Читать книгу Three Wishes - S. C. Loader - Страница 13

Chapter 5

George remained vacantly staring into space long after the leaf had vanished, occupying his thoughts by recollecting the events of that morning. They all had a surreal feel about them, so surreal in fact that he seriously began to wonder whether or not the events of that morning had been nothing more than a dream. He pinched himself really hard… it hurt! At least it proved he was awake and confirmed what the throbbing ache in his injured foot was telling him. Unfortunately, the injured foot was also evidence that the morning’s events had not been a dream, unless… he was in the dream himself!

For the reassurance of hearing his own voice he asked himself aloud, ‘Is it possible to dream about oneself, thinking about being in one’s own dream?’ A few moments of thought negated the possibility in his own mind, but for curiosity’s sake, he wanted to make sure. Shuffling forward a little and after checking there were no potential witnesses, he laid down, crossed his arms over his chest, closed his eyes and rolled over twice. He heard a dull crack and something dug painfully into his back. Opening his eyes he had hoped to find himself staring up at the bedroom ceiling, wondering how he managed to fall out of bed and what was sticking into his back. Instead, he was staring up into the boughs of the trees, disappointed not to have fallen out of bed and wondering what was sticking into his back.

Rolling back to his original place George sat up to face the fact he was in the real world and not trapped inside one of his own dreams. What had stuck in his back should have dispelled those last niggling doubts he was harbouring over the reality of that morning’s events. Inadvertently he had rolled onto the branch that he had used earlier as a makeshift crutch and broke it, its existence proved beyond question that the events of that morning had not been a dream, and by implication that the beautiful young woman he had fallen in love with was real and not a product of his imagination, but for some reason, a disquieting doubt still lingered deep in the back of his mind. While his mind sought to define this nagging doubt, his hand sought a packet of chewing gum from an inside pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew the first thing it came across. The packet of cigarettes held in his hand was not what he had been seeking and it broke his thoughts.

Almost a year had passed since he had given up smoking, a decision based solely on the grounds that he wanted to improve his health, which given his intention for this day now occurred to him as being a totally pointless exercise. However, to test his resolve he had carried this same packet around daily and although it had been crushed countless times the outer cellophane wrapper, despite its shabbiness, still remained perfectly intact.

For a few moments, he looked long and hard at it, not because his resolve was weakening, but because this packet mirrored exactly how he felt about himself, unwanted, unloved… superfluous!

With a deep sigh, he returned it to his pocket. A cigarette may not have appealed to him, but a piece of chewing gum did and he started patting his waistcoat pockets to locate it, nothing.

He tried his jeans, again nothing.

‘Where are you?’

Frustration was growing as he repeated the whole search process again, a little more thoroughly this time, but still the whereabouts of the chewing gum remained undiscovered. He knew he had brought a packet with him, but his searches had revealed nothing, other than his cigarettes his pockets were empty. Horror struck, his pockets were empty!

Where was his lighter? Cigarettes had no temptation value if they could not be lit, but a much greater concern was… where was his tin?

Did he pick it up when he abandoned Christine?

Forgetful of his foot he hurriedly stood up to look around, but his foot did not require a second invitation before reminding him not to be so forgetful in future. A loudly spoken expletive through gritted teeth and a pain-induced wince followed. Balancing unsteadily on one foot he confirmed his worst fear, the missing things, especially his tin were not in the immediate vicinity. Despondently he looked out across the forest floor, they were out there somewhere, but where? He could have lost them anywhere on the way out, at the other tree when he dropped the waistcoat or somewhere on the way back. If he was unable to find a shoe what hope had he of finding something twenty times smaller? The area would take hours to search. Losing his balance slightly he put his injured foot to the ground and it took immense pleasure in reminding him that it was not going to allow the launch of a search and rescue mission. Having no wish to invoke any further reminders, George sat back down as carefully as possible.

‘Why are you hurting so much?’

With the protecting sock removed, a little spit allowed his finger to wipe away the small amount of dried blood. The wound was clean and nothing more than a tiny scratch about the same size as his little fingernail. He inspected it as closely as his limited dexterity would allow, perhaps he had overlooked a piece of glass or a thorn, but found absolutely nothing that would account for the intense pain he felt every time he stood on it, ‘Not even paper cuts never hurt this much!’ he told it scornfully.

The idea to wear his left shoe on his right foot crossed his mind, he tried it and surprised himself at his own ingenuity, it worked! But fate and his foot were determined he was not to leave this spot and the moment he stood the pain returned with a vengeance, a vengeance befitting a disturbed wasp nest, which he knew only too well. Sitting down again he consoled himself with the thought he would have probably found another elephant trap to put the other foot into anyway.

‘What now?’ he asked himself aloud.

‘Crawl?’ suggested a thought tentatively.

For a few moments, George considered the possibility then discounted it as being impractical given the enormity of the area to be searched.

‘I’ll wait, I’m in no hurry.’

