TWENTY-FIVE : Chapter 0 - THE END

January 5, 2005

It was a hard day at the office for Martin Etkinson, he was tired, and he felt the need to refresh himself in the adjacent bar. He walked into it in the same way he’d always done, for the past five years, as if there was a purpose in his visit. When he had three pegs down in him, he started to ruminate on what exactly made him that tired today.

‘There are many kinds of working days.’ He thought to himself. ‘Some, where no work comes by; some, where there is work, but at discontinuous intervals of time; some where work is continuous throughout the day.’ He poured down another peg into his glass, then some ice and continued the contemplation. He then reflected on the things he did today. The first one-hour in the office was spent reading the newspaper, in anticipation of the arrival of the customer, whom he was to introduce to his superior. He then got a call from a vendor telling him that he had mailed him the technical documents of some components he was to include in his pet project. He logged in to his account; found the documents impertinent called up the vendor to resend the documents. The rest of the day, he was waiting for the soft copies, in vain. ‘I hate waiting, it tires me’ the contemplation continued. Five pegs down; he suddenly realized that he loved his work. He then concluded to himself that the objective of today’s solitary session was met and called the waiter for the bill.

Five years back, the first time he’d tasted alcohol, he concluded to himself that the purpose of his life was to get to know his own person. He never actually understood why everybody neglected their own person, the most beautiful creation of God, and instead went after other creations, the nature, the technology and whatever. He concluded that these were the people who never realized the importance of being themselves, the importance of being men. And then he concluded, for the first time, ‘I hate people’. The same session, he also came to the conclusion that he’d never leave alcohol, it created a mindset where he could think freely about himself. He swore to himself that he would spend everyday in getting to know something new about his person.

He came out of the bar, satisfied with the day’s result and felt refreshed. He placed his hands in the warm comfort of his pants pockets. He then felt a chain, a possession that was supposed to be forever in his hand’s reach. He looked at the woman’s picture, in the locket hanging from the chain, went into a reverie for sometime and then started to walk home. It’d been exactly five years when she’d left him. ‘She reached her destiny, so will I.’ He thought to himself.

He reached his house, got out the key, and rotated it seven times to unlock the door. He’d custom made the lock to suit his own purpose, just to remind himself how much he mistrusted the people, the resentment growing exponentially each time he rotated it.

He directed himself to his bed, threw himself carefully upon it, realized that he was thirsty, got up and fetched himself a bottle from the fridge. He then went back to his bed, and got ready for a deep slumber.

He felt it very suddenly, his chest twitched, he was perspiring. He still had the bottle in his hand. He tried to open it, and he felt it again. He felt his wet shirt. He tried to undress. It was too hot. He felt it again and he collapsed onto his bed. He could think of nothing. It was pain, immense pain. All he wished now was that it would all be over. He was waiting for the end, waiting for the destiny he’d always assumed for himself. He waited for one last slug that would take him away. The pain persisted. Suddenly, something flashed in front of his eyes...

The child was gone...the dream was gone...