Hopeless (warning, quite dark, if you are upset easily please don't read)

Hopeless
By Sydney

Jonathon hates typing. Working as a web designer doesn’t help. Each click on the keyboard feels like a lesson in the insignificance of human life. Each letter gets lost in the tapestry of words so that in the end no one notices or cares that that one letter was not always a part of that word, had so much potential to be anything it wanted. He is forced to type though so he can pay for his one bedroom apartment above the pet store. He didn’t always live there. He used to be married but his wife had left him in the spring for a Canadian man who spoke three languages and was a three-time rock-climbing champion. After Jonathon had caught the two lovers locked in a passionate affair on his bed, his wife’s lawyer pounced like a hungry leopard and before he could even blink, the house they shared in the outskirts of the city, his car, his live savings and his pride were all taken away from him. Fucking Canadians.

Jonathon stares at the word document, the little vertical line flashing, ready to imprison a string of letters together forever. Lifting one heavy hand, Jonathon presses the q button and watches line after line of letters materialize on the screen like uniformed soldiers ready to fight. Someone knocks on his cubicle and Jonathon stops creating troops. Using his feet to turn his chair, he faces the opening of the dreary box in which he has worked for six years and the figure of his boss.

“Hi.” Jonathon’s boss doesn’t return the greeting. He instead stares at his employee and his employee stares back into the eyes that are cold. They have no affect on Jonathon, however, because Jonathon is already numb and the cold can’t damage what is already frozen.

“You haven’t done any work in two months. At first I let it slide because your wife left you, but then I started giving you warnings. I’m really sorry about this but I did warn you. Clean out your cubicle. I want you gone by end of business today.” Jonathon blinks, unphased by this news. He hears his boss but though he understands, he doesn’t really care. Jonathon swivels his chair back around to face the desk where he continues his q militia.

“And the qs just kept appearing on the screen. Each one was deposable and together they formed one mass. That was the moment I realized. I am a q.” Jonathon’s friend Andrea looks at Jonathon in disbelief.

“Are you going to that therapist I recommended to you” she asks as she stirs the drink Jonathon has poured for her with her finger. Jonathon just looks at her, ignoring her words.

“No, listen, I have it figured out. Each one of us are qs and we’re all disposable and useless.”

“You’re missing the obvious. When you have a sentence, each letter isn’t useless. It’s there for a reason. Think about if all of the as disappeared from the words. Sentences wouldn’t make sense! Apple would become pple. Sea would become se. No one would be able to communicate.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just dandy but I am not a vowel. I am a q. Sure it’s a letter, but really… would the world be any worse off without it?”

“Yes! No queens or quality or quartets.”

“Or qualms or queasiness or quarantines.”

“You’re just being difficult. Listen, you’ll find another job. Unfortunately, to keep mine, I need to go home and get some sleep. Will you be okay by yourself?”

“Yeah. Go.”

“I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Jonathon watches as Andrea gets off of his couch and heads for the door. She turns before closing the door behind her.

“Things will pick up.” She tells him reassuringly but Jonathon doesn’t believe it for a second.

Click. Oprah. Click. Ellen. Click. Makeover show. Click. Cooking show. The phone is ringing for the seventh time that day but Jonathon doesn’t pick up for the seventh time that day. Click. Soap opera. Click. Sitcom about another goofy family. Click. Dora. The machine picks up the call.

“This is Jonathon. Leave a message if you really want to.”

“Jonathon? It’s Andrea again. Are you out? For your sake you had better be out and not ignoring me.” Click. Law and Order. Click. Law and Order. Click. Medical Miracles. Click. Spongebob. “Well if you are out please call me back when you get this. You’re not answering your cell phone either. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I’ve scheduled an appointment with Dr. Travis for Thursday. I’ll try you again later if I haven’t heard back from you… Oh… where are you?” The answering machine beeps as Jonathon continues flipping through the television channels. Click. Golf. Click. Hockey. Click. Music video.

