I’m Thinking of Ending Things

by Iain Reid

I feel a jolt, like I’ve been pinched, and realize, in shock, that I’m biting my nails. My index finger is in my mouth. I look at my hand. The nail on my thumb is almost half chewed off. When did I start this? I can’t recall, yet I must have been doing this all through dinner. I pull my hand back down to my side.

There’s no mirror in the vanity above the sink. I wouldn’t want to see myself anyway, not today.

They were arguing. It seemed something was boiling over from our dinner conversation. It was a heated argument. I’m glad it didn’t happen in front of me. Or Jake, for that matter. “What’s going on in there?” I asked Jake, in a whisper. “In where?”

I’m still looking at the squished fly when I get a feeling that someone has followed me to the bathroom. That I’m not alone. There’s no noise outside the door. No knock. I didn’t hear any footsteps. It’s just a feeling. But it’s strong. I think someone’s right outside the door. Are they listening?

I should say Jake’s slippers. The ones he lent me. I thought I’d left them facing toward the bathroom. But now they’re facing out, toward the hall. I can’t be sure. I must have left them like that. It must have been me.

A drop of red blood lands in the sink. And another. I catch sight of my nose upside down in the reflection of the faucet. It’s bleeding. I grab a piece of tissue, ball it up, and press it to my face. Why is my nose bleeding? I haven’t had a nosebleed in years.

There are scratches, like the scratches on the door in the living room, all over the trapdoor. I run my fingers over them. They aren’t very deep. But they look frantic.

“When you say symbols, you mean …?” “Allegory,” he said, “elaborate metaphor. We don’t just understand or recognize significance and validity through experience. We accept, reject, and discern through symbols. These are as important to our understanding of life, our understanding of existence and what has value, what’s worthwhile, as math and science.

And in each drawing there’s a different person in place of the furnace. Some with short hair, some with long. One has horns. Some have breasts, some penises, some both. All have the long nails and a similar knowing, paralyzed expression.

In each picture there’s the child, too. Usually in the corner. Sometimes in other places—on the ground, looking up at the larger figure. In one, the child is in the stomach of the woman. In another, the woman has two heads, and one of the heads is the child’s.

For a second, I think I hear someone move behind me. I shouldn’t be down here.

On my way back up the stairs I notice a lock and latch on the trapdoor, the one that hides the stairs when it’s closed. The latch is screwed into the wall beside the stairs, but the lock’s on the bottom of the trapdoor. You’d think it would be on the top side, so they could lock it from the top. The trapdoor can be closed and opened from either side, either pushed up if you’re in the basement, or pulled up if you’re on the landing. But it can be locked only from below.

There’s also a brown envelope. It has Us printed on the outside. It looks like Jake’s handwriting. I can’t just leave it. I pick it up, open it. Inside are photos. I probably shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not really my business. I flip through them. There are about twenty or thirty. They’re all close-up shots. Body parts. Knees. Elbows. Fingers. Lots of toes. Some lips and teeth, gums. A few extreme closeups, just hair and skin, pimples maybe. I can’t tell if they’re all the same person or not. I put them back in the envelope.

“Anyhow, it would be great if you stayed. Even just one night. And we want you to know, we’re very grateful that you’re here. For what you’re doing.”

“He was excited for you to see it. We’ve been looking forward to having you here for so long. We were starting to think he’d never bring you home, after all this time.” “Yeah,” is all I can think to say. “I know.” After all what time?

“We all like you. Especially Jakie. It makes sense. He needs you.” I keep smiling. I can’t seem to stop.

We stand for a moment, and then she leans in to give me a hug. We remain like this, with her squeezing me like she doesn’t want to let me go. I find myself doing the same thing back. For the first time tonight, I smell her perfume. Lilies. It’s a scent I recognize.

Jake’s mom returns. “I decided tonight that I want you to have this.” She hands me a piece of paper. It’s been folded a few times. It’s small enough to fit into a pocket. “Oh, thanks,” I say. “Thank you.” “I’ve forgotten now, of course, how long exactly, but it’s been in the works for quite some time.” I start to unfold it. She raises her hand. “No, no. Don’t open it here! You’re not ready yet!”

“Thank you for the gift,” I say. “That’s so kind of you. We’ll both appreciate it, I’m sure. Thanks.” “It’s for you. Only for you. It’s a portrait,” she says. “Of Jake.”

“Was she also in biochemistry?” “No, music. She was a musician.”

“A few years ago, my brother developed some problems. We didn’t think it was anything serious. He’d always been extremely solitary. Couldn’t relate to others. We thought he was depressed. Then he started following me around. He didn’t do anything dangerous, but it was odd, the following. I asked him to stop, but he didn’t. There was not a lot of recourse to take. I kind of had to cut him out of my life, block him out. It’s not like he couldn’t take care of himself. He can. I don’t believe he’s seriously mentally ill. Not dangerously. I think he can be rehabilitated. I believe he’s a genius and he’s deeply unhappy. It’s hard to spend that much time alone. It’s hard not to have anyone. A person can live like that for a while, but … My brother got very sad, very lonely. He needed things, asked for things I couldn’t help with. It’s not a big deal anymore. But of course it changed the dynamic of our family.”

“My brother was on track to become a full professor but couldn’t handle the environment. He had to leave his work. He could do the job, but everything else, anything to do with interacting with coworkers, was too hard on him. He’d start every day with a wave of anxiety at the thought of interacting with people. The strange part is he liked them. He just couldn’t handle speaking with them. You know, like normal people. Small talk and that.” I notice Jake has started to accelerate as he talks. I don’t think he realizes how fast we’re going. “He needed to make a living but had to find a new job, somewhere he didn’t have to give presentations, where he could blend into the walls. Around that time he was in a bad place, and he started following me around, talking to me, giving me orders and ultimatums, like a voice in my head, always there. He was interrupting my life, like a sort of sabotage. Subtle stuff.”

