The Unintended Consequences of Daytime Television

Nothing happened that made me do it. Nothing triggered it. I wasn’t even having a particularly difficult day. I was just sitting, watching a man and a woman with seven teeth between them argue about dodgy texts one of them found on the other’s phone. The presenter said, “Find out the lie detector results after the break,” and I realized I didn’t give a fuck. Not only did I not give a fuck about who was lying, but it also dawned on me that I didn’t give a fuck about anything. I’d had the idea at the back of my head for months now—years even. Constantly looming over everything I did. Always on the horizon. So I thought, Why not now?

I walked through the hallway towards the kitchen. On the way, I thought to myself how it was a shame that I’d never get around to putting up some wallpaper or any pictures. At least I’d made things easier for whoever was assigned this flat after me. I have terrible taste in wallpaper anyway. This flat always deserved better.

I lingered a moment in the kitchen, looking at the sink. The ever-present tower of unwashed dishes caught the light in a way that made it oddly beautiful. Something about it, next to the nearly empty, two-year-old bottle of supermarket-brand washing-up liquid, filled me with such sadness I had to look away, and I headed through the utility room door.

Switching the light on, I looked around the utility room. The bitter smell of varnish lingered in the air. Piles of random bits of whatever-the-fuck lay everywhere. It’s amazing when you think about it—how much stuff just accumulates. I didn’t know if it was just me, but I felt all I had done in my life was accumulate stuff.

I rummaged through piles, thinking to myself what a relief it was to not have to clear this all out myself someday. To not be burdened in general anymore. No more worries about finally putting things from boxes to their proper place. No more pressure to decorate the flat and make it a home. No more morning alarms and begging the universe for just five more minutes of sleep. No more guilt over the flat further falling into disrepair. No more avoiding my family. No more opening an empty fridge in the vain hope there might be some food in there I missed the last four times I checked. No more looking for rope—because I found some rope attached to a sledge I bought my younger brother many winters ago. No more.

This revelation filled me with a giddiness I had not felt in years. It reminded me so much of being a child that I pondered using the rope to skip before I used it for anything else. I think those years are well past me now, so I raised the rope to my lips and kissed it. My ticket to freedom.

Walking back into the kitchen, I became aware that my newfound relief and excitement were fragile. Yes, I would never have to wash the dishes again. That’s great. But also, how sad—I would never wash the dishes again. The last time I washed them, I wished I’d savored it. But now I’d never wash a dish again. I stood staring at the pile as I had on the way to the garage, and for a moment, I wondered if I should wash them. It would make things a little easier for whoever had to clean up my mess—not that that had ever bothered me before. Maybe it would be nice to warm up my hands, one still coldly clinging to the rope. I could feel the bubbles and smell the artificial lemon scent one last time. Just wash the dishes—just one last time.

As I’d done earlier, I had to turn away. Returning to normality was tempting, but I’d only end up where I am now. On some level, I knew it was always destined to end this way. I held the rope in both hands as I walked into the living room. Looking at it, I couldn’t help but feel bad for it limply looking back at me. Poor thing was my ticket to freedom, but it wouldn’t be an easy or pleasant job. Another thing on this earth burdened by the fact that I could not—and would never—get my shit together.

I looked up at the ceiling fan, its shadow cast all around, looking something like a Rorschach test. Staring at it for a few moments, I decided it looked like a spider. I don’t know why I thought that, and I wondered what it meant. What did it say about me as a person? Why did I want to know what it said about me as a person? I doubted the answer would be any consolation and would likely only validate things I already knew. No hope to be found there.

The TV was still playing, but this time the talk show had a child left disfigured by a house fire. The child’s mother was reading a laundry list of insults shouted at them from strangers on the street. It really is a cruel world. I thought to myself that perhaps, out of respect, I should turn the TV off, but I decided to keep it on as it offered me some comfort. When it came down to it, I didn’t want to die alone.

Too much thinking. I always thought about everything too much, and that was my problem. I decided to just get it done. I grabbed a chair from the largely unused dining table and positioned it correctly just under the ceiling fan. I stood on it and instantly felt uneasy, worried I would lose my balance. Too much thinking. I looped the rope around the top of the fan and wondered what type of knot would work best. Too much thinking. Just do it. As long as it’s tight, and the noose had enough room for my head. Right, anything else? Anything at all? No. Too much thinking. Just do it. Just jump.

So I did.

I felt something tapping me in the space between my eyes. Poking away at me, very irritating. I furrowed my brow, but it continued. I opened my eyes, and it splashed off my nose and into my eyes. Water? Was this water dropping on my face?

I sat up. My head was throbbing, and my back was aching. I felt really confused and tried to remember what happened. The last thing I remembered was jumping off the chair. When I realized this, my hand almost instinctively reached up to my neck, and I felt the rope still there. This wasn’t a dream—what was it?

I looked up, and the ceiling fan was no longer there. In its place was a massive hole. I thought to myself, Surely, surely I didn’t weigh that much? I was an emotional eater, but this all seemed a bit ridiculous. But the dripping—the water—the spider wasn’t a shadow, it was damp. Upstairs must have left the bath running!

A laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. I fell into it and sat laughing to myself until I cried. How ridiculous, how wonderfully ridiculous!

I looked around at all the plaster and ceiling fan debris littered on the carpet, ran my hand through it, and dug my fingers into the damp fibers. I lay back down on the floor and smiled. I could feel the water dripping on my face. I could feel the water dripping on my face! I was alive!

Smiling to myself, I realized I was so happy I had failed. In the moment after I jumped, I realized how much hope was still left. I knew how much hope I still had when I was about to lose it, and now it was mine again. For once in my life, it felt like someone—or something—out there wanted me to be alive. Perhaps there was a reason and purpose for my life. Even if, for now, the reason and purpose were to find the reason and purpose.

There was so much I needed to do. Not responsibilities, but opportunities. I was excited about my life and where it could go. I could call my mother and offer to make her dinner. We could finally talk about what happened to my dad. I could message Katie on Facebook and tell her I’m sorry for how things ended and that I’m going to change. I could wash the dishes again.

But first, I needed to tell the folks upstairs they’d left the bath running.

More plaster fell onto my face, and I noticed the various cracks forming on the ceiling, exposing the rotting wood. Then I heard a God-almighty groan fill the room, and one end of the bath tipped, dousing me with water.

Blinking, the water cleared just in time for me to see the bath finally tip and start to fall, right above my head.