by Dan Dalton
Unknown floor: A week ago. Lunch with Sophia. I wear the kind of blazer she once told me I looked handsome in. For an hour I’m my best self, witty, engaging. She laughs the way she used to. Then there’s a long pause. She tells me she’s pregnant. I do the maths. It isn’t mine. It can’t be.
I wanted you to hear it from me, she says. She watches as words, softly spoken, crush completely. I smile, glassy-eyed. I’m really happy for you, I say. And I mean it. That’s the thing about loving someone. You want them to be happy, even if it utterly destroys you.
Finally, floor seventy-eight. The doors reveal a hallway. Dark, muted, the hum and click of a single fluorescent light, blinking. There is only one door. I recognise it immediately. My flat, back in London. Silver number 9 still screwed to the front. A camera watches us approach.
I’ve got a sad feeling about this, Jon says.
As I raise my hand to knock, the door creaks open.
Twenty-Two
Tower / Betrayal, Part II
My flat is much how I left it, only darker. Dirtier. More plates piled in the sink, more dust. This version of me sits in my armchair, emaciated, grey. My depression. I’d offer you a seat, he says. But there’s only one. He coughs quite violently. You look like— Jon says. He doesn’t finish, something stops him mid-sentence. Sophia too. They stand perfectly still, statues, mannequins.
What did you do to them, I say. Fisher sniffs at their legs. It’s my show, he says. I can make them do whatever I want, he says. Sophia’s hands reach between her legs. Stop, I say. He laughs. It’s only now I see the porn playing on the wall behind me. Past lays replayed, projected in widescreen.
He says: What’s worse, that you can’t stop thinking about her, or that she never thinks about you.
I’m thirty-two, sitting in that chair, in this flat. The neighbours are fucking again. They fuck a lot. Either that, or they move a lot of furniture. I haven’t had sex in months. I mostly eat junk, watch movies, masturbate. Hoping she’ll text. She doesn’t. If I press my ear to the wall I can make out sounds. Mattress springs flexing. Occasional groans. When I hear them start I rush to the wall, unbuttoning my jeans, trying to get myself hard, straining to decipher shuffles, squeaks.
Sometimes they aren’t fucking. They have heavy feet. I hear them laugh or talk, muted tones, sans context. Cooking, chilling. Those times I just listen a while. They sound happy.
Sometimes they are fucking. Nothing says misery quite like wanking to the sound of strangers fucking. Nothing says loneliness quite like coveting the lives of neighbours you can’t see. Nothing says despair quite like learning you can still come without a hard-on.
What Emily said: If you could talk to your depression, what would you say.
Here, now, I say: I thought you’d be taller.
I feel stupid standing. I sit on the edge of the bed, where I also feel stupid. I rarely had guests over to this flat, none that needed a chair. Fisher brings me his toy, a small stuffed dog he’s chewed to pieces. If you really want to fuck something up, love it as hard as you can.
It’s time to let her go, I say. He snort laughs. She told you she was stuck, he says. Waiting for a train. She wasn’t. She’s found her way here half a dozen times over the past year, she’s been this close. And each time, we reset. Send her back. And she starts her quest again. He watches her on the wall. Sex Sophia and I had a long time ago. She comes through cheap speakers. I ask him why. You know the best way to stop a revolution, he says. Let them think they’re winning.
I punch the wall. My fist goes through the plasterboard. I’m not a kid any more. I’m big enough to break things, to do damage.
I’m thirty-two, bringing a date home, my first since her. We drink whiskey, listen to something sad she pretends to like. I pretend not to be mad when she finishes all my good bourbon. I kiss her. Nothing stirs. I scatter kisses like carpet bombs across her stomach, reach her cunt, taste her. Commit to my work. Now things are moving. It’s twenty minutes before she comes. Tensing, writhing, convulsing. My face is soaked, jaw sore, hard-on gone. She isn’t who I want her to be. I want to ask her to leave, to tell her my cock works fine, just for someone else. We lie in the dark, silent, unsatisfied. Then comes the banging. The neighbours are fucking again.
