Living Dead by Offer Reish (books for 9th graders txt) 📕

23rd Floor

I'm in dire need if your assistance. You see, the air outside the 23rd floor of the Royal Hotel is thin, and the view of the street below makes my head whirl and my stomach churn. I'm not a man of heights, and yet I find myself here, hanging between earth and sky, heaven and hell, my feet cemented in place. Sure, I could turn back to the room, shut the glass door behind me and pull a champagne bottle from the mini bar; but short-term solutions are illusions made for fools. And while I have been a fool myself before- only a fool would think he has never done so- today I don't intend to err. Today I make a decision of greater consequence than any decision I've ever made, and I shall make only the right one.

You may be very different than I. You may be happily married with half a dozen children frolicking in your back lawn, bathing in the pool you bought for them and basking in the sun whose warmth they owe to you. You may be an old widow with a lifetime of memories and a gradually receding will to live. Or perhaps you're an abominable misanthrope with no friends and no regrets; be the case what it may, you're alive, as am I, and therefore are in a position to advise me. I need it from you because there's nobody else on this earth of which I can ask it. And you mustn't deny me, as one day you may find yourself in my shoes- you will see that they aren't as different from yours as you believe- in which case your only comfort will be found in the willingness of a perfect stranger. Today that stranger- my stranger- happens to be you. And so you see that it's in our best mutual interest that you comply with my request so that the impartial winds of karma blow your way when your time of plight has arrived.

The railing of the balcony is still cold in my palms though I've been grasping it for a while now. My knees are weak, and that enigmatic, treacherous call from the street below of the kind one might experience when standing before a deep pit is overbearing. I have the sharp, unshakable feeling that if I were to release the railing I would topple over and find my ignoble death. There is a faint but steady and increasing pain in my right thigh, and since it's the kind of pain that can't be gotten rid of I shift my weight to my left leg. My heart is pounding quite violently, and with every beat I can feel a distinct pain in my forehead. I put my hand to it and feel an unshapely bulge on it. I try to brush it off but to no avail; it only increases the pain. It must be a minor bruise that I hadn't been aware of incurring in the throes of inviting death.

I'm well dressed with an elegant blue blazer over a button-down white shirt, blue pants and grey shoes. It seems this should be a fine fit for either decision I make. Only now I realize that there's quite an unsightly speck of dirt at the front of my right shoe. What a cursed blemish on such a fine, smooth, practically new shoe! You'd think that under the circumstances such a negligent nuisance would escape me, but it's in fact just as aggravating as it would be if I were on my way to a big business meeting. I strengthen the grip of my left hand on the railing and consolidate my left foot on the brick floor, bend my right knee and bring my right foot up. Then I brush my right hand fingers across the shoes but the mischievous speck refuses to clear the way. Suddenly it becomes the center of my attention and the roar of the engines below is forgotten. I wet the tip of my index and middle fingers and rub it off clean. What a relief! For a moment I'm lighted from the burden, then the greater one weighs down upon me again.

Next to me on the balcony is the table with two tall empty glasses on it. The two glasses that had each been filled and drained three times last night before we made love and went to sleep. We made love right there on the balcony, indifferent to the possibility that the neighbors could step outside at any moment and see us. We used to have cold whiskey and hot love making; last night the wine was tepid and the love making cold. There is no taste I despise more than that of wine, and yet by some esoteric force I couldn't refuse it. I remember it vividly, perhaps more vividly than any other part of the act, that as our moans blended in the open air my thoughts wandered to this moment now. As we both approached our climax my desire to be here, not there, intensified and my realization of the terrible act we were committing settled deeper. The terrible act of a man making love to his beautiful fiancée.

And now I'm here and she is gone so the act needn't go on. I despise her. I despise myself. I despise the time we’re together. I despise all time and all things. As for her, I believe her feelings toward me are mixed. It's surprising how quickly and frequently love and hate can alternate in a woman's heart. Regarding herself she's of the opinion that she is the queen of the world, or at least deserves to be. It's her smugness, I think, that I detest most of all. I wish I could see some pain in her eyes. Regret. Apology. If not of her own accord than at least in response to mine. Surely my artless eyes don't hide the fact that these emotions are brewing inside me, try though I may to have it differently. And yet hers are dull, opaque, impassive. The mere image of them in my mind sends shivers down my curved spine.