“This is Jonathon. Leave a message if you really want to.” The number 47 flashes on the digital answering machine, signifying each time Jonathon couldn’t bring himself to answer the phone whilst his friend questioned his whereabouts. Jonathon hears his message again and he mouths the words along with the machine as he sits with his back against the front door.

“Okay, I’m not playing anymore. It’s been three days. Where the fucks are you? Why aren’t you returning my calls? I went to your building earlier. I went to your door. I knocked and knocked on that door until my fists ached and still I knocked but you never answered my frantic beckons and pleadings to talk to me. Are you trying to mess with me? It’s not funny. Now contact me. Please call me.” Jonathon isn’t really listening to the words of the message but he knows it’s Andrea again. He had heard her knocking before, the vibrations had tickled his back while he cried, huddled in a ball only a few inched from her. It had hurt him not to answer her but he couldn’t. She shouldn’t see him like he is… broken and useless. Beyond redemption. She would be better off without him. Then she could stop pretending to care. The world would be better off without him.

Jonathon gets to his feet and walks into his bedroom. Sitting on his bed, he rolls up his sleeves and reached for the blood-encrusted razor on his bedside table. Holding the edge in his fingers, he looks at his arms. ‘I am Q’ is carved into the bloodstained flesh, the letters still raw and healing from repeated openings. He licks his lips and shifts his weight, staring at the words until the mantra is burned into his mind, overpowering him. I am Q. I am Q. I am Q. He blinks hard and takes a deep breath. It is time. Jonathon glances over to the note next to him that he left for Andrea. He hadn’t wanted to write it, it seemed so cliché, a suicide with a note of pitiful regrets, but a note is just what he wrote because Andrea deserved an explanation. She needed to know that it wasn’t her fault.

“This is Jonathon. Leave a message if you really want to.” Jonathon presses the blade to his skin. He feels a sting and sees a drop of the reddest, most pure dark red blood appear. Closing his eyes, he uses the razor to cut one wrist wide open, then the other. He cries out at the pain. He has used the razor before, but why does it hurt so much this time?

“Listen, I’m sorry for all of the messages to you. I realize that you do have your own life and that you shouldn’t be expected to let me know every time you go out. It’s not that I didn’t believe you could go be happy, I just had a bad feeling and I know I was probably wrong.” The blood is flowing incredibly fast down Jonathon’s outstretched arms as he cries to himself. It’s finally over for him. “Jonathon, I was just worried and I want you to know that I care about you. Please call me back when you get this. I want you to know that you’re loved.” The blood is a river into which Jonathon tosses all of his worries. He begins to feel woozy and the two arms in front of him turn into four. Suddenly fear grips him. He doesn’t want to die. He can’t die. “What I’m really trying to say is I love you and I don’t care what letter of the alphabet you are.” Jonathon struggles to make it to his feet but he can’t think straight. Up is down and down is up. The room is spinning and he feels drained, arms throbbing. He presses his arms to the sides of a dirty t-shirt, which is promptly completely stained with his blood. It hurts like no pain he has ever felt before. He staggers over to the bedside phone and pushes the receiver off of the base. A dial tone rings through the air and falling to his knees, Jonathon presses a nine then a one then another one on the keypad of the phone, leaving bloody smudges.

“911, what is your emergency.” He can’t think straight. The world is out of control. He swallows, wanting to tell his story but he can’t speak, his wooziness has robbed him the ability to speak. “Hello?”

“I’m so sorry.” he finally whispers softly, slowly, painfully, “Tell Andrea…” his eyes roll up and his vision fades. He can’t think another word; he can’t say another word as he collapses onto the floor in a pile, the blood from his wrists still flowing freely and staining his clothes.

In 20 minutes the ambulance technicians will find his body. There will be nothing they can do. The police will find a bloody scene and a note, 49 unchecked messages on the answering machine. In an hour, Andrea will hear a knock on her door and discover the police with questions for her and terrible news. From that point on, Andrea will be forever changed, blaming herself.