Second Life

The wind was sharp as knives against the bare parts of his face. The man tugged at the loose hanging edges of his scarf, tightening it. With every step the blistering cold night air pierced its way through the multiple layers of clothing he had tightly packaged himself in. Her could feel his fingers and toes start to burn despite the handmade knit socks and gloves he wore. His mother had made them for him two christmases ago.

Thoughts of his family gave him pause. The wind howled in his face as he continued his trek. His mind casually wondered how his mother would react when she heard the news, but he shook those thoughts away just as soon as they appeared. It didn’t matter. He had made up his mind.

He trudged on and on through the cold. It had snowed the night before, remnants of melted ice causing him to zig and zag, hop and skip as he avoided the treacherous terrain. The last thing he wanted was to fall and crack his head open on black ice. The irony of that was not lost on him.

As he continued he could not help reflecting. The last year had been nothing short of chaotic. After years of wading through what his father had affectionately called “a real job,” he had finally managed to save enough money to pour himself into his life’s passion: sculpting. It had taken him nearly half his life, two relationships, and all of his savings, but he had done it. With one piece proudly displayed at his father’s office lobby, a Herculean feat considering his father’s objections to his change in careers, he had waited with his hubris for it to sell, securing his future and legitimizing his beliefs that art was truly his calling.

That had been eight months ago.

He had not started to concern himself till he had made the last transfer of funds from his savings to his checking account. For the first time since he had opened the account at sixteen it was sitting at zero. He had never known a single digit could be so terrifying. But the panic didn’t really sink in till his credit card charges started reaching five digits. The numbers on statements; mortgage payments, car lease, insurance, and more; were skyrocketing while the last remnants of his bank account withered away like raisins in the sun.

He stopped as he remembered his father at dinner one evening lecturing him, once again, for quitting his job. He had lied that night, to his father and his mother, saying that he was doing alright. That he was secure. That he was sound. That he was well.

That he was happy.

The wind at the center of the bridge was even more biting than on land. Coming off the river situated neatly below, the air had a fresh crispness to it that was not lost on him. It was refreshing, as if the cleanliness of it as it passed through his nostrils and into his lungs could somehow cleanse him of the maelstrom of anxiety that had consumed him for so long.

Sadly, he doubted any thing in the universe possessed such power. He could feel it now, the devil that had settled within him for so long, he could feel it stir. It was restless. It was hungry. It called out to him, whispering doubts and echoing his fears back to him. He remembered every conversation with his father, every snide remark from his former coworkers, every passive aggressive compliment from onlookers. The devil inside of him fed off of them. It was a plump little devil that had taken up residence in his mind. And he had enough of it.

He pulled out a notebook from his pocket and flipped through it, the combination of cold and nerves causing his hand to tremor as he did so. That little book had seen better days. The black leather cover was frayed at the edges, it’s pages dog-eared and scribbled on so roughly that they no longer laid flat. But despite how gnarly it looked, he had never been able to rid himself of it. That book held all his ideas, good and bad. He had kept it on his person for years, just in case an idea struck him. As he fingered through it he could remember exactly where he had been when nearly every idea had struck him.

One time was at work after a client expressed an interest in both classic and modern art, igniting an idea to fuse the two together in a piece. He had feigned an excuse to exit the conversation in order to scribble down his vision, but had ultimately hated it. Though he could not bring himself to completely abandon the thought.

Another time he had been at a park with his girlfriend and had been admiring the structure of an oak tree. It had inspired him to jot down an idea on how to incorporate organic structures into his work. His girlfriend had called him weird.

He flipped through page after page reminiscing over various inspirations, sketches, and notes. He could feel the tears swelling behind his eyes. As he reached the more recent ones they became harder and harder to see. Pools of salty water gathered at the brims of his eyes until he could no longer hold them back. They fell without his permission, streaks of warm liquid freezing instantly to his skin.

Enough, he thought to himself. It was enough. He was tired of carrying the burden of his failures with him. He was exhausted. He just wanted it to end.

With the book held firmly in his shivering fingers he positioned himself along the railing of the bridge. This was fine, he reiterated. His suffering would be over and everything would be alright. His family would mourn, but they would move on. The whole world would move on. He wasn’t necessary, he wasn’t relevant, he wasn’t needed.

This was his way out.

But as he talked himself into following through with his initial decision his phone rang. Why had he taken it with him? Habit, he supposed. It went with him everywhere. Why not have it with him at the end?

He considered ignoring it, but the ring tone was special. It was his father’s. Because of course his father would call right as he considered ending his life. His father had the best or worst timing, he had never really figured out which one it was.

He placed the book back into his pocket and grabbed his phone. On instinct he answered, his hands and voice shaking.

“Son! Glad I caught you. I’ve got great news! You remember the client I introduced you to about three months ago? The one with a lot of overseas investments? Well, he called me today and wanted to know if he could buy your statue that’s in the lobby. Said he’d pay about twenty-kay for it. Oh! He also wanted to commission another three pieces from you for the hotels he’s going to be opening soon. One in Paris, Morocco, and I think Milan if I’m not mistaken. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yeah, Dad,” he said after a pause, hunched over himself, fist clutched to the railing as he tried to keep his voice calm. “That’s great.”

“Hey, Son, I know I was harsh on you when you first decided to pursue this whole sculpting thing. I didn’t really get it, honestly. But it seems you’ve really got a talent for it. You know, this guy isn’t the only person I’ve talked to who likes your art. Lots of people do. And, well, I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m proud of you, son.”

The man sat on his heels in the freezing cold on the bridge where he had planned to end his life in tears as he heard the words he had longed to hear his whole life on the other end of the phone. He held his face in his hand and wept as a million different emotions washed over him at once. He fought with himself for just enough composure to reply.

“Thanks, Dad. … yeah, I’ll be home for dinner.”