Why didn’t Jon tell me, I say. He’s not listening. I walk over to the projector, pull the plug. He sighs. I know you know that’s not Jon Bon Jovi, he says. But I’m surprised you haven’t figured out who it is. I lean over him in the chair, ask what the fuck he’s talking about. The coolest person you’ve ever known, he says. The second he says it I know exactly who he means.
He grabs his laptop, starts flipping between tabs. I grab his wrist to wrest it away, only to stop the second I touch him. He’s ice cold. He pulls his arm back. How long did he say you had. I’m pacing again. Fisher watches me, hoping this is a game. I hope so too. Five days at most.
The me in the chair looks bored. It’s only been an hour, he says. Not even. I’m sure it felt longer. I ask how long I’ve got. Who knows, he says. Hours are always doing that to you, aren’t they.
I say: How do I get back. How do I leave.
He says: You’ve made your choice.
I say: I’ve changed my mind.
He says: Too late.
I tell him I don’t believe him. This other me. This parasite. Depression distorts everything. It lies to you. Are you cold. he says. Awfully cold in here. The thing is I am cold. The room is freezing. I take a T-shirt from a drawer, slip it over the ones I’m already wearing.
You can feel it, he says. Can’t you. This is where it ends.
That thing you read about depression being an inability to see the future.
Strap in, he says. May as well enjoy it. His laugh is searing. I look at my friends, frozen, think of how far we’ve come. That I don’t want it to end like this. You said this is your show, I say. Not any more. The second I decide to wake them, Jon and Sophia snap out of their slumber.
She lunges at him, the me I fear I am, slaps him, hard. He laughs. Did he tell you about the other girls he texted, he says. Did he tell you about them. Sophia turns and looks at me. What, you think I don’t know, she says. I’m not an idiot. There’s a reason I don’t trust him.
He looks at me now. Fine, he says. But he didn’t tell you about the times you’ve been here before. Six by my count. So close. And every time he sent you back to the start, made you do it all over again. Sophia’s eyes flood with angry tears. He could have let you leave a long time ago.
Is that true, she says.
Depression lies to you, I say.
I’m not asking your depression.
It was subconscious, I say. I’m sorry. She looks defeated. No, she says. It wasn’t. You didn’t want to let me go. You told me as much. She’s shouting now, shaking, furious. Don’t bullshit me, after everything. After all this. My depression laughs, delighted by the chaos he’s causing.
People think having depression means not being able to laugh, but that isn’t true. You laugh all the time. The difference is there’s no lasting effect. You feel just as empty afterwards.
Jon gives an unsubtle nod. That certainly sheds light on a few things, he says. He winks at me. He may as well be pointing. I walk over, grab the string that opens the blinds. My depression cries out. Don’t. I pull the cord. Sunlight floods through the window, and with it, colour.
My flat sits resplendent, newly illuminated, rendered in a full spectrum of light. Save for one small detail. My depression lies on his back in the middle of the room, where I left myself out in the world. Blue-grey, bloated, just like on the billboard. I look like a stale bread roll.
I tell people my marriage ended because we didn’t make each other happy. That’s partly true. I was also texting someone I shouldn’t have been. She found out. We didn’t last long after that.
That thing Emily said about repeating my mistakes. She says it’s defensive. I was so scared Sophia would leave I made it happen. Willed it. It was stupid. Dr
iven by fear, insecurity.
That self-destruct button is awfully big and shiny.
Fisher drinks water from an ornate bowl I didn’t know I owned. Sophia sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, crying tired tears. I wasn’t ready, I say. I didn’t realise then. That thing they say, about letting go of the things you love, they never say how hard it is. How much it hurts. Tears roll from cheek to chin, mine, hers. I know, she says. And I do care. I feel bad all the time, thinking how lonely you must be. She wipes tears from her cheeks. But you hurt me too.
