Living Dead, Offer Reish [classic novels for teens .TXT] 📗

But I have no kind of knack or proclivity for committing myself to a single cause or occupation. I'd rather go wide than deep, which was my primary bane as a junior tennis player and the source of my profound distaste for my former profession as a lawyer. My timely transfer four years ago to the field of business consultancy hasn't completely stamped out my dislike for having a full-time job whose real fruits are reaped largely by others, but has at least sweetened the pill. Life is a compromise, and every compromise must have a bitter side; I live at peace with this compromise I've made.

So I'm not a one-job-man, which as you know may well hold a man back from achieving seniority, rank, and the comfort that comes after many years of hard, monotonous work; in my case I managed to circumvent this obstacle, and a testament to my success is my nametag which somehow finds itself under the table with the wine glasses. "Clancy Stuttworth, Partner." A fine feat, and that my colleagues attribute it to my fawning on the senior partners I find petty and envious. In any case, this transience of mine doesn't hold true when it comes to affairs of the heart. Lila, my fiancée, has been my sweetheart from the moment I laid eyes on her almost ten years ago. She hadn’t known it for the first two or so, but a shared moment of vulnerability and pint of beer on campus had brought us together and made me believe happiness would never evade me again. I hadn’t been a very happy man before I had her heart; from then until very recently I was just about as happy as a man can be with an ordinary earthly life. Today my fists are clenched around the railing of my 23rd floor balcony and the closest thing to happiness seems to be the roar of the street below.

I've always seen in Lila a fine woman, perhaps one of the finest I know. Her beauty had been admired, at times to a disturbing extent, by men of all ages long before I came along. She's a gentle woman but one that's neither reliant upon nor unreasonably demanding of anyone else, least of all her partner. On the other hand she wears her heart on her sleeve and rarely bottles in her emotions, especially positive ones. Her presence is welcome in almost any room, and is deeply craved in many bedrooms. She's one year my junior and by far the person closest to me in this world. I suppose it's only natural that my life has largely centered on her for the past ten years. Until recently I was convinced that the same could be said of her, but now I feel there is no room for certainty around her. There is little room for any certainty in this world, in fact. Take it from a man who's seen his world collapse on top of him; who's undergone a transformation from profound happiness to irreparable misery, all in a matter of weeks. I find that the most valuable advice comes from the most miserable of men, don't you agree? And if that's the case consider my words golden and let them sink in deep, for you would find no man more miserable than I if you were to scour the earth ten times over.

Why is it that the joys of this world are so fleeting and fickle while its sorrows are deep-set and trenchant? It's almost as if we are all gamblers, fooled and lulled into a deceptive sense of elation by temporary winnings, only to find ourselves with an empty wallet and a heart torn with regret at the end of the day. It seems I'm a compulsive gambler then (I've already stated that I'm possessed of no ordinary optimism). But I've been disillusioned and am now prepared to check out. One must have chips if he is to stay in the game, but my wallet is empty of money, my heart bereft of hope. All I wish is to exit the casino, and what wiser decision could be made by a gambler?

I only wish I could believe that she, too, was affected. That perhaps there was some shade of pain and remorse buried under that beautiful façade of perfect tanned skin and impenetrable green eyes. That she was sufficiently affected as to make amends as I intend to do- no, I'm not so presumptuous- but that my love for her wasn't in vain and hers for me not completely sham. But perhaps the stars have so aligned that even such a humble wish shan't be granted to me. No, the love of my life hasn't been moved by my devastation or by her own significant role in bringing it about. Rather, she's planning her better, brighter future without me, as though I'd never been part of her soul; as though I'd never been at all. And here's the worst part of it all: in her betrayal she might find true happiness and complete impunity. So terrible is my curse that my principal tormenter will be rewarded, not punished, for the injustice she's done me.

 

Betrayal

 

The sun is high in the sky now and she sheds a resplendent golden light and soothing warmth on everything below, but she is treacherous for soon she will set and leave us all shivering in the dark. I don't fare well with heights, in the dark, or when the air is cold, and yet all three will be my lot if we don't make our decision readily. And yet she, the queen of the sky, isn't half the traitor as is the queen of the land.

