Clearing, or: notes for a day in the future
by Luka Vukos
A short story.
***
On March 21st, the body of Robert Wren (32) was found by local authorities in his home on Wesley Road. After no initial response was heard within the residence, a crew of firemen was forced to pry open the front door with a Halligan bar. Subsequently, a small unit of police and paramedics investigated the household.
Wren had been living in his single-bedroom flat for approximately 9 months, a modest space formerly owned by his grandmother. Friends and family members had not heard from him for 7 weeks, and he had had a falling-out with his girlfriend Maura (30). Suspicions were raised when the subject’s mother (58) was unable to enter through the front door. Forensic examiners have ruled out foul play and the preliminary coroner’s inquest confirms cause of death was self-inflicted. Along with a post-it note attached to his bedroom door, inspection of a kitchen drawer produced a small, wrinkled stash of white and yellow sheets, scribbled with pen and pencil, featuring only minor redactions and ink scratches on the handwriting.
Analysis of the documents, taken in conjunction with the post-mortem examination, suggests these notes are the early drafts of a final valediction. The above-mentioned post-it, found at the entry to the scene, is believed to be the subject’s final decision on a parting message. The forensic team has also attested to the legitimacy of the handwriting on all accounts.
The following is a transcript of these drafts, published in their assumed chronology. No corrections or omissions have been made to the original text, excepting the redactions made in Wren’s own hand; these scribbled-out words and phrases have been deemed undecipherable and thus omitted from publication. In any case, the content here is being published as initially intended by its author.
***
“I had a few good years - not perfect ones but good - and I don’t think I can do any better.”
“It became difficult for me to speak, to form words. They said it could do that. I never thought I’d be in that camp of people. But it made me stupider, and it made me worry. Either way, my stress bought the cancer ticket far in advance and I refuse to show up. My language has gone and now so have I.”
“It would have been better if I could have committed to at least one expectation of me. But I kept shaking off everything like they were hot embers. My stubbornness didn’t let me go beyond anything I thought was my own path. I should have listened more to people. But now we’re too far down the line. It’s too late for me to turn. I’ve missed too much and it’s never coming back. To my friends and family: it’s not your fault, please move on like I have moved on. My life has been a continuing rotation of different masks, clothing an empty centre. Let me then, in this moment, be naked.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
“All I needed was that Sunday, and you kept taking it away from me. I couldn’t function for the rest of the week, and then you’d take it away from me the following Sunday again. Fuck this.”
“I can’t talk any more - I simply can’t find a coherent means of saying what’s going on. But there was also something about me that stopped other people from expressing themselves - expressing how they really felt about me - to my face. I shouldn’t expect a weak, sensitive thing like me to instil any kind of fear in anyone. But it is clear to me now, that almost everyone hid themselves from me. In that regard, I was alone - I have been alone right up to this point. Instead of continuing to chase companionship and closeness - the kind that every other human being seems to take for granted - I have decided to quit before it does any more damage. Better to create my own terms in that case. I wish someone would have let me in, opened the door for me, heard my footsteps, wrapped a blanket around me, told me something important. The truth is that there was many. But maybe I had higher expectations of the world; it was always never enough. Everything flowed through me like I was an elusive ghost. Everything disappointed me, and I registered each mood with a smile. My face became a locked door, whereas other people’s was a window. Sometimes grotesque, sometimes plain, sometimes beautiful. Mine was nothing - always the extremity of an innocuous banality. Let me ensure you never see it again. The world is better without such eye-sores.”
“I did my best. I’m ready to go.”
“Days after its shell was crushed, the slug had turned black (in the backyard). The flies had their way over its remains and we had a rain come in. All that was left was an ashy stain on the garden stone. Like the outline of a stubbed-out cigarette, flecked by the few shrunken shards of the snail’s shell. There was going to be more rain rain coming again, and by tomorrow, there’d be nothing left to describe.”
“It’s that my grievances were always an affront to you. Never a pressing matter, or a thing of worry.”
“I’ve run out of options, and the thoughts became too frequent to ignore. It gave me relief to even think of it as a viable solution. Like my lungs weren’t choked up any more, and oxygen was entering again. As for my relationships with people: I’ve used up everyone like fine, but now exhausted, resources. I’ve been on best behaviour, but sugary, uncomplicated, polite relationships are the only ones I could manage. One word in anger, I’d shiver. One touch, I’d crumble. And be wrecked for the rest of the day, hardly recovering the next morning. People would move on but I’d stay the same, and my memory wouldn’t allow for any detail or feeling to be forgotten. Nothing so weak and so sensitive can live for very long; I’ve accepted that now and see no problem with fast-tracking the process. To my family and friends, my love and my life - may your paths may be as fortunate and as consistent as mine could never be.”
“There’s less and less of me now, I can feel it. Ahead of me, there will be even less. I think you know there’s a problem when that feeling that you’re not preparing for anything any more leaves you. Best to leave it here then.”
“If you should find this, I will more than likely have been successful in what I’m about to do. This has been a long time coming, and I can’t wait any longer. The strength this took is incomparable; I thought it’d be easy. But there was no anxiety about it this time. I have committed this with a clarity I have never had before. It’s almost funny that this pitiful thing is what broke it through, but you have to take your victories wherever you find them. I’m in the dark now, but I’m no longer scared. Goodbye.”
“I’ve cleaned the dishes and done the laundry. There’s a pasta salad in the Tupperware in the fridge.”
“Don’t go in Maura, it’s alright. Call 999 and have them take care of this.”
[FINAL]
***
Readers can note the conviction and lucidity of Robert Wren’s writing. Regarding the redactions made in the original documents, there are only a few. Wren seems to have been reflecting long on his decision and the circumstances which informed it. The writing vacillates between off-the-cuff remarks and extended meditations on his reasoning, the latter implying deeper motives than just his health. At times, his absolutism and the occasionally imagistic quality of the language, indicates a troubled mind.
Relatives have stated that they were not aware of Wren’s illness prior to these events. He had recently registered with a local GP, but we have yet to receive details from his medical records, and if psychiatric consultation was also involved.
Robert was a technical writer for a software company. And he spent his childhood in Sutton.
The Times,
Published 31/01/22