But let's not pin it all on her. A demon never strikes alone, and the assault against me seems to have been preplanned, well-coordinated, and the target of many resources invested by the devil himself. There are my parents, there was my brother, may the little transgressor rest in peace, there's my boss, and then there are those two evil men. It was a joint strike that would bring down the best of us, which by the way is a category from which I don't exclude myself. If you think that I'm a weak man than your sense of judgment is far less honed than I should hope for as my final advisor. Does a weak man willfully bear the torment of standing before an 80-meter vertical fall to the heart of a bustling street on a balmy day? Does he confess his intentions to a stranger and seek advice on a matter most men don't dare ponder alone? Lastly, what weak man has ever confronted a horrendous truth and been prepared to take due measures to redress it? No, weakness is as strange to me as cowardice to a mighty lion. And yet I'm merely a man, and in the workings of the enormous universe I'm but a tiny blot, more trifling still than the speck of dirt on my shoe. And perhaps, like that speck of dirt, I'm a nuisance of which the universe will soon dispose.

There are many culprits in my plight, me being the least of which, and their incriminating stories shall be laid bare before you, one by one, until you have reached a verdict. A just verdict in the form of your precious advice on whether or not I shall cross the railing of the 23rd floor balcony and implement the only solution I believe exists to the atrocities committed against me.

Me

Let me introduce myself. Briskly, as the passage of time isn't in our benefit, and as every word minced only prolongs my suffering.

Since my final days in my mother's womb I've been called Clancy. Clancy Stuttworth. Not too long ago I've celebrated the turn of my 36th year; a happy day that was, and something of a watermark in my life. I'm a happy man at heart, more optimistic than any man I know and just as appreciative of my lot as the scriptures instruct us to be. Today I'm a miserable wretch. I've been anguished, betrayed, ridiculed, and condemned to the point where no afflicted soul should ever be taken. I've been victimized through no fault of my own, and must now avail of my own sense of justice to atone for the sins of others. Is it even possible for one to atone for the sins of others? But while I rightfully protest, I don't flinch; I will do all that's required of me.

As for my physical appearance, there isn't much you need to know. I've already described my clothing, which today is rather in keep with my preferred style. I'm normally a man of moderation and rarely reach out to the extreme, and my wardrobe can bear proof of it. As a side note let me add that, rummage however much you like, you will never find a leather item of clothing in my closet, as I find it extreme to use the skin of another animal to cover my own body. You see, I've always taken good care of my body, even as those of my friends began to deteriorate with age; and what kind of person takes care of his own body while ravaging the bodies of other animals? At the end of the day we're all animals, are we not? To my mind, extremity begins not where one has strayed from what's common and accepted by society, but when reason or conscience are stretched to their limits. It's for this same reason that what awaits beyond the balcony railing isn't as extreme as you might think.

On the same note, my body is also fairly moderate in appearance. My height is slightly above average, my weight slightly below. My hair is average, my eyes, my nose, my ears; all absolutely commonplace. The less detail you have the better since, like I've already pointed out, any man could one day find himself in my position and therefore my own particular quirks are immaterial for our considerations. So imagine yourself in my place, if you like; my suffering and hopes of relief as your own.

I'm a logical man who rarely acts on a spur of the moment, as my current deliberations with you indicate. I'm very patient and am quite conscious and considerate of my environment, at least whenever my environment deserves consideration. A bad man will not see my kind side, for while I hold myself to higher standards than I do others, I'm never lenient to anyone who engages in purposeful wrongdoing. From my own misdeeds I make a point of learning, though I don't presume to be entirely successful in that area. All men attempt never to repeat a mistake made, but what man alive could possibly live up to it?

Now that you have an inkling of who I really am, let's move on to the engagement that occupies the majority of my time- my job. I haven't always been successful in my various lines of work though I'm a man of many talents. Challenge me to a ball game; test my vocabulary; set the board for a game of chess and I will do well in all without taking pride in it (the latter being another talent, and perhaps among the rarest these days).