I'm Thinking Of Ending Things Part 14

The entire book is a single-paragraph monologue. Jake underlined one section. "To exist means nothing other than we despair . . . for we don't exist, we get existed." I kept thinking about what that meant after I read it. Another sad story.

I hear an abrupt metallic clang from somewhere to my right, from the school. It startles me. I turn toward the sound. Nothing but the swirling snow. No sign of movement or light, beyond the yellow flood. I wait for another sound but it doesn't come.

Was there movement at the window? I can't tell. I definitely heard something. I'm sure I did.

The snow is everywhere. It's hard to see the road we came in on. It's only about fifty yards or so away. It's frigid in here. I instinctively put my hand up in front of the vent. Jake turned the car off. Took the keys with him. He did it without thinking.

Another loud clang. And another. My heart skips ahead, beating faster, heavier. I turn and look out my window again. I don't want to look anymore. I don't like this. I want to go. I really want to go now. I want this to end. Where is Jake? What's he doing? How long has he been gone? Where are we?

I am someone who spends a lot of time alone. I cherish my solitude. Jake thinks I spend too much time alone. He might be right. But I don't want to be alone now. Not here. Like Jake and I were talking about on the drive, context is everything.

There is a fourth bang. It's the loudest yet. It's definitely coming from inside the school. This is stupid. It's Jake who has to work in the morning, not me. I can sleep in. Why did I agree to this? I shouldn't have come with him. I should have ended things long ago. How did I end up here? I shouldn't have agreed to visit his parents, to visit the house he grew up in. That wasn't fair. But I was curious. I should be home, reading, or sleeping. It wasn't the right time. I should be in bed. I knew Jake and I weren't going to last. I did. I knew from the beginning. Now I'm sitting in this stupid, freezing car. I open my door. More cold rushes in.

"JAAAAAAAKE!"

No answer. How long has it been? Ten minutes? Longer? Shouldn't he be back by now? It happened so fast. He was obsessed with confronting that man. Does that mean talking to him, or yelling or fighting or . . . ? What's the point?

It is almost like Jake is upset about something else, something I'm not aware of. Maybe I should go in and look for him. I can't wait here in the car forever. He told me to stay here. It was the last thing he said.

I don't care if he's mad. He shouldn't have left me out here all alone. In the dark. In the cold. Thinking of ending things. It's crazy. We're in the f.u.c.king middle of f.u.c.king nowhere. This is really unfair and s.h.i.+tty. How long am I supposed to sit here?

But what else can I do? I don't have many other options. I have to stay. There's nowhere to walk to from here. It's too cold and dark, anyway. There's no way to call someone, because my stupid phone is dead. I have to wait. But I don't want to just sit here in the cold. It'll just keep getting colder. I have to find him.

I turn around and run my hand along the floor behind the driver's seat. I'm trying to find Jake's wool hat. I saw him put it there when we first got into the car. I feel it. It'll be a bit big for me, but I'll need it. I put it on. It's not too big. It fits better than expected.

I open the car door, swing my legs out, and stand up. I shut the door without slamming it.

I move slowly toward the school. I'm s.h.i.+vering. All I can hear are my feet on the pavement, crunching snow. It's a dark night. Dark. It must always be dark out here. My breath is visible but evaporates around me. The snow is falling on an angle with the wind. For a few seconds, a moment, I'm not sure how long, I look up at the sky, all the stars. It's unusual that I can see so many stars. I would have a.s.sumed the storm would bring clouds. Stars. Everywhere.

I get up to the school window and peer in. I visor my eyes with my hands. There are blinds, from floor to ceiling. I can't see anyone through the cracks. It looks like a library or an office. There are bookshelves. I knock on the cold gla.s.s. I look back at the car. I'm about thirty feet from it. I knock again, harder this time.

I see the green garbage can. I walk over to it and remove the lid. Jake was right. It's half full of beige salt. I replace the lid. It doesn't fit. It's dented and warped. I can't go sit in that car again. I have to go look for Jake. I walk toward the side of the school where Jake went. I can still make out his steps, barely.

I was expecting to find a play structure out here. But this is a high school; they wouldn't have one. I turn the corner, following Jake's path. I begged him to stay in the car with me. We don't have to be here.

I see two green Dumpsters up ahead, and beyond them, more darkness, fields. Those must be the Dumpsters where he got rid of the cups. Where is he?

