Man on the Moon - A horrible little short story by Reverb

I am. I are. “I think therefore I am”? What’s the point of existence if you entire existence is as a faceless, nameless entity? Too bitter, I’m sorry. I haven’t had my morphine this morning; I’ll brew a pot now.
My name is Sean. English. Not of Irish descent; another confusing factor of an already confused identity. I have a body tailored for Armani suits, just enough chest hair to be manly, and designer stubble. Resting atop my once carefully-coiffed, angular head, just below the skin, is my thinking cap.
Since I discovered my thinking cap, my eyes have opened. Before, as with most of the world, I lived with invisible cataracts. Eyelids up, but permanently blind. Like the flap of cartilage that protects an attacking shark’s eye. Protection. A closed eye offers protection.
According to the people who know, it will be just 7 days before my entire body succumbs to the will of the thinking cap; when every cell in my body will mutate to acquire its day-glow pink hue, and I resemble a snapper with limbs.
I’ve been advised to get my affairs in order, but seeing as though both parents retired to an early grave, and I am out of love (not even a dog), I’ve donated my worldly belongings to the looters of London’s east end. Good luck to the feckless wonder who tries to discreetly remove the oh-so-fucking-hip Smeg fridge from my 7th floor flat.
I afford my flat, furnished with Swedish flat pack furniture and imitation Rothko prints, by spending too many hours a week in a sterile cubicle selling the gullible public shit they don’t need at prices they can’t refuse. It seemed at legitimate career choice at the time, just as Sinn Fein seemed a legitimate political party.
My cubicle sits parallel to another, inhabited by a girl a few years younger than me. Young enough to believe that this job will bring her fulfilment. Fulfilment enough to warrant the gargantuan student loan she’s paying off.

Her name is Mary.

We had a thing once, Mary and I. I took her to yuppie infested wine bars and restaurants peddling what ever fusion cuisine was a la mode that month. In return, she let me fuck her. No love, just sex. We wouldn’t kiss. She never came. It was like fucking a hooker, only more expensive. After dismounting, I’d sleep instantly. She was never there when I awoke.
Ever since our fling ended (on amicable terms), Mary and I have assumed the pretence of friendliness. We greet each other daily over the tops of our cubicles, amiably enough. Smiles never reaching the eyes.
No-one at my office is aware of my problem; I’ve done a stellar cover up job. They pass off all my symptoms as hangovers. Alcoholism is common in this line of work. I often wonder how they’ll react to me going. I have glorious images of Mary, beside herself with grief, seeking solace in the arms of our manager, a balding alcoholic in his 50s. As the tears flood thick and fast down her milk-white cheeks, breast heaving with every sob, she will inform stunned co-workers with tales of how she truly loved me, yet was always too guarded to reveal it. My fantasy doesn’t extend to her committing a Shakespearian suicide, I’m not that sick.
A life of middle class anonymity has given me thirst for going out with a bang. Something that will make people take notice, for me to be the centre of attention, just once. No scheme is too grand or overblown.

[Here’s what I’m going to do]

Sometime ago, I noticed a disarmed missile gathering rust at a local reclamation yard. A relic from the cold war, just waiting to be placed in the garden of some old eccentric drowning in their own wealth. It stood about 20 feet tall, dressed ion chipped white paint and bloody rust; Russian lettering adorning its many panels. I imagine they were instructions on creating chaos, useless now though, it is disarmed.
This missile is a key instrument for my fantastical exploration into death. I mean to go up and up and up and blow up. In a perfect world, my nut sack would land in the pool of some Orange County billionaire’s pool. Wouldn’t it be cool for my head (plus thinking cap) to orbit earth for aeons, my own personal contribution to the flotsam and jetsam cavorting around in the city of dappled lights? Yes, yes it would.
For weeks I tinkered and toiled with the toy. It soon became apparent that no amount of GCSE science would be of any use. Then, I come to the point in which you find me. 7 days from death, maybe more, maybe less.
I am no longer going to work; I only leave the flat to work on the missile in a rented garage down the street. My body rejects solid food, and I survive on gravy and prescribed morphine. Then, my muscles waste away until I am no longer strong enough to hold a Phillips head screwdriver, let alone execute the necessary force to remove one of Stalin’s screws. Time never seemed so precious, and lacking. Precious and lacking.
Fast forward. I am now fully consumed, the doctors long forgotten. I lie wasted on my bed. My head tormented by dashed dreams and challenges incomplete. I lay there, lungs full of snot and muck, trachea collapsing. Skeletal. My ribs, excruciatingly visible, raising with every breath, trembling with every arrhythmiated heartbeat. I see lights, bright as the stars, pop in front of my eyes. My body begins to soar, I have lift off! For the first time since conception, my mind is empty.
All I feel is complete acceptance, choices be damned, I’m going to have to live with this. Then. Slowly, slowly, slowly, I go. Where? I don’t know. It’s nice, though.

So what if I failed? Even the best laid plans often go to waste.

END


© Reverb, 2008