It began around two months ago, if my memory doesn't betray me (though I find it difficult to commit my trust to anything these days). Those were golden days, when there was nothing impure about the love between a man and a woman. Alas, fake gold is often cheaper than dull metal, and certainly much less reliable. Our wedding was only two months away, and we'd both recovered completely from the misfortune that had befallen us toward the end of our first trip abroad as a couple. We spent a wonderful two weeks on the magnificent beaches of Mexico before climbing the mountains with a rented car that served us loyally. There was indeed an unfortunate end to it, but what it was exactly I don't recall at the moment, nor does it bear any significance to our considerations. I do vividly recall the breathtaking scenery and the wild nights, but why torment myself with memories of what was and has been lost! In any case Lila came back from Mexico a changed woman, and not in a good way. For me it was an anti-climactic end to an unforgettable experience, but not one that deserves dawdling on. On her it took a much greater toll in the form of a long, strenuous recovery process. Undoubtedly she felt a measure of guilt for the harm and stress she'd inflicted upon us (despite the fogginess of my memory I had a distinct feeling that she'd been at fault for the painful occurrence. But I forgave her at some point). They say only he who knows his past may fully live in the present; but in fact the past is only important insofar as it bears a direct effect on the present. I refuse to ascribe the collapse of our relationship to the events in Mexico, and therefore it is of no significance.

For the sake of clarity allow me to be more precise and trace the beginning of the breakdown to one stormy evening just like any other, only slightly more tiresome than usual. You see, even when love is at its finest it can't overcome the inherent dullness that underlies the daily routine of a modern life. Anything, when prolonged, repeated, and generally made up of unchanging elements will provoke disinterest and boredom at a certain point; certainly, then, life. We were both home, and for lack of a better alternative were watching a certain movie that consisted of a haphazard jumble of cars, crashes and blood. At some point I remember feeling not bored but anguished, and for some reason that I can't currently recall I entered our bedroom and began to sift through a rickety drawer that I never used to open. It was filled with junk that had accumulated over years, and was so badly out of use that opening it required the investment of no small effort and produced quite a disturbing creak. There was nothing remotely of value in the crammed space, but one single cause of great alarm. Lila had just entered the room, apparently repelled by the movie as well, when my eyes fell upon it. I'd never used any illegal substances before, but on several occasions had had the misfortune of being in their presence. I won't deny that the effect I witnessed them having on others were at times intriguing, but never, even in my bleakest days, had my will power failed. It would've taken a catastrophe of monumental dimensions for my resistance to waver. At any rate, the content of the little airtight plastic bag was unmistakable: white powder and a glass pipe that, when combined and lighted, created a potent drug that preyed on weak souls and distorted the brightest minds. How silly do our brains operate, tempting us to consume the very things that will lead to their destruction! But then nations often express the same kind of self-destructive behavioral pattern; even our entire species has fallen victim to such folly, so why not a lone individual mind?

I remember my hand shaking at the thought of what I might discover as I picked up the bag and showed it to my unsuspecting fiancée.

"What is this?" I muttered glumly.

"Why are you asking me? That's you're drawer", she replied, at first oblivious of the gravity of the situation. When I appraise her behavior in hindsight I realize what I refused to see then: her surprise was affected and there was an uncharacteristic defensiveness about her. She was never very good at dissembling her emotions; how could I have missed it? When she came close enough to make out the contents of the bag her jaw dropped (too quickly!).

"Is that…?"

"Heroin", I confirmed, nodding solemnly. I tried not to be too accusative but I suppose it would've been impossible to conceal my instinctive suspicions. It was as though there was no conceivable alternative.

"How did it… You don't think that I-?" Lila began, now clearly more outraged and astonished by my implicit insinuation than by the existence of the bag.

I can't attest today to the duration of my ensuing silence, but I recall lucidly that it was unbearable to Lila. There must've been some added external factors that had led me to be so conclusive regarding her culpability for the presence of the drug, but there are none I can name at the moment. In any case my suspicion was well placed, though never- not until this very day in which I relate the history to you- outspoken. But I've always been a man of trust, and to my then beloved fiancée's straightforward denial I couldn't remain indifferent. I believed her, in behavior and in heart, and ransacked my mind for the next possible culprit. And that was when I realized for the first time the possibility that I would never have thought feasible, that was worse still than the first, and that now took priority as the virtually obvious solution.

"Has anyone been in our house lately?" I asked bluntly.

"You mean besides your uncultured friends? Someone who had access to your drawers without us knowing it?" She said with a cynical chuckle.

"I mean anyone I don't know of", I insisted without the slightest hint of amusement. I remember every word and expression from the discourse that followed, as it