"Jake!" I call, walking toward the Dumpsters. I'm feeling uneasy, skittish. I don't love it here. I don't like being here alone. "What are you doing? Jake? JAAAKE?"

I can't hear anything. The wind. On my left is a basketball court. There's no mesh or chain on the bent rims. I see soccer goalposts ahead in the field. There is no netting on them. Rusty soccer posts at either end of the field.

Why did we stop here? Did I really need confirmation to end things? I'm going to be single for a long time, probably forever, and I'm fine with that. I am. I'm happy on my own. Lonely, but content. Being alone isn't the worst thing. It's okay to be lonely. I can deal with loneliness. We can't have everything. I can't have everything.

I see a door ahead, just beyond the Dumpsters. Jake must be in the school.

The wind is worse behind the school. It's like a wind tunnel. I have to hold the top of my jacket together. I walk steadily, head down, toward the windows by the door.

We weren't going to last. I knew it. I did. He was excited about this trip under the perception of our advancing relations.h.i.+p. He wouldn't have wanted me at his parents' place had he known everything I was thinking. It's so rare for others to know everything we're thinking. Even those we're closest to, or seemingly closest to. Maybe it's impossible. Maybe even in the longest, closest, most successful marriages, the one partner doesn't always know what the other is thinking. We're never inside someone else's head. We can never really know someone else's thoughts. And it's thoughts that count. Thought is reality. Actions can be faked.

I get up to the windows and look in. A long hall. I can't see all the way to the end. It's dark. I knock on the gla.s.s. I want to yell but know it won't do anything.

Something moves at the far end of the hall. Is it Jake? I don't think it is. Jake was right. Someone. Someone's in there.

I duck down, away from the window. My heart almost explodes. I peer back in. I can't hear anything. There is someone! It's a man.

A very tall figure. There's something dangling from his arm. He's facing this way. He's not moving. I don't think he can see me. Not from so far away. Why isn't he moving? What's he doing? He's just standing there. Motionless.

It's a broom or mop that he's holding. I want to stare but am suddenly too scared. I pull my head back to the brick wall. I don't want him to see me. I close my eyes and cover my mouth with my hand. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't. I'm breathing through my nostrils, sucking air in and pus.h.i.+ng it out forcefully, anxiously.

I feel like I'm underwater, weighed down, helpless. I can feel my pulse jumping, jumping. Maybe he can help me. Maybe I should ask him where Jake is. I wait for twenty seconds or so and very slowly lean my head forward to get another look.

He's still there, in the same spot. Standing, looking this way. Looking at me. I want to yell out, "What have you done with Jake?" But why would I? How do I know if he's done anything to Jake? I need to keep still, quiet. I'm too scared. He's a tall, skinny figure. I can't see clearly enough. The hall is so long. He looks old, maybe stoop-shouldered. He's wearing dark-blue pants, I think. A dark s.h.i.+rt, too: looks like work clothes.

What's on his hands? Yellow gloves? Rubber gloves? The yellow extends halfway up his forearms. There's something on his head. I can't see his face. It's a mask. I shouldn't look. I should stay down, hidden. I should be looking for a way out of this. I'm sweating. I can feel it on my neck, my back.

He's holding the mop. He might be moving it around the floor now. I'm squinting hard. He's moving. Almost like he's dancing with the mop.

I lean back against the wall, out of sight. 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.

This isn't good. I have to find Jake. We have to get out of here. We have to leave right now. This is seriously wrong.

I run to the side door. I have to go in.

I pull the handle. It's open. I step through. The floor is tiled. The hall is very dimly lit and stretches out in front of me, endless.

"Jake?"

There's a distinct smell in here, antiseptic, chemical, cleaning products. It won't be good for my head. I'd forgotten about my headache but am reminded of it. A dull ache. Still there.

"h.e.l.lo?"

I take a few steps. The door closes behind me with a heavy click.

"JAKE!"

There's a wood-and-gla.s.s display case to my left. Trophies and plaques and banners. Farther ahead, on the right, must be the main office. I walk up to the office windows and look in. It looks old, the furniture, chairs, and carpet. There are several desks.

The rest of the hall ahead of me is all lockers. Dark ones, painted blue. As I move down the hall I pa.s.s doors in between the lockers. All the doors are closed. The lights are out. There's another hall at the end of this one.

