Robert Cormier - Beyond the Chocolate War

He had not known this morning when he emerged from sleep at the ringing of the alarm that this would be the day. Yet this act he contemplated now was not the result of a sudden decision. The knowledge that his life would end sometime this year, probably before summer arrived, had been with him for weeks, months. He wasn't quite certain when the knowledge had flowered within him, at which precise moment he knew that he must end this desperate, pointless thing his life had become. He knew only that it must happen, that he must terminate what had become not even a life, really. Then what was it? A sunless, airless desert in which he trudged wearily and purposelessly, like a being from an alien planet, out of place and out of touch, Without appetite or desires. Blank, unreachable, friendless, loveless. Funny. Only the knowledge that he would end this life made it bearable. Until the right moment, the right time. Which was now, this afternoon, this hour.

He seemed lifted by a light breeze as he went upstairs, placed his books tidily on the table near his bed, looking at them lingeringly, knowing there would be no need to do homework tonight, that marks did not matter. This made him smile, but it was a smile without joy or warmth. All during these past weeks he had continued to do his homework, eat his meals, take showers, shampoo his hair, wait for the school bus, take notes in school, carry on conversations with his classmates and his family, and nobody but nobody could see that he wasn't really there , that he was contributing nothing of himself to conversations or classes or mealtimes, holding back the essential ingredient that was himself. Me. David Caroni, son, brother, student. But it didn't matter, really, it was merely amusing in an unfunny land of way because it would all end soon. He was thankful for that knowledge, clung to it. Otherwise he might not have made it through the dry monotony of his days and evenings.

Yet there were moments of startling surfacings, as if he were emerging from deep waters into sunlight, and for a brief moment, suspended in time, he would see the ridiculous thing his life had become, making no sense. Just as the Letter made no sense. (Of course the Letter made no sense in itself — the use of the word Letter was a sly and furtive substitute for the real thing.) And then the burst of sunlight would end and he would be plunged again into the sterile, austere life that was the life he now knew, no sun, no sky, nothing. No place to go and no place to hide.

He surveyed his room for a final time, remembering a poem he had read once long ago:

Look thy last on all things lovely,

Every hour.

His stereo, which he had loved once and played now only as a cover, a disguise, pretending that the music had meaning. The books lined up on his shelves, well-thumbed paperbacks that he had not opened for weeks although he'd always had a compulsion to read and reread favorite passages time and again. He sighed, thinking of all the faking he'd had to do in order to act normal, protecting his family so that they would not know, would not suspect, talking, listening, acting , Academy Award stuff, but hugging all the time his little secret within him. His eyes encountered now the posters he had plastered to his walls. Stupid, they were, really. After the Rain, the Rainbow . Words. Meaningless. Vowels and consonants. Letters. Twenty-six letters in the alphabet. That one fatal deadly letter. But don't think about that now. Look thy last . .

He began to undress. Removed his shirt and pants. Folded them neatly on the bed. Slipped off his socks, frowning at the faint smell of foot odor, his feet having a tendency to perspire even on the coldest winter day. Pulled off his blue-plaid boxer shorts and drew his T-shirt over his head, dropped socks and shorts and shirt into the hamper, Stood naked, a bit chilly, avoiding his reflection in the full-length mirror near the closet. He had avoided his reflection for months, grateful that he hadn't yet begun to shave.

He was strangely calm and almost lifted himself on tiptoe as he felt that pleasant rising wind again, but within him, not outside. He was more than calm: it was a sleepwalking kind of feeling, drift, as if he were being drawn by some invisible current to an inevitable destination. He had contemplated other forms of the act but had discarded them. Had read books at the library, studied statistics, looked up methods in an encyclopedia, pondered stories in newspapers — astonished but gratified by the frequency of the act — and had finally decided on the best way. For him.

He walked, seemed to glide, toward the bureau, still avoiding the mirror, and opened the bottom drawer. He shifted odds and ends of clothing around, then lifted the white lining paper. He withdrew two envelopes and held one in each of his hands for a moment, as if his hands were plates on a scale. One envelope contained a letter that would explain to his mother and father and Anthony why this act had become necessary. He had struggled long and hard with it, knowing they must not feel guilt or blame. He had written and rewritten the letter a hundred times, finding it, guiltily, the only act of any pleasure in the previous months. Now he placed the letter on the bureau, against the picture they had taken of him when he won highest honors at his graduation from St. John's Parochial School. All A 's for eight years. He stared at the picture, thinking of the Letter, and then turned away, eager to open the other envelope.

The other envelope contained a steel single-edged razor blade, gleaming lethally in the slant of afternoon sunlight. Pleasantly lethal. His friend, his deliverer. Carrying the blade delicately between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, he walked to the bathroom, placed the blade on the top of the toilet tank, and began to run water into the bathtub. After a few moments the hot water splashed steamily into the tub, vapors rising from the water's surface, clinging to the tile walls, fogging the mirror above the small sink. He looked at the turbulent water, feeling neither hot nor cold, feeling nothing, really. He tested the water with his right hand and then increased the flow of cold. He waited patiently, conscious of the blade nearby. He tested the water again and found it to be satisfactory. He shut off the faucets.

He placed the razor blade on the side of the tub and then slipped into the water from the end opposite the faucets, letting the warmth flow over him. He was grateful for once that he was a blank. Without thought or emotion. As if he were transparent, without weight. He realized he hadn't sat in a tub for years, showering instead each morning on arising. He sighed, felt the warmth of the water seeping into his pores, the steam forming rivulets on his forehead, cheeks, and chin. Beautiful here. Soon this terrible, ugly, desperate, despicable world would come to an end along with his utterly useless place in it. Kill yourself and you also kill the world, someone had said He would always spare his family, but how he would love to obliterate Trinity and all it stood for. Brother Leon and the Letter. Look thy last . .

He reached for the blade.

But could not touch it.

Stared at it, a small steel rectangle catching the ceiling light.

His finger touched the blade but remained there, as if pinning the blade to the tub.

He knew he couldn't do it, could not perform this act. Not now. Not today. Today was not the day, after all.

A small glimmer lit up a corner of the dark thing his mind had become. Brother Leon's face glowed in that glimmer. Why should he go alone, leaving Leon behind, sparing him?

He drew his hand back from the razor.

Weary, exhausted, knowing he must endure this bleak existence for a while more.