Running to stand still

A Story by Viktor

About the vapid mind of a teenager

”Running to stand still

Crouching to be tall

Feeling to be numb
Grieving to be happy
Loving to be hated
And Hating to feel love”

He had finally found it. After months of searching, which, in all honesty might sound a bit pretentious, he had found the perfect thing to write. He had conidered all the classics: “I’m sorry, I can’t take it anymore, blah, blahdidah”. He thought about the faithful use of quoatations. After all, wouldn’t a few, carefully chosen words of one of his favorite authors be quite powerful? I mean, he did worship Salinger. And Camus. He could easily have chosen almost any part of “The Cather in the Rye” to summarize his feelings and state of mind in a rather perfect manner. He had thought about using a line from one of his favorite musicians. Just spinning a random record by Kurt Cobain, and he could have spared himself all these months of reflecting and wondering. But finally, he had found it. It was actually an old poem he had written when he was 16. It had fallen out of his diary, and he had read it and almost laughed (which - let’s relish at the irony). So simple. So direct. But still with a bit of a mystery. Just like him. And in any case, shouldn’t a suicide note really be more personal than a quote from some existentialist writer from another century?

So, there he had it. The perfect way to explain his actions to his family, friends and, more notably, his ex love. “Running to stand still”. His worst nightmare, at this point, was for it all to go down in a big cliché. He wanted it to be original, and a bit mysterious, which, to be frank, quite surprised him, as he used to loath the pretentious and faux artisitic. But there you go – I guess he wasn’t the same person he used to be. He wondered whether people would really be that surprised. They always say that it is the ones that seem the happiest who you should watch out for. But he didn’t quite agree. In reality, he was a happy person Or, at least he used to be. It wasn’t about that. He had friends, and a loving family. He went to school and got good marks. He really didn’t mind his life. And that also turned out to be his problem. He didn’t mind. It was fine. Nothing more, nothing less. He had grown weary of the indifference, of the meaningless, neverending routine that was life. And this, of course, isn’t the best ground to stand on, when something bad happens.

I guess he had always had it on his mind. “Oh, I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to off myself”. But what teenager hadn’t? No, his past, occasional, depressions seemed to fade in comparison. This wasn’t about teenage angst. This was about the void he felt in his soul. The lack of a purpose and, to some extent, the lack of love. He had friends, who he did cherish. He had had boyfriends, for sure, whom he loved with all his heart. But they never seemed to stick around. And this final blow had made him decide. It was enough. He actually found it a bit clichéd that he actually decided to kill himself because of a break-up. Because of the most horrid, but not entirely uncommon, sentence of: “I like you, I just don’t love you anymore”. But then again, he had thought, his ex love wouldn’t get all the credit. He wasn’t worth it. “Hating to feel love”

He had the note down, which to him seemed like the only tricky part. The thing that mattered the most. So he guessed he had nothing more to do before the sweet escape. He really did want to avoid all the clichés, but he couldn’t resist putting on that song. Their song. The one they fell in love to, and followed them troughout their relationship. He took out a ciggarette, even though he had quit. But hey – who could preach to him about the big C now? He took a drag, and tilted his head backwards before he exhaled. The nickotine went out to his blood, up to his brain, and he closed his eyes. Listened to the song. “Loving to be hated”. He thought about the sweet satisfaction he would get, when he discovered how much he had really hurt him. How he would regret his actions when they discovered his body, to their song. On repeat. “Crouching to be tall”. He shed a tear, and rasied the gun. This was it. It was over.

As the sound of the gun had died out, and the colour of his blood slowly spread over the white couch, his telephone recieved a message. A tiny message. “I miss you”.