating altogether. But I can never let go of food. It's one of the few things that can reach me. I know my body needs it even if I sometimes don't want it. 

I tried to stop once, but my brain told me that people would notice. And that's the last thing I want: Attention. Attention to the other side of me. To the darker side of me, if you may. Attention to what I don't want to be known. What I don't want to think about. What I don't want to acknowledge. To name. Attention to myself. I don't want to explain myself to anyone. 

I hate being asked why. I do what I do because I want to and it's my right and freedom to do so. My life is mine, it doesn't concern you. I don't want to explain my reasons if it's not important. If it doesn't directly affect anyone. I don't want anyone to know that deep down, I'm really not okay. Take things easy, at face value. Don't notice anything past the surface. Don't. Ask.

A sudden gust blows right through me, sending a shiver down my spine. Why is autumn so indecisive? It starts off cold, but if I wear a sweater it gets too hot. And yet, if I take it off, I feel cold. I tried wearing an open jacket, but with the wind nearly carrying it away, I resent my decision making skills. It annoys me even further because if I pull the golden zipper on the black polyester with silk lining and elastic wrists, I start to perspire. 

Why do I put myself through all of this? A simple thing like carrying a sweater has me thinking for a long time. I wouldn't be surprised if my brain hated me. I overwork it, and I know it. But in my opinion, I'm only putting it to good use.
It even goes off on tangents without my prompting, so I don't think it would mind a little more thought. If I stay quiet for too long, my brain pops up a random word to make me figure out where it belongs. It's like solving a puzzle. I don't really mind it, but sometimes I wish I hadn't taught myself to do that. Because as random as it can get, I don't appreciate it when it comes at times when I am preoccupied. 

I watch as an expensive vehicle slowly pulls into the station, coming to a halt with a horn and a loud hiss. Another express train blurs by on different tracks, packed with souls of restless beings, all with different lives and lifestyles. Businessmen in their suits, mothers with their children. Screaming babies and annoyed passengers. Party goers and walk-of-shamers. Excited faces, tired eyes. Tears of sorrow and streams of laughter. So diverse, yet all as unrelated as could ever be.

If trains could talk, they would have the most interesting stories to tell. But not mine. Mine is not worth it. It's eventful, sure, but there's nothing worth repeating. I sometimes wonder why I even continue it. I can close the book at any given point. I can finish my story. I can leave. How I wish I could disappear without a trace. 

My stomach churns as I think of home. I know I'm going home but I don't want to. The pressures, the stresses. The anxiety. I deal with people at work, but it's not the same. I don't live with them. We can spend the day together, but that's it. I don't have to see them again.

But family? 

As much as I love them, sometimes I only feel like a burden. They'd be better off without me. I want them to be happy. I love them, no matter what. So that's why I want to disappear. To make it like I never existed. 

I've thought about this a few times. 

I would clean my room neatly and make my bed, then leave a letter or a note on it, saying goodbye. I've thought about taking random trains to the middle of nowhere until I don't know where I am. But I know how to follow signs, so I can never really get lost. People would ask questions I wouldn't want to answer. I might even get picked up by the police and inconvenience both them and my family once found. 

I've thought of suicide. Cowardly, yes, but effective. 

But not ideal. 

Pills are quite commonly available; I could OD. But survival rates of an overdose are unpleasantly high, and I wouldn't want to deal with the recovery process.
I could jump into oncoming traffic, but there's a higher risk of broken bones at most. Not fatal enough. Unless it's a highway, cars don't usually speed in residential areas. It would get messy fast and I'd still have to deal with the outcome of survival.
I could jump off of a tall building, but they'd still find my body and identify it. Plus, it would have to be tall enough to ensure total fatality, without any hope of surviving the fall. I wouldn't jump off the nearest one, though. People would recognise me. No, it would have to be in a place where nobody knows me, where I'd be a stranger with no ties whatsoever. Just a random person falling off a building to his death. Too much work, where would I even begin? Searching for the tallest buildings in places I don't know? 

The noises around me are somewhat comforting to my restless mind. Train doors open to let out passengers and more feet shuffle around the busy doorway. Barely audible apologies and hardly inaudible disgruntled mutterings fill the laps in conversations, leaving no room for unnecessary silence. 

All these faces, including my own, are meaningless to each other. Insignificant persons who probably won't see each other again, nor recognised if seen again. The thought soothes my turbulent mind, reassured that it's just another Tuesday, and I'm just another commuter. I hold no meaning in any of these people's lives. I am of no significance to them whatsoever, and they do not rely on me for anything. The societal expectations of basic mannerisms are an equal yoke to us all, and none are exempt from the inevitable pressure. 

Nobody would care if I decided to jump onto the tracks as a train was passing. I could jump. It's as easy as reciting the alphabet. 

Take a step, A B C, take another, 1 2 3. 

I could fake tripping on my own feet. It happens. I could run faster than anyone could react: they'd be in shock first. I've witnessed such a death before, it's not a pretty sight. Perfect. Survival rates of getting hit by a train are close to zero, and it's not uncommon to hear of such suicides every so often.
But I've heard that the bereaved have to deal with the fees for the restoration of the damage, the inconvenience caused, and a few other charges that are incurred during the course of clean-up. Not to mention the funeral—now that is not something I'd want on my gravestone. I can already see the epitaph: "Death by suicide; jumped in front of a train." Unfortunately, I want a better legacy than that.

So I guess until I find the perfect death, I'm stuck being alive.

No. I have to stay alive.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and sigh. Life keeps going. Time waits for no man. Especially not this man. I hear the obnoxious voice announce my home station. My stomach churns and I taste iron on my tongue. My peripheral blurs but I ignore it. I clench my jaw as the doors slide open. I'm just another passenger on a train carrying hundreds. Just another commuter on his way from work. Just another man none of these people know. 

I open my eyes and step off the train.

It's just another Tuesday.