I go up to one of the doors and try it. It's locked. There's a single, vertical rectangular window. I look in. Desks and chairs. A typical cla.s.sroom. The overhead lights in the hall seem to be on a dim setting. Maybe to conserve energy. They aren't very bright in this hall.

My wet shoes squeak on the floor with each step. It would be hard to walk quietly. There's a set of open double doors at the end of the hall. I get to those, look through, right, then left.

"Jake? h.e.l.lo? Is anyone here? h.e.l.lo?"

Nothing.

I walk through and turn left. More lockers. Except for the pattern on the floor, which is a different design and color, this hallway is identical to the other. Down the next hallway, I see an open door. It's a wooden door, no window. But it's wide-open. I walk down the hall and take a small step inside. I knock on the open door.

"h.e.l.lo?"

The first thing I see is a silver bucket with grayish water in it. There's something familiar about this room. I knew how it would look before I got here. The bucket's the kind on four wheels. And there's no mop. I think about calling for Jake again but don't.

The room-it feels more like a large closet-is mostly empty, dingy. I take a couple of steps in and see there's a calendar taped on the far wall. There's a drain in the middle of the concrete floor. It looks wet.

At the back and left of the room, against the wall, is a wooden table. I don't see a chair. Beside it is a closet. It's not elaborate, just a tall closet. It looks like a coffin standing on its end.

I walk carefully, stepping over the drain, to the back. There are pictures on the wall, too. Photos. A dirty coffee cup on the table. One set of silverware. A plate. A white microwave on a desk. I lean in to look at the pictures. In one of the photos taped to the wall is a man and woman. A couple. Or maybe brother and sister; they look alike. The man is old. He's tall, much taller than the woman. She has straight, gray hair. They both have long faces. Neither is smiling. Neither looks happy or sad. They're stiff, expressionless. It's an odd photo to display on a wall. Someone's parents?

A few of the other photos are of a man. He doesn't seem aware that his picture is being taken, or if he does, he's reluctant. The top of his head isn't in the photo; it's cut out of the frame. In one, he's sitting at a desk and it could be this desk. He's leaning away and covering his face with his left hand. The quality isn't very good. All the pictures are blotchy. Faded. This must be him, the man Jake saw, the one I saw in the hall.

I 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? There's no way he could have known we, or anyone, would be here. I don't know him.

In the middle of the desk, besides a few papers, is a piece of cloth, a rag, rumpled into a ball. I hadn't noticed it at first. I pick it up. It's clean and very soft, like it's been washed hundreds, thousands of times.

But no. It's not a rag at all. Once I unravel it, I see it's a little s.h.i.+rt, 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 s.h.i.+rt. The polka dots, the paint stain. I recognize it. I had the same one.

This was my s.h.i.+rt. It couldn't be my s.h.i.+rt. But it is. When I was a kid. I'm sure of it. How did it end up in here? On the other side of the desk is a small video camera. It's attached to the back of a TV with two cables.

"h.e.l.lo?" I say.

I pick up the camera. It's old but still fairly light. I look at the TV and push the power b.u.t.ton. It's static. I want to leave. I don't like this. I want to go home.

"Hey!" I yell. "Jake!"

I carefully put the camera back down on the desk. I try the play b.u.t.ton. The screen flickers. It's not just static anymore. I lean in toward the TV. The shot is of a room. A wall. I can hear something in the shot. I find the volume b.u.t.ton on the TV and turn it up, loud. It's like a humming or something. And breathing. Is it breathing? It's this room. It's the room I'm standing in. I recognize the wall, the photos, and the desk. The shot moves down now, lower, to the floor.

The image starts moving, leaves out the door, travels along the hall. I can hear slow steps of the person filming, steps like rubber boots on the tile floor. The pace is methodical, deliberate.

The camera enters a large room, what appears to be the school's library. It moves purposefully, straight ahead, through rows of communal desks, stacks and shelves of books. There are windows at the back. It goes all the way to the windows. They are long, with floor-to-ceiling horizontal blinds. The camera stops, stays very still, and continues recording.

A hand or something, just out of the frame, moves one of the blinds slightly to the left. They jingle. 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 . . .

The shot ends abruptly. Back to loud, fitful static. It startles me and I jump.

I have to get out of here. Now.

I walk back, fast, to the door I entered. I don't know who the man in here is or what's going on or where Jake is, but I need to get help. I can't be here. I'll run back toward the town; I don't care if it takes me all night. I don't care if I half freeze to death. I need to talk to someone. Maybe I can wave someone down when I get back to the main road. There have to be some cars out there, somewhere.

