I’m Thinking of Ending Things

by Iain Reid

thinking of my old shoes, the blue ones I wear only in the house, like slippers.

—He’d been working at the school for more than thirty years. No previous incidents. Nothing in his file. —Nothing? That’s unusual, too. More than thirty years at one job. At one school. —Lived out in an old place. I think it was originally his parents’ farmhouse. They both died a long time ago, so I’m told. Everyone I talk to says he was quite gentle.

He’d just go sit in his pickup at the back of the school. That was his break. —And what was it about his hearing? —He had cochlear implants. His hearing had become pretty bad. He had allergies to certain foods, milk and dairy. He had a delicate constitution. He didn’t like to go down to the school’s boiler room in the basement. He’d always ask someone else to go if there was work to be done down there.

—And before I could say anything else, he said, “I don’t even want to hear the clock.” Then he just walked by me and left.

When I was resting and scratched the back of my head with my hand, I felt a bald spot the size of a quarter. I’ve pulled out more hair. Hair isn’t alive.

Of course we’re uncomfortable. We have to be. I knew it. I know it. I said it myself: I’m going to say something that will upset you now: I know what you look like. I know your feet and hands and your skin. I know your head and your hair and your heart. You shouldn’t bite your nails. I know I shouldn’t. I know that. We’re sorry.

We remember now. The painting. It’s still in our pocket. The painting Jake’s mom gave us. The portrait of Jake that was meant to be a surprise. We’ll hang it on the wall with the other pictures. We take it out of our pocket, slowly unfold it. We don’t want to look, but have to. It took a long time to paint it, hours, days, years, minutes, seconds. The face is there looking at us. All of us are in there. Distorted. Blurry. Fragmented. Explicit and unmistakable. Paint on my hands. The face is definitely mine. The man. It’s recognizable in the way all self-portraits are. It’s me. Jake.

We saw the photos. The man. We understand. We do. We wish it weren’t true.

It’s us. We’re in here now. With Jake. Just us. Us all alone. In the car. We never saw the man in the school. The custodian. Only Jake saw him. He wanted us to follow him into the school, to go looking for him. He wanted to be in here with us, with no way out. Jake’s shoes. In the locker room. He took them off. He took them off himself and left them in the gym. He put on the rubber boots. It was him all along. It was Jake. The man. Because he is Jake. We are. We can’t hold it in any longer. The tears come. Tears again.

That story about his brother being the troubled one. We think that’s made up. That’s why his dad was so happy we were visiting, that we’d been kind to Jake. He was the troubled one. Jake. Not his brother. There is no brother. There should have been, but there wasn’t. And Jake’s parents? They died a long time ago,

That night, long ago, when we met at the pub. The song was playing that night.

The burden is not hers. She would have forgotten so soon after that first night, that single, brief meeting in the pub. She doesn’t even know we exist anymore. The onus is ours alone. That was so long ago. Years. It was inconsequential to her and to everyone else. Except us.

Are you good or bad? It was the wrong question. It was always the wrong question. No one can answer that. The Caller knew it from the beginning without even thinking. I knew it. I did. There’s only one question, and we all needed her help to answer.

He puts a metal hanger from the closet into my hand. “I’m thinking of ending things,” he says. I straighten it out and bend it in half so both pointy ends stick in the same direction. “I’m sorry for everything,” I say. I’m sorry, I think. “You can do this. You can help me now.” He’s right. I have to. We have to help. That’s why we’re here. I bring my right hand around and jam it in as hard as I can. Twice, in and out. One more. In. Out. I slam the ends into my neck, upward, under my chin, with all my strength. And then I fall onto my side. More blood. Something—spit, blood—bubbles from my mouth. So many small punctures. It hurts, all of it, but we feel nothing. It’s done now, and I’m sorry. I look at my hands. One is shaking. I try to steady one with the other. I can’t. I slump back into the closet. A single unit, back to one. Me. Only me. Jake. Alone again.