Sophia knows about my wrongs. And I know that she’s with someone else. I’ve met him. I punched him in the face. What I’ll never know is if she left me for him or if they got together later. Some questions can’t be answered. Not here. Not by me. This is only half a story.
I look at Jon. You should say goodbye. He steps over, wraps her in a big hug, warm and earnest. Something people should know about Jon Bon Jovi is that he gives great hugs.
After the bubble burst, she came to my place to collect her things. I didn’t have much. A few toiletries. Some books. But I made it awkward. I want to be better this time. I say goodbye to Fisher, breathe him in, hand her the leash. He barks as she hugs me. I manage not to get hard.
In our bubble, I didn’t understand how fragile she was. I didn’t realise that she’s more brittle, in many ways, than I’ll ever be. That she knew, the first time we kissed, that I was going to break her heart. That I would shatter her completely. I made my pain the narrative, ignored hers.
My last letter to her should have been three words: Look after yourself.
Door’s open, I say. A red exit sign hangs above it. What about you, Sophia says, and I realise I know the answer. This isn’t my ending, I say. It’s yours, I say. I shove my hands in my pockets, brace myself for a told you so that doesn’t arrive.
She smiles. RIP Jeff, she says. And then she’s gone. She doesn’t look back.
This time, I don’t ask her to stay.
Jon flips through a pile of notebooks stacked on my desk. Black, battered. Moleskine brand. They’re all the same, he says. It’s just the same page, over and over. I tell him I couldn’t get the opening right. Start with the weather, he says. Some suicide note.
You knew, didn’t you, I say. That this wasn’t my ending.
Of course, he says. But I had to let you figure it out for yourself.
The Chrysler is crumbling around us, a slow-motion strip tease of brick and glass. It won’t be here long. Out of the window waterfalls of rock rain on to the street. The once liquid skyline looks pixellated now, broken windows, jagged edges, as if the scene is ripped from a jpeg.
A section of wall falls away. Guess that’s our cue, he says. Any bright ideas. I open the window. He asks what I’m doing. Good question, I say. Is it still a BASE jump if you don’t have a parachute. He smiles. No idea, he says. But it’s not suicide if you’re trying to fly.
We climb out on to the upper-most ledge of the unChrysler. The wind whistles in our ears, bullies us flat against the brick. We creep along the ledge to the corner, where the art deco eagles stand watch over the city. Jon takes my hand, leans out over the edge. Jesus Mary Christmas, he says.
This is probably a good time to mention I’m not great with heights. Climbing I enjoy, being at the top of something not so much. End of the road, he says. He sings it a little. But not in a way that would infringe any copyright.
My second favourite story about the Chrysler is that once William Van Alen had delivered Walter Chrysler the world’s tallest inhabitable structure, Chrysler refused to pay his fee. It’s a building made entirely of subterfuge and betrayal. And it’s beautiful.
The plan as I understand it involves jumping from the building to force me to wake up. You do it in dreams all the time. Fall off things, wake up. This gonna work, I say. He shrugs. No idea.
There was a playground rumour that if you fall in a dream and hit the ground, you die.
Jon says: What this presupposes is that you’re not already dead.
We step out, drape our toes over the edge. A Tomorrow Knight toy falls past us, chute deployed, handkerchief canopy catching the air. He lifts slightly on an updraft before he begins to fall again. We watch him float amid the tumbling stone until he drops out of sight.
I close my eyes, lean forward. Jon leans with me. I take his hand. Start to count. Today we go on three. The next time I open my eyes we’re airborne, unmoored, falling fast. I twist in the air to face the floor and spread my arms out wide, ready to embrace what comes next.
The ground arrives slowly and then all at once.