I've needed help since I got here.

I turn left and then right. I'm walking fast. Or trying to. I can't get going as fast as I want, as if I'm walking through wet mud. The hall is empty. No sign of Jake.

I look around me. Darkness. Nothing. I know I'm not, I can't be, but I feel alone. This school, busy and full during the day. Each locker represents a person, a life, a kid with interests and friends and ambitions. But that doesn't mean anything right now, not a thing.

School is the place we all have to go. There is potential. School is about the future. Looking forward to something, progression, growing, maturing. It's supposed to be safe here, but it has become the opposite. It feels like a prison.

The door is at the end of the hall. I can go back to the car and hope Jake returns, or try to get back to the main road on foot. Maybe Jake is already back at the car, waiting for me. Either way, I can regroup in the car, figure something out.

I 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 turn and look back down the hall. If I stop moving, there's no sound. No sound in here. This is the same door I came in through. It was open. Now, he's locked it. It has to be him. I don't understand what's happening.

"Who's in here? Who's here? Hey! Jake! Please!"

Silence. I don't feel well. This isn't right.

I let my forehead fall against the door's gla.s.s. It's cold. I close my eyes. I just want to be out of here, back at my apartment, in my bed. I should never have gone with Jake.

I look out the window. The black pickup is still there. Where is he? "Jake!"

I run back down the hall, my shoes squeaking, to the windows at the front of the school. No! It can't be. The car is gone. Jake's car isn't there. I don't understand. He wouldn't have left me here, not Jake. I turn away and run back down the same hall, back past the lockers to the door I came in, the door that's now chained.

"Who's here? Hey! What do you want?"

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 drop the paper and step away from it. A surge of deep fear and panic runs through me. He's done something to Jake. And now he's after me. I need to get away from this place. I have to stop yelling. I need to hide. I shouldn't be yelling or making noise. He'll know I'm right here, know where I am. Can he see me right now?

I need to find somewhere else to go. Not out in this open hall. A room, a desk to hide under.

I hear something. Steps. Slow. Rubber boots on the floor. The sound's coming from the other hall. I need to hide. Now.

I run away from the steps, left down the hall. I go through a set of double doors into a large room with glowing vending machines at the back and long tables, a cafeteria. There's a stage at the front of the room. There's a single door at the far side. I run past the tables and through the door.

It opens into a stairwell. I need to keep going, farther away. My only option is to go up. I need to be quiet as I climb, but there's an echo. I'm not sure if he's following. I stop halfway up the stairs and listen. I can't hear anything. There are no windows in this stairwell. I can still smell that same smell, the chemical scent. It's even stronger in here. My head hurts.

Once I reach the landing, I'm sweating more. It's pouring off me. I unzip my jacket. There's a door to my right, or I can climb the stairs to a third floor. I try the door. It's unlocked, and I go through. The door closes behind me.

Another hall of lockers and cla.s.srooms. There's a water fountain directly to my left. I didn't realize how thirsty I am. I bend down and take a sip. I splash some water onto my face and some around to the back of my neck. I'm out of breath. The hall up here looks very much like the one downstairs. These halls, this school, it's all just a big maze. A trap.

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's a long bench at the side of the hall. I get down on my knees and half lie, half crouch behind it, on my side. I'm mostly hidden here. The floor is hard. I can see if anyone comes through the door. I'm watching the door. The song plays through until the end. There is a second or two break, and then it starts up again from the beginning. I try to cover my ears but can still hear it, the same song. I'm trying, but I can't hold it in any longer. I start to cry.

BEFORE RIGHT NOW, BEFORE THIS, before tonight, when anyone asked me about the scariest thing that ever happened to me, I told them the same story. I told them about Ms. Veal. Most people I tell don't find this story scary. They seem bored, almost disappointed when I get to the end. My story is not like a movie, I'll say. It's not heart-stopping or intense or bloodcurdling or graphic or violent. No jump scares. To me, these qualities aren't usually scary. Something that disorients, that unsettles what's taken for granted, something that disturbs and disrupts reality-that's scary.

Maybe the Ms. Veal incident isn't scary to others because it lacks drama. It's just life. But to me, that's why it was scary. It still is.

I didn't want to go and live with Ms. Veal.