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A Privileged Life

He walks. He drags his left foot behind his right; his shoes are filled with regret. He hardly manages to take the next step. The weight of his left foot is followed by the right foot, which seems even heavier.

His eyes water. There’s a growing distance between them. With every step loneliness seeps further into his conscience, slowly taking undivided supremacy. With every step their once beautiful connection becomes darker, his favorite memories become foggier. Sorrow engulfs him completely.

He passes through crowds of screaming people. He hears nothing. The crowds reek of sweat and shame. He smells nothing. He cooks a delectable steak. He tastes nothing. At night he goes out and gets into several fights at different bars, as his head pounds, his knuckles swell, his nose bleeds, his eyes blacken, his ribs crack. He feels nothing. He sees a vast realm of darkness, a world of utter nothingness, complete emptiness.

He makes his way to a store, stopping only at the cutlery. His eyes freeze at the sight of a beautiful, gleaming knife. He rips and tears at the impossible plastic packaging. He doesn’t recognize the other knives hitting the floor, as his shaking hands finally make their way to the largest knife in the pack. His reflection shines off the blade, but all he can bring himself to see is a way out.

He feels the slick black handle. He hears the industrial fans. He feels the light breeze from above. He sees the light shine off the sharp tip. He begins to smell his very own fear. He tastes his tears. He now feels his heart pounding inside of him, his chest hurts, his heart is trying to escape, to get out before its job is cut short. He hears it slow down. He tastes his breath turn to ice. He sees the cold, dark fog leave his mouth. Every single molecule inside of him becomes tense; he can now feel every cell moving around inside his skin. His muscles, his blood, his bones, they move slower and slower.

He closes his eyes. The noises silence. The scents stop flowing. The cold bitterness leaves his tongue. There remains only the knife, its slick, smooth texture and the empty human shell he used to know as himself. He lets go. The knife makes a high pitch sound as it connects with the icy floor. He doesn’t hear it. He drops to his knees in the pile of knives. He doesn’t feel a thing. He cries, he bawls.

He regains his senses. He can’t do it, regardless of how empty he feels, regardless of what he’s missing.

When he leaves the hospital, he visits his parents. They tell him he leads a privileged life.