“Did he mention trichotillomania?” “What?” “How she pulls out her hair. My brother had it, too. She’s very self-conscious about it. She’s pulled out most of her eyebrows and eyelashes. She’s already started on her head. I could see some thinner spots tonight.” “That’s terrible.” “My mom’s pretty fragile. She’ll be fine. I didn’t realize it had gotten so bad. I wouldn’t have invited you had I known it would be so tense tonight. Somehow, in my head, it wasn’t going to be like that. But I wanted you to see where I’m from.”

But in the context of then, it seemed private, like his own health issue. No one wanted to meddle. There were a few incidents. Over the last year or so he was playing his music quite loud during his breaks. And when people would ask him to turn it down, he’d just ignore them and start the song over again.

—Two people we’ve interviewed mentioned he had notebooks. He wrote a lot. But no one ever asked about what he was writing.

It’s a sudden feeling, but unmistakable. I know this girl. I recognize her but have no idea from where or when. Her face, her hair. Her build. I know her.

She’s skinny and frail, this girl. Something’s not right. I feel bad for her. Her dark hair is long and plain and falls over her back and much of her face. Her hands are small. She’s not wearing any jewelry, no necklace or rings. She appears fragile and anxious. She has a rash. A bad one.

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for the lemonade. I’m not expecting an answer, so I am taken aback when she speaks. “I’m worried,” she mumbles, more to herself than me.

“I shouldn’t be saying this, I know I shouldn’t. I know what happens. I’m scared. I know. It’s not good. It’s bad.” “Are you okay?” “You don’t have to go.”

“What are you scared of?” “It’s not what I’m scared of. It’s who I’m scared for.” “Who are you scared for?” She picks up the cups. “For you,” she says, handing me the cups before disappearing back into the kitchen.

I wait for a while before I speak. Jake’s tense, I can tell. I don’t know why. “No, it could be anything. Could be—” “No,” he snaps. “That’s what it is. Someone is in there. Someone who wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have to be. If he could be somewhere else, anywhere else, that’s where he’d be.”

Jake removes the key from the ignition and pockets it. I forgot we were still idling. Sometimes you don’t notice sound until it’s gone. “What’s the rush all of a sudden? It’s not even midnight.” “What?”

“Steph,” he whispers. I stop. “What?” He moans, kissing my neck. “What did you say?” “Nothing.”

reach over but Jake shoves my hand, not softly. He’s shaking his head. He’s mad. It’s his eyes. His hands are trembling. “We’re not going anywhere until I talk to him. It’s not right.” I’ve never seen Jake like this, not even close to this. He pushes my hand away, violently. I need to calm him down.

“To exist means nothing other than we despair … for we don’t exist, we get existed.”

When I look again, he’s gone. No, he’s there! He’s on the floor. He’s lying facedown on the floor. His arms are tucked along his sides. He’s just lying there. His head might be moving, from side to side. Up and down a bit, too, maybe. I don’t like this. Is he crawling? He is. He’s crawling, slithering down the hall, off to his right.

look closer, examining his face in the photos. His eyes are sad. They’re familiar. Something about his eyes. My heartbeat has become noticeable, speeding up again. I can feel it. What was he doing before we arrived?

But no. It’s not a rag at all. Once I unravel it, I see it’s a little shirt, for a child. It’s light blue with white polka dots. One of the sleeves is ripped. I turn it over. There’s a tiny paint stain in the middle of the spine. I drop it. I know this shirt. The polka dots, the paint stain. I recognize it. I had the same one. This was my shirt. It couldn’t be my shirt. But it is. When I was a kid. I’m sure of it. How did it end up in here?

The camera moves up and looks through a window. Outside is a truck. That’s the old pickup out back. The shot zooms in on the truck. It draws in closer, shakier. The quality, zoomed in like this, isn’t great. There’s someone in the truck. Sitting in the driver’s seat. It almost looks like Jake. Is that Jake? No, it can’t be. But it really looks like …

get past the main office and see something glimmer from the door. What? Is that a chain? It can’t be. That’s the door I just came in. It is. A metal chain on the door. And a lock. Someone’s chained the door and locked it. From the inside.

I see it. There’s a piece of paper. It’s stuck in one of the loops of the metal chain. A small, folded piece of paper. I take it, unfold it. My hands are shaking. A single line of messy handwriting: There are more than 1,000,000 violent crimes in America every year. But what happens in this school?

I can still smell that same smell, the chemical scent. It’s even stronger in here. My head hurts.

Music starts playing through the PA system. It’s not very loud. An old country song. I know it. “Hey, Good Lookin’.” The same song that radio station was playing in the car when Jake and I were driving to the farm. The same one.

There are ways we have to act. There are things we have to say. But we can think whatever we want.

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.

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?

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.

Trembling. My right thumbnail is gone.

What is the opposite of fear? The opposites of unease and panic and regret? I’ll never know why we came to this place, how I ended up confined like this, how I ended up so alone. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Why me?

I think there’s a perception that fear and terror and dread are fleeting. That they hit hard and fast when they do, but they don’t last. It’s not true. They don’t fade unless they’re replaced by some other feeling. Deep fear will stay and spread if it can. You can’t outrun or outsmart or subdue it. Untreated, it will only fester. Fear is a rash.