The distant snap of a twig momentarily drew his attention back to a dishearteningly empty forest, as thoughts of those things he was incapable of rescuing returned to his mind they began to remind him of something else he had lost and had failed to rescue long ago, his marriage. He had lost count of the times he had asked himself if he had really done his best to save it, or whether there was something more he could have done? Perhaps there was, but that chance if there ever was one, had passed. He glanced down at his ring finger, his wedding ring was now only a memory, as was his wife and their marriage. Where had he gone wrong? Every woman he had ever loved from his first schoolboy love to his last, the strange young woman who had appeared from nowhere, were only memories. Yet there were men out there whose ignorance of basic manners and courtesies were an embarrassment to the male gender and whose behaviour barely bettered that of adolescent schoolboys, yet they all had women tucked under their arms. Even those men that happily lied and actually enjoyed destroying the characters of their colleagues just to gain another rung on that ladder to success, all had women keeping their beds warm. He despised these men and although he knew that those women who flocked around them were not the type who would have appealed to him, he was still secretly jealous. They all had women, all he had was a head full of memories, where had he made his mistake? Was it really necessary to discard politeness and morality just to have a woman to love? Was it perhaps his mistake to believe that women still wanted these things? Could it be that they simply no longer valued them? The answer avoided him, just as it had done on all the other occasions when he had asked himself this very same question. Perhaps if he had been fortunate enough on one of those earlier occasions to have found it then he would not be here today, with only memories stamped ‘with regret’ to keep him company.

Regrettably, flexing his foot only provided some very painful proof that his injury was definitely not yet a memory.

Feeling hot, he pulled his shirt out of his jeans and unfastened all the buttons, recreated the pillow with his waistcoat and reclined. Placing his hands behind his head, he settled down to enjoy the calming peacefulness of his sanctuary, after all, he knew of nothing else he could do until the pain in his foot had subsided and if it did not… well perhaps then he would seriously consider the earlier thought and go searching for his tin on ‘all fours’. Alas, the peace of the woodland was once again interrupted by the sound of yet another snapped twig, albeit this time much closer than earlier. Hope filled his heart as he sought the perpetrator, but again only an empty forest lay before him, even the weakening breeze could no longer be blamed for this latest incident as it had been previously. Patience and careful observation finally located the probable culprit, a beautiful, red and white-furred fox. Oddly, despite their regular appearances at dusk, he had never seen one out and about in broad daylight before, and neither would he have expected such a shy creature to remain undisturbed by his presence, which judging by the fox’s occasional sideways glance in his direction it was fully aware of. George settled himself back down again, content to watch this highly admirable visitor to his sanctuary from a position of comfort. Soon the fox’s nasal exploration of the forest floor drew it to where he had been sat earlier. A brief, but detailed investigation of this part of its territory ensued before the fox’s explorations took it disappointingly out of sight. Disappointed, but not down heartened by the fox’s departure George returned to his pre-visitor assignment, that of enjoying the peacefulness.

However, nature seemed intent on ensuring this would not remain undisturbed for any length of time.

Soon one of its smaller creatures used his bare chest as a convenient landing pad. Not that he minded being used as a makeshift airfield, but he did wish that this tiny fly had not chosen to stroll lost and confused across the runway, especially as it tickled disproportionately to its size. He raised a hand to kill it, but his code of ethics stepped in to remind him that life was too precious to be taken away from anyone or anything, including that of this small irritating fly. Naturally, there was one exception to this rule, as there is with every rule, his own life. While this exception occupied his mind the fly vacated the runway, fully unaware of just how close it had come to death, but it left George thinking of his own.

He had noted long ago that providing the environment was congenial enough a group of people would discuss almost any subject, sex, marriage, football, even the price of petrol being one of the more favoured subjects. Occasionally something a little more topical, euthanasia for example, always provoked an interesting debate. Abortion likewise, although often far more heated. But try to slip in suicide for debate and somebody would suddenly remember a fascinating programme they had seen on the dwindling fish stocks and abruptly the whole group would become ardent conservationists. Even the media applied the same unspoken rule, television and radio often held debates on euthanasia and abortion, but never on suicide. Magazines published articles following the same guidelines, and unless the person killing themselves was considered to be a terrorist seldom would national newspapers, television or radio report on it. George found it an odd quirk within today’s society that it would accept someone killing another person, but not that of themselves.

However, he had met a few people willing to break this social taboo and discuss it, without exception all voiced strong opinions against those who choose to commit suicide. Their arguments, which he had never fully understood, always revolved around two traits they considered solely constituted the act of suicide, selfishness and cowardice. Selfishness he understood. Many tried to take the lives of other people with them or ignored the fact that they would leave family and close friends behind to face the grief and often the ignominy, caused by their death. He had neither family nor close friends and unless his money hungry-landlady counted, he could not think of anyone who would be grieving after his demise.

