Your One and only

One was alone. There was no one around. On the outside the strength could be seen, yet inside One was fragile, as fragile as cracked ice. In the evening One would fix the drink, sit in the chair and think about the foreseeable future. The flow of ideas was a mess. No idea could be based on logic, but on the drink. When One was drinking, the inspiration would come, and One’s editor would be pleased to receive a new smart piece. Writing was the earning ground. It was the only thing that kept One alive and intrigued. Intrigued?! I know it’s quite a strange choice of words but these articles kept intriguing One. The readers were pleased, but mostly the editor. One would get the payment and buy another bottle of whisky. Being sober is not the best option for writing a smart piece. One was believed to be smart by everyone due to the gotten diploma. However for this person diploma was just a piece of paper which was lying somewhere…who the hell knows where.

One loved the city, the darkness of which was quite welcoming. No matter how many times One could walk in the same directions, they were always different. The sun would give the leaves bright-yellow or fire-red shades. Winding paths would lead to new places. The rain would hide the tears and the wind would blow all your troubles away. The water was the most unpredictable, yet fascinating. The lamp lights would jump on the restless river, creating the best dances no human being could ever come up with. It was mesmerizing. One would sit on the bench nearby the river with a bottle of whisky, a sheet of paper and a pen, writing like a mad. That place was the heart of inspiration. The thoughts were hard to catch, they were sowing the mind. One would come up to the water and stare at it, trying to solve the unsolvable problem: ‘Why drowning sounded like a good idea?’ If you drown, you hear no noise, no hustle and bustle of the city. You are one on one with your thoughts, yet death didn’t sound like fun. So One would make one step back from the water and go back home to drink one more glass of whisky.

Day by day One would come back to the river getting closer and closer to the water. The intrigue of stepping into the river was still there. One boot got wet, then the other one. The water reached bare knees, got higher and…One stopped, realizing that One was playing with fire, yet with water. It was time to go home. However the same thing happened next night. And the following night. It was happening only in the night so that no one could see One’s attempts not to get oneself drown.

One sunny morning the editor called and said that he didn’t like the piece. It was too basic. One got angry. ‘The guy knows nothing.’, One thought. The critics was non-stop, the message of the article wasn’t clear, there was no connection between the sentences. It was a complete mess.

– You disappointed me. – said the editor. – Your ideas of drowning sounded as if you wanted to commit the suicide. It was so depressing, I couldn’t really read that. You must write about something positive or inspiring. Not about something making you feel like dying.

– I like my piece. If you don’t get it, it’s because of your narrow-minded perspective of the world. There are so many things I want to write about. I want to think outside of the box. Wish you the same. – One said rather indignantly and threw a bottle of rum against the wall. This bottle was not as precious as one of whisky.

The conversation was over. It was night, so One got dressed and went to the river. The indignation was an impulse to do what One did – jumping into the water. As One was there, no sound could be heard. No critics could get him. One was out of reach. The silence was perfect, it cleared the mind. But there was not enough oxygen, so One had to fish out, take a deep breath and fish in. One fished for good, having left the letter on the bench discovered next morning.

‘I guess you may have found my body. To save the mental work of our police office I’ll explain what happened. I drowned. It was neither the suicide nor a murder. It was the way to freedom. No one would understand my thoughts anyway. One day you are in, one day you are out. People come and people go. As simple as that. My ideas were not for our narrow-minded-yet-thinking-the-most-intelligent society. I couldn’t do what I wanted to. I didn’t have a bad life. It was quite splendid, yet boring. You need to take a risk to add some pepper in your flavorless life. My death turned out to be my new life.’

– Your One and only.

***

None in Hellen

The police were investigating the case. A constant-truth-seeking process made them tired and bored. One was pleased not to be troubled with such down-to-earth issues anymore as discovering up-to-sky territory. One had no idea where one's body was: it was neither hell nor heaven, even though One had never been there, yet you could smell the sense of assuredness. One was alone. There was no one around. The silence was delightful. One gave a quick look at the place trying to find a chair to sit on but could find none. Then One sat on the 'floor' which turned out to be a transparent surface; looking through it One could see nothing. Even if you have everything crystal clear in front of you, you can see nothing. 'Funny, isn't it?' One thought. 'Oh, God, or whoever runs this place, may I know the name of this hell-heaven? Oh, you know what? Forget it. I'll call it hellen. Welcome to Hellen! The number of citizens is One.'

One was sinking in an immediate desire to write something but there wasn't a pen or a sheet of paper. An impulsive decision was to try out the surface. As One's finger carefully touched it, a black spot formed around one's fingertip as if it were ink. The 'floor' happened to be some kind of an endless sheet of paper, but no corrections could be made, only crossing-outs. The work began. One had been writing like a mad till sleep crawled towards the body.

'I can write whatever I want! Finally, my mind has a chance of avoiding the explosion. My mind is worth being saved.' It was the first thought in the morning. 'As I'm here alone, I may not even bother talking, my vocal cords should be grateful. My way of talking will be thinking.' It was the second thought. One began writing once again, yet the phrases made no sense:

'Mainly the man mastered the map but beheld the branch that he wanted to break. The branch was like a big brick barrier that could be barely broken.' Seeing all the ‘brilliant’ words written right above all the people on One's ex-planet was marvelous. One couldn't be happier. It was a pure demonstration of magnificent complacency.

Several days later One wrote some more lines: 'Lust lusted for love. As victory lusted for a victor. As a man lusted for a mistress. As a human lusted for humanity'. Another wave of self-satisfaction with a hint of sadness. The ideas were becoming more and more basic. One was furious with oneself but understood that inspiration was blowing off.

Having looked at everything written on the surface, One was caught in unpleasing amazement. 'So.Many.Words.No.Good.Ones.I.Am.Not.A.Good.One.' A horrible horror was holding One. Eyes closed. A deep breath. Eyes opened. Relief. Shock. Panic. Stupor. Thousands of words had been living on the surface, now there were only three letters composed of the rest. Those three letters stood for YOU. One could do nothing but stare at those letters which were magically regrouping into ARE. 'You are…? I am…? What am I…?'. The answer was ready: NO ONE.

One became No One. 'No! You are wrong!' The eyes were full with torturing tears as being eager to tear One apart. Desperation covered the thoughts and the words formed a black lace around the mouth, hands and feet. One was tightly tied with the once beloved words. One tried to scream but there was no sound produced. The vocal cords were so grateful for the rest that had forgotten how to work. One took a deep breath to make a scream-attempt once again but felt something like water filling up one's lungs, too much water. Almost breathless. 'Close your eyes' An inner voice woke up. One obeyed, closed the eyes and felt ice-cold water all over him and inside him. The body was moving instinctively and in several seconds One could breathe. One was right in that place where One drowned. It was night and there was no soul around. One swam to the bank, sat on the bench and was trying to get back to reality of the life: One was No One in the city and One was None in Hellen.