Iain Reid: I'm Thinking of Ending Things

The teacher’s desk at the front of the room is tidy and neat. I open the top drawer. There might be something in the desk that I can use. I quickly rummage through the drawers and find a plastic retractable X-ACTO knife. But the blade has been removed. I drop it on the ground.

I hear something in the hall. I duck down behind the desk, close my eyes. More time. There are bottles of paint and brushes and supplies lining the back and side walls. The whiteboards are wiped clean.

I wonder how long I can stay in here. How long can a person last without the essentials, with no food, no water? Staying hidden like this is too passive. I need to be active.

I check the windows. The bottom window opens, but only enough to let in a little air. If there were a ledge or something out there, maybe I would consider jumping. Maybe. I open the window the full couple of inches. The cold air feels good on my hand. I leave my hand there, feeling the breeze. I bend down and breathe in what small amount of fresh air I can.

I used to love art class. I just wasn’t any good at it. I desperately wanted to be. I didn’t want to be competent and successful in math only. Art was different.

High school was such a strange time for me. For some people, it’s a peak. I did the work and got high marks. That wasn’t an issue. But all the socializing. The parties. The attempts to fit in. That wasn’t easy, even then. By the end of the day, I just wanted to get home.

I was unremarkable in the ways that matter in school. It was the worst type of oblivion, for years. I was scentless, invisible.

Adulthood. Late blooming. That’s me. Or it was supposed to be. That’s when it was supposed to finally get better. I’d get better then, everyone said. This is when I would start coming into my own.

I’ve been so careful. So self-aware. I’m confused less. I haven’t been reckless. I understand myself. My own limitless potential. There is so much potential. And now this. How did I get here? It’s not fair.

And Jake. It wasn’t going to work out between us. It’s not sustainable, but that’s irrelevant now. He will be fine without me, won’t he? He’s coming into his own. He’s going to do something big, that I know. He doesn’t need this. Me. His family doesn’t need this, either. They aren’t my kind of people, but that doesn’t matter. They’ve been through a lot. I probably don’t know the half of it. They probably think we’re back home now. They’re probably sound asleep.

This is not the end. It doesn’t have to be. I need to find him. And then I can back out, start again, try again. Begin at the beginning. Jake can, too.

It feels good to rest, by the window, to feel the air on my skin. I feel tired suddenly. Maybe I need to lie down. Go to sleep. Maybe even dream.

No. I can’t. No sleep. No more nightmares. No.

I have to move. I’m not free yet. I leave the window open and slink to the door.

My right foot hits something. A bottle. A plastic bottle of paint, lying on the floor. I pick it up. It’s half-empty. I have paint on my hands. There is paint on the outside of the bottle.

It’s wet paint. Fresh paint. I can smell it. I put the bottle down on a desk.

He was here. Recently, he was right here!

My hands are red. I rub them on my pants.

I see more paint on the floor. I smear it with my toe. There’s writing, in small letters:

I know what you were going to do.

A message. For me. He wanted me to come in here and see it. That’s why this door was open. He led me here.

I don’t know what this means.

Wait. I do. Yes, I do.

He saw Jake kissing my neck. He saw us in the car. He was at the window, watching. Is that it? He knew that we were going to do it in the car. And he didn’t want us to have sex? Is that it?

There’s more writing on the floor up ahead.

Just you and me now. There’s only one question.

Terror fills me. Absolute terror. No one knows what it’s like. Can’t know. You don’t know unless you’ve been so alone like this. Like I am. I never knew until now.

How does he know? How does he know the question? He can’t know what I’ve been thinking. He can’t. No one can ever really know what someone else is thinking.

This can’t be real. The pain in my head is getting worse. I bring a trembling hand to my forehead. I am so tired. I’m not doing well. But I can’t stay here. I have to keep moving, I have to hide, get away. How does he always know where I am, where I’m going? He’ll be back.

I know it.

I WISH THIS WERE MOREsupernatural. A ghost story, for instance. Something surreal. Something from the imagination, no matter how vile. That would be much less terrifying. If it was harder to perceive or accept, if there was more room for doubt, I would be less scared. This is too real. It’s very real. A dangerous man with bad, irreversible intentions in a big, empty school. It’s my own fault. I should never have come here.

It’s not a nightmare. I wish it were. I wish I could just wake up. I’d give anything to be in my old bed, in my old room. I’m alone, and someone wants to hurt me or hunt me. And he’s already done something to Jake, I know it.

I don’t want to think about it anymore. If I can find my way to the gym, there might be an emergency door or some other way out of here. That’s what I’ve decided. I need to get back to the road even if it’s too cold out there. Maybe I won’t last long. But maybe I won’t last much longer here, either.

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness. You get used to the dark after a while. Not the quiet. That metallic taste in my mouth is getting worse. It’s in my saliva or deeper. I don’t know. My sweat feels different in here. Everything is just off.

I’ve been biting my nails. Chewing my nails. Eating them. I don’t feel well.

I’ve also started losing hair. Maybe it’s the stress? I put a hand up to my head and when I pull it back, there are strands of hair in between my fingers. I run my fingers through my hair now and more comes out. Not handfuls, but close. This must be some kind of reaction. A physical side effect.

Stay quiet. Stay calm. In this hall, the bricks are painted. The ceiling is made of those large rectangular removable tiles. Could I hide up there? If I could get up there.

Keep moving. Slowly. Sweat drips along my spine. The gym is down the hall. It has to be. I remember. Do I? How could I remember that? I make out the double doors with the metal handles. That’s my goal. Get there. Get there quickly, quietly.

I keep my left hand, my fingers, against the brick wall as I walk. Step after step. Carefully, cautiously, softly. If I can hear it, he can hear it. If I can, he can. If I, then he. If. Then. I. He.

I reach the doors. I look in through the tall, skinny windows. It’s the gym. I grab the handle. I know these doors. They sound like a cowboy’s spurs when opened and closed. Loud, cold metal.

I push just wide enough to slip in.

The climbing ropes hang. The metal rack holds orange basketballs in the corner. A strong smell. Chemical. My eyes are watering. More tears.

I can hear it. It’s coming from the boys’ locker room. I’m finding it harder to breathe in here.

The locker room. It’s not as dark in here as in the gym. There are two overhead lights on. Now I recognize it — the sound is water running. One tap is on full blast. I can’t see it yet, but I know.

I should wash my hands, get the paint off. Maybe take a drink. That cool, soothing water in my mouth and running down my throat. I turn my hands over, looking at my palms. Streaked red. Trembling. My right thumbnail is gone.

There’s an opening up ahead to my left. That’s where the sound of water is coming from. I trip on something. I pick it up. A shoe. Jake’s shoe. I want to yell out, to call for Jake. But I can’t. I cover my mouth with a hand. I have to be quiet.