The part of the argument he failed to understand was their assumption of cowardice. Repeated questioning only ever drew the same hackneyed answer, in their opinion the person committing suicide was taking the easy way out. He enjoyed playing the devil’s advocate by asking what the hard way was, but rarely did he receive an answer and of those he had, none were worth memory space. If they had argued that the hard way was to suffer loneliness and unhappiness every day for the rest of their lives or something similarly repugnant then he would have understood, but they never did.

He had often argued that to open the door that separates life and death takes not cowardice, but a considerable amount of courage, after all, what lies beyond is unknown. Inevitably this provoked the predictable battle cry of the religious, ‘It’s not God’s will!’

His well-rehearsed retort was as predictable, ‘If it was not God’s will then why had he given them the will to kill themselves?’ Nobody ever provided a decent counterargument.

But for all these and the other emotive arguments that had evolved from the subject, he still remained of the mind that although everyone was entitled to an opinion and were equally entitled to voice it, those most resolute in their criticisms could never fully understand the anguish that drives a person to the point of self-destruction, unless they had actually been there themselves.

Although to be fair to these people, his own decision had not been based upon the need to alleviate the pain caused by some debilitating emotion like anguish, nor had it been based upon a desperate desire to escape some traumatic horror buried deep inside his head. His reason was far less dramatic, almost mundane in comparison to the usual torments that motivated individuals into throwing themselves in front of speeding trains, or from the top of tall buildings, for his decision had been based quite simply on his own inability to find a self-convincing reason to live. He doubted anyone would consider this as a valid reason, let alone understand it as grounds for suicide, especially as outwardly his life would seem to many as highly desirable. He had a secure well-paid job that afforded him a nice flat filled with all the trappings of modern living, a new car and a very healthy bank balance. He was single and free to do as he wished, whenever he wished without having to think about anyone except himself. To many an enviable lifestyle perhaps, but to him, it was one without the most singularly important element in one’s life, someone special to share it with. Disappointment headed a long list of reasons why his search for this special person had long ago drawn to a close, the resulting loneliness became something he had learned to cope with. But regrettably, he never came to terms with the feeling that life was nothing more than an empty, pointless existence without that special someone to share it with, and that was the catalyst upon which his decision to take his own life slowly built itself.

Strangely, the decision, once it had been made, left him feeling relieved and even stranger… excited! At last, life held a purpose, albeit temporarily and it had presented him with something over which he had absolute control, his own death. For once he had made a choice whose outcome did not, unlike the tens of thousands of other choices he had made in his lifetime, depend upon the decisions, whims or actions of others, but lay solely in his own hands. Accordingly, his demise was planned out with an enthusiasm that saw it completed in an unbelievably short space of time. Unsurprisingly he had opted for a method rooted in his love of nature, a love that extended beyond a simplistic appreciation of its beauty to an in-depth knowledge of its flora and fauna. The chosen method, a mixture of two highly poisonous seeds would, without the slightest doubt, see him safely leave this life. However, the plants bearing these seeds bore them at different times of the year, an irritating delay, but at least one that was foreseen and for the sake of the effectiveness of this method, worth waiting for. Unfortunately, although the means of his own death was known, the manner of it remained unknown. Would it be particularly painful? Would he feel anything at all? Would he just fall asleep and never to wake up? A simple question, but not one that could be researched or asked of anyone. Although apprehension over the manner of his death did cause him some concern, he found reassurance in the thought that whatever discomfort he would suffer it would probably not last more than a couple of hours, a better prospect than facing a future with the same emptiness that had overshadowed his past. Looking out over the forest floor he cursed himself for not swallowing the contents of the tin earlier. Why, after preparing himself mentally, had he listened to that stupid voice in the back of his head and waited those few minutes? If he had done the deed as planned, then his concern over the manner of his death would be totally irrelevant, because he would have long since uncovered the answer to the greatest enigma of them all… what follows life?

The distant sound of a discharged shotgun reminded him that there were many differing views on the value of life. His decision about his own had already been made and further pondering on the theme only served to agitate his concern over the manner in which it would be fulfilled. Therefore he sought distraction in thoughts of a more distinctly pleasant nature, Christine.

Despite several attempts to create a mental picture of her happy smiling face, the only image to appear was that of her cheerless tearful face. However, this was not how he wanted to remember her, so he tried to replace it with an image of her wonderful hazelnut coloured eyes just at the point where he nearly kissed her, but frustratingly they also remained elusive and the cheerless tearful face remained steadfastly fixed in his mind’s eye. This image was not only unwanted, but it also caused a resurgence of the guilt he felt at the time of the original incident. This was adding insult to injury as far as he was concerned; he already knew he was responsible for those tears, although an understanding of what he had done wrong remained just as elusive as appealing imagery.

However, there was one possibility that kept returning to his thoughts whenever he put his mind to the task of trying to find that understanding. Were the tears caused by his failure to kiss her? He was giving the question some serious consideration for the first time when a dissenting thought voiced itself, ‘Why would such a beautiful woman want you to kiss her?’

His self-esteem found the question was in itself the answer.