his hand on Donna’s thigh on a bright summer day.
He understood the sleeping dead. He understood that eventually the despair was too great. Nothing could take this back, nothing could make this right. There was before and there was after. And after was too hopeless to consider.
He sat down on the tarmac in the middle of the road. Because what other option did he have?
20
It should have been possible to die there. Jackson didn’t understand the mechanics of the process, he didn’t understand how a person could simply sit down and stop living, but it should have been possible. It had to be possible.
But it didn’t happen. Jackson didn’t know why. He waited for the moment. He willed it to arrive. He closed his eyes and listened to each breath that passed through his lungs and he waited for each to be his last and for oblivion to sweep in and free him.
Maybe he didn’t want it enough, and the idea felt like a betrayal of Donna. If he had loved her more, then he would have been able to die. It didn’t matter if there was no afterlife. He wasn’t hoping to join Donna, he just wanted to be away from the churning sense of loss that burrowed through his chest.
He started to think about all the ways it was possible to kill himself. He thought about the bodies hanging from the stairwell in the office block and the trees in the park. He thought of the people facedown in the stream or swept away in bliss by the river. He thought about John Fairls and the bloody scissors and Malcolm Laine and the tuft of hair adhered to the window where he had smashed his head against the glass. There were many, many ways. All he had to do was choose.
Surely it was that easy…
He closed his eyes against the black husk of the house. Looking at the remains made it harder to think.
Donna was gone. Everyone was gone. There was no life to live. There was just… this . The constant battle to survive. Why? What for?
That’s right.
Jackson shook his head as if he were trying to dislodge a fly. The voice was a young woman’s, soft and persuasive. It could have been Donna’s, except he knew that it wasn’t because Donna…
Donna’s dead.
No, that wasn’t it. He almost snapped at the voice, told it that it was wrong. He knew it wasn’t Donna because…
She left you.
“No.”
Donna’s dead and she’s never coming back.
“I know that. I know that.” But that wasn’t why the voice had got it wrong, that wasn’t why he knew it wasn’t Donna. It was someone pretending to be her, because…
“Because Donna would never tell me to give up.”
He felt the voices redouble. They were inside him. Chattering. They had a manic urgency, no more of the pretense and the gentle persuasion, now they were hammering him.
Do it. Do it now. Why wait any longer? There is nothing left.
And they were right, Jackson knew they were right, except…
Except Donna would never have told him to give up. And whatever had happened to her, it had not been her own mind that had made the decision to strike the match that started the fire, any more than it had really been Malcolm Laine’s decision to jump through the window. They had been forced to do it. The voices had pushed them and pushed them until they had felt there was no alternative. But it had never been their choice. Not really.
He tried to stand up, but all the muscles in his body were still in thrall to the voices.
Give up. Why struggle?
“No.”
It’s easier this way.
Jackson reached out his hand. It was like trying to push away an ocean liner—an immovable object against a not-so-irresistible force. He laughed at the image, at the idea that Jackson Smith was able to change anything. In his head he heard the voices agreeing with this assessment. He could almost see them now—a crowd of people, pallid faces and blank eyes. No emotion, but nodding in agreement at the belief that Jackson Smith was no one, could do nothing.
True. A schoolgirl
He understood the sleeping dead. He understood that eventually the despair was too great. Nothing could take this back, nothing could make this right. There was before and there was after. And after was too hopeless to consider.
He sat down on the tarmac in the middle of the road. Because what other option did he have?
20
It should have been possible to die there. Jackson didn’t understand the mechanics of the process, he didn’t understand how a person could simply sit down and stop living, but it should have been possible. It had to be possible.
But it didn’t happen. Jackson didn’t know why. He waited for the moment. He willed it to arrive. He closed his eyes and listened to each breath that passed through his lungs and he waited for each to be his last and for oblivion to sweep in and free him.
Maybe he didn’t want it enough, and the idea felt like a betrayal of Donna. If he had loved her more, then he would have been able to die. It didn’t matter if there was no afterlife. He wasn’t hoping to join Donna, he just wanted to be away from the churning sense of loss that burrowed through his chest.
He started to think about all the ways it was possible to kill himself. He thought about the bodies hanging from the stairwell in the office block and the trees in the park. He thought of the people facedown in the stream or swept away in bliss by the river. He thought about John Fairls and the bloody scissors and Malcolm Laine and the tuft of hair adhered to the window where he had smashed his head against the glass. There were many, many ways. All he had to do was choose.
Surely it was that easy…
He closed his eyes against the black husk of the house. Looking at the remains made it harder to think.
Donna was gone. Everyone was gone. There was no life to live. There was just… this . The constant battle to survive. Why? What for?
That’s right.
Jackson shook his head as if he were trying to dislodge a fly. The voice was a young woman’s, soft and persuasive. It could have been Donna’s, except he knew that it wasn’t because Donna…
Donna’s dead.
No, that wasn’t it. He almost snapped at the voice, told it that it was wrong. He knew it wasn’t Donna because…
She left you.
“No.”
Donna’s dead and she’s never coming back.
“I know that. I know that.” But that wasn’t why the voice had got it wrong, that wasn’t why he knew it wasn’t Donna. It was someone pretending to be her, because…
“Because Donna would never tell me to give up.”
He felt the voices redouble. They were inside him. Chattering. They had a manic urgency, no more of the pretense and the gentle persuasion, now they were hammering him.
Do it. Do it now. Why wait any longer? There is nothing left.
And they were right, Jackson knew they were right, except…
Except Donna would never have told him to give up. And whatever had happened to her, it had not been her own mind that had made the decision to strike the match that started the fire, any more than it had really been Malcolm Laine’s decision to jump through the window. They had been forced to do it. The voices had pushed them and pushed them until they had felt there was no alternative. But it had never been their choice. Not really.
He tried to stand up, but all the muscles in his body were still in thrall to the voices.
Give up. Why struggle?
“No.”
It’s easier this way.
Jackson reached out his hand. It was like trying to push away an ocean liner—an immovable object against a not-so-irresistible force. He laughed at the image, at the idea that Jackson Smith was able to change anything. In his head he heard the voices agreeing with this assessment. He could almost see them now—a crowd of people, pallid faces and blank eyes. No emotion, but nodding in agreement at the belief that Jackson Smith was no one, could do nothing.
True. A schoolgirl
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