The Choice
by Beth Anderson
The biro flew across the room and
fell into the corner. Thomas considered letting the computer follow it,
but at the last minute settled for kicking it instead. The box rattled
in its nest at the bottom of the desk. It did nothing to alleviate his
mood.
That bloody novel. He'd been working on it for nearly
four years now and it was still barely half finished. So many times
he'd decided to give it up. So many times he'd decided to go out and
get a life, already. But
every single time, it crept back into his mind. Bled into his
subconscious like a wound that just wouldn't heal. And then - every.
Single. Time - he picked up his pen once more, started making notes,
writing details about his characters, and the words would flow.
For all of two days.
And then they would start to dry up once more.
Dust tickled his nose as he scrabbled round for his pen. This was
getting ridiculous. He needed to put this stupid novel out of his mind,
once and for all.
He would let his pen choose. It could be a
pointer to help him decide whether he should try and struggle on, or,
well. Whether he should give it up as a bad job, after all.
Thomas walked over to the cupboard where he kept his most treasured
possessions. The picture of his parents, days before they died. The
photo of him and Christie, laughing, suntanned, on holiday in Goa. How
long ago it seemed now. He'd thought she was happy with him, that she'd
enjoyed their holiday as much as he had. But on the last night it had
all come out. How bored she'd been when he'd been spending his mornings
writing. 'Nothing to do! The first few days were great, but...'
He shut his mind to the memories. This was not the time.
Thomas opened the cupboard, pulled out a polished dark wood box. His heartbeat quickened as he placed it reverentially on the floor. The pen went into the centre of
the floor. He unplugged his computer mouse. That would be for the
choice of carrying on. After some thought, he wriggled up into the loft
and threw down his battered green suitcase. He needed that third
choice, of running away.
He bowed his head and prayed to noone at all for the right answer.
Then Thomas spun the pen. It revolved half-heartedly a couple of times, then came to rest quicker than he'd expected.
It was pointing at the box.
"Thank Christ," he said aloud and jumped. His own voice reverberated in the still air.
He crawled over to the box, undid the latch. Opened the lid slowly, wondering at the contents.
The dull metal.
At last. He could say goodbye to this world. To the people who didn't take him seriously, didn't believe he could make it.
To the blasted novel.
As he pulled out the gun, he suddenly seemed to leave his body. To
float up to the ceiling. He watched himself, detached, as he cradled
the gun in his arms.
"This would make a great scene in my novel," he thought.
And he snapped back into his body. Grinning, he laid the gun back in the box, and walked back to the computer.
Maybe this time, he thought, it will be different.