Choices

Short Story

Photo by Javier Allegue Barros on Unsplash

He contemplated, meditated, and it was true, at times he longed for death. Or what he imagined dying may be like. A deep sleep that he would never have to wake up from. 

He was curious to the fact that these deep contemplations hadn’t led him to suicidal thoughts. At least not true suicidal thoughts, not thoughts that contained any real plan. When suicide would come to the forefront of his mind he would mostly think about the people he had known who had taken their own lives. He figured it must take a large amount of suffering and courage to go through with something like that. 

Deep down he felt that to take his own life would be a great shame, maybe even a true sin. But he wasn’t the kind to condemn others for their choices. He wondered if when it came to suicide, perhaps it wasn’t a choice any longer. 

He thought himself to be one of the blessed ones. Even in his darkest moments, and he’d had his share, there was always a flicker of hope to keep him going. As a child and young man he’d called this flame within himself Jesus. And he reckoned he’d always think of Jesus as his savior, although in his eyes religion had become far too political to engage with any longer. 

He didn’t pray like he used to. Didn’t reach out for help. But he’d explained to God that he was going off on his own. And he felt that God understood. 

He sits, chain smoking and drinking coffee. Contemplating the passing of time, the nearing of the end. The idea of free will drifts through his thoughts. Do we have any choices to make? Or are we just floating further down the river, at the mercy of the current. 

I’ll never forget bobbing around the sea of people in that apartment, euphoric from the screwdrivers and lines of blow. She kept appearing before me like an angel. Her blue eyes and blonde hair. Her thick thighs and full breasts pushing out of that tight dress. 

The apartment was dark, lit up only by dim neon lights and glow stick necklaces. I’d never done cocaine before. Some argue that peer pressure isn’t real, but when a close friend asks you to snort some lines, it becomes easy. 

Of course it was supposed to be a secret. He’d run to the bathroom, measure out two crystal lines on the sink, leaving one for me. One after the other we’d snort that powder through a rolled up dollar bill. 

I couldn’t keep the secret after awhile. Maybe it was the countless glasses of orange juice and vodka, but I began to want, no, need to talk about it. 

I tried talking to relative strangers at that party, the blonde angel included. Eventually I gave up and called my father. 

I was out of control, jittery, coked up. 

“Dad, do you believe in God?” I remember asking. 

“Yes, I believe in God. 

“Do you pray?” 

“Yeah, I do pray.” My father answered. 

He stands, stretches his back, while crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. He wonders why this memory lingers. 

As he slowly walks to the coffee pot for a refill, again he thinks about the choices we make. To live or to die. Is that the only real choice to make? And what about that night? Was that living or simply flirting with death?

Another night, another party. 

No cocaine this time, but plenty of beer chugging at the pong table. 

I remember waking up. I was sitting upright on the couch in that townhouse. Everyone was too drunk to drive home. 

She’s snuggled up on the couch to my right, asleep. Her ass is against my hip, so I scoot to my left. I look down, she’s wearing a dress and everything is now in view. Her thong underwear pushed to the side. 

I see my hand extend, touching her for the briefest moment. She doesn’t move.

Then I’m in my car, fleeing with one eye open. 

He crushes another cigarette butt and shakes his head. He wonders that if we truly do have choices to make, how do we live with those choices?