Twenty-Three
California / Dreaming, Part II
It’s a cool, calm day in my mind and the birds are flying backwards. Above, a ceiling of trees breaks to reveal a solitary cloud. Then a second. They sit static in the sky, tips tinted orange by the setting sun. The light cutting through the canopy is syrupy, thick. It’s golden hour.
How we got here is we fell. A hole. Unwhole. Instead of hitting the ground we found only an absence of it, falling beyond the floor into the shadow of the building. We never found the bottom. No ground to hit, nothing to wake me up. We fell for hours in the pitch black, holding hands to stay together, the way otters do. I think Jon slept for part of it.
Then walls, soil, solid rock. Roots running through like arteries. Eventually we slowed enough to grab hold, climbed the curling tendrils like village simpletons off to slay a giant.
We rest some after the climb. Jon pulls me to my feet, peers into the abyss, spits. The abyss spits back. It lands on his boot. He curses, wipes it off with some nearby bracken. We stand where we started, amid unfelled redwoods, other trees besides, between. This is the forest of the mind.
Jon says: I know you can ascend, and you can descend. But can you ever just scend.
After a short stroll, we find ourselves standing atop the tree trunk where we met. The one he pissed from. What now, I say. In the treeline ahead, some shapeless form moves among the branches. I’m about to ask if he sees it too, but it disappears into shadow.
In the unquiet, a haunting doubt looms, sits like a spectre between us. It towers over me, this thought I can’t shake. Menacing, insidious: Maybe I’m too late.
It’s this way, Jon says. He points in the opposite direction from the way we went before. If I’d have gone that way in the first place, I say. I’d be home by now. He doesn’t reply right away. Adjusts his hat, hocks a loogie into the brush. Yeah, he says. But where’s the fun in that.
Mum and I have a running joke via text. She asks how I am. There’s a monster, I say. Sometimes it’s in the kitchen, sometimes the bathroom, the bus. Depends where I am. Then I say, It’s going to eat me. A few seconds later I’ll get a reply. Not now, Bernard. She usually adds a kiss.
That thing you read about forest bathing. How a walk among tall trees reduces depression and anxiety. Reduces stress. Something about the scale of it all. The Japanese have a name for it.
On the wind, a song: Hush, hush, whisper who dares.
We walk the length of the fallen trunk, climb down. I see something bright in the undergrowth, bend to pick it up. A Tomorrow Knight, complete with homemade parachute. As we stroll I take time to carefully fold up the handkerchief, reattach one of the strings, ready for his next jump.
I’m thirty-five, at my own book launch. I meet a friend of a friend who tells me she hasn’t read the book but she’s heard mixed reviews and hopes she doesn’t have to meet the author. Too late, I say. She glows bright red. When I text her a few days later, she asks me out for an apology drink. I accept.
I’m thirty-six, unlocking the door to our first flat. After a year of seeing each other, Sara and I move in together. Later she’ll make me suffer through jazz as we drink prosecco in the bathtub. But right now we kiss at the threshold, collapse into each other, fuck on the bare floor of our new home.
Stars sparkle quietly in draping dusk. There are trees that don’t belong her
e, hidden among redwoods. Oak, pine, silver birch. Trees I’ve climbed. Trees I’ve wanted to. Jon whacks at nettles with a stick, asks me what I’m gonna do when I get back. You know the guys who stand behind rappers, I say. The ones whose job it is to shout yeah every now and then. He nods like he knows. Anyway they just stand there and shout yeah sometimes. I think I’d be good at that.
There’s a short scar on my arm. The skin is thick, discoloured. How I got it is I fell playing basketball. My arm locked so violently it seized for a week. Later I found I couldn’t straighten it fully. Calcium deposits, apparently. After the trauma, my body grew new bone to protect itself.
We see the trees my dad planted when my brother and I were born. I walk between them and find myself, ten-year-old me, in front of a thick wall of white fog. He stands staring at it. What he’s doing is trying to work up the courage to walk through, see what’s on the other side.