The Precipice

He feels his hot blood seep from the wound. He lies down and pulls the bed-cover over him. The quiet catches his attention. It is only ten o’clock at night, yet an eerie quiet has beset the wing. No hip-hop or dance music can be heard pumping from cells as per-usual. The silence is deathly. It is as if the concrete walls and solid steel doors and gates of the prison are mourning him already. The only sound he hears is the leaking tap, drip…drip…drip. He can feel the sheet soak through beneath him. His heart had initially been pounding erratic and panicked beats when he had first made the incision. Now it had slowed to powerful drumming that is more sporadic, until it attunes itself with the water escaping the facet.
‘It’s not too late!’ he thinks. He can still hit the emergency button on the wall. He might get lucky, an officer may be bored and decide to venture out of the comfortable office and investigate the alarm instead of dismissing the light until the hourly checks. His breathing has become heavy and labored. More and more he is filling with the temptation to abort his flight from life. His arm is numb; pins and needles invade his shoulder, in preparation to Blitzkrieg across his chest.

The body becomes panic stricken at its impending demise. It prompts the mind to intervene. The mind takes heed, sharing the body’s fear, the death of the self. It concocts logic and rational arguments. ‘Live for your son!’
‘He doesn’t even know you. Don’t worry though, he is well cared for. Loved and treasured by caring people who dread and curse your release date.’
‘Live for your mother!’
‘If you really love her, allow her to be free of you. The visits to prisons and rehabs disease her fragile heart.’
‘Live for yourself, you’ve the potential to change and turn things around!’ ‘
'Leopards cannot change their spots, we are what we are. Your own past experiences have demonstrated this immutable truth countless times.’
Every imploring thought is countered with a precision answer from a dark corner of the mind. In desperation the body invokes the soul, but, as always the intangible is silent.

He watches shadows caused by the flicker of the muted television. They dance across the ceiling. He grows cold. He cannot feel his heart beat within his chest anymore; it quakes in his head now. His breath is no more than a shallow stream. His eyes well up with tears. They escape along the ridges of his cheeks. He is enveloped with sadness that is born out of his inability to love outside of himself. The dance of the shadows across the ceiling has slowed from a frantic rave to a graceful waltz. His body begins to convulse. The shadows break from their dance and turn to face him. He turns his head to avert from the glare of his mocking audience. Two men stand between his bunk and the counter, they are watching him. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the terror enveloping him. Gathering his courage he opens them again. They are still there. The man to the left is dressed in a fine black suit, tailored perfectly to his fit; it would be the envy of any politician or C.E.O the world over. His looks are striking, his features sharp, and his skin is without blemish. He is the epitome of celebrity handsomeness. His eyes are piercing and shrewd. The other is dressed in a white linen shirt and denim jeans. The V-neck and sleeves of his shirt are a tangle of splayed loose ends. His hair is short and greasy. His face is weather beaten and badly sunburnt, scarred with deep-set wrinkles. He looks middle aged and tired with the exception of his eyes, they are solemn yet his only identifier of ever being young once. His hands are scourged by welts from a life-time of hard manual labor. Dread shoots through him as he stares at them. He tries to speak but his mouth is parched like desert. All he can do is fear.
‘Don’t be afraid!’ the whisper echoes around his mind.
His eyes dart between the two to ascertain its source, but to no avail. They are both poker-face.

The man in the suit steps forward. ‘John, I’m here to help. I know the thoughts racing through your mind. You have too many questions, and, due to that fine incision you have made, I’m afraid you don’t have much time for answers. So to be brief, we are each going to make you a proposition.’ He pauses to pull the grey plastic I.P.S chair alongside the bunk, placing a stone on its seat. Taking his cue, the man in linen and jeans steps forward, placing down a stone of his own next to it.
‘We will each make our proposal and you will have two choices, accept either by picking his stone or mine, or, use your mind to communicate your will for us to vanish and leave you to your faith, dangling over the precipice between life and death, bleeding out all alone in this squalid cell,’ said the suit.
‘Offer! Let me hear the offers!’ John screams in his mind’s voice. The suit smiles a victorious grin. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am, Shatan.’
‘And I am, Yehoshua.’
‘If you choose me I will reveal the secrets of life and the universe to you. Demonstrating how to make life work for you rather than against you. Nothing shall be hidden from you,’ said Shatan.
‘If you choose me, I will teach you the value of faith, believing without need of sign or evidence,’ said Yehoshua.
‘If you choose me, I will appoint you to any high office of the worldly kingdoms you desire, none except yourself shall be your master ever again,’ said Shatan.
‘If you choose me, I shall teach you how to serve all others, calling everyone but yourself master,’ said Yehoshua.
‘If you choose me, I will provide the kind of wealth your wildest, most insatiable desires could never deplete,’ said Shatan.
‘If you choose me, I will teach you the value of forfeiting all worldly gains in the name of charity and goodwill,’ said Yehoshua.
‘If you choose me, women will lust after you and men will fear you,’ said Shatan.
‘If you choose me, I will teach you to love without needing love returned to you,’ said Yehoshua.
‘If you choose me, I promise no harm will ever befall you, I will bless your health and well-being,’ said Shatan.
‘If you choose me, your heart will become an oasis of love, and the waters of its spring will gush forth from your lips as truth. At first people will ridicule, eventually they will persecute and scourge, finally, they will kill you,’ said Yehoshua.
‘You’ve heard our proposals, I’m afraid time is running short, you would do wise to choose,’ said Shatan. John struggles onto his side, spittle dangling from his mouth. He wills his un-wounded arm toward the chair. His hand hovers for a moment over the stones before falling to rest. He catches his breath and clasps his hand around one, before rolling onto his back exhausted.

He wakes to the hum and beeps of a heart monitor. He opens his eyes and is blinded by wild florescent lighting. As his eyes adjust, he sees his arm is bandaged. Intravenous tubes plumb into it. He is filled with relief at the incompetence in ending his own life, however, as his memory re-runs the nightmare he had endured before his lapse into unconsciousness. His relief quickly evaporates once he feels the stone clenched within his fist.