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Stanley wakes up feeling different, he cannot describe how he feels different. Only that he is tired of living. Tired of the repetition. Tired of the monotone. Tired of the lack of affection, lack of love, lack of real anger and hate.
He misses the things that used to inconvenience him, the traffic that made him late for work, the grating voice of his boss, and the rain that soaked him from head to toe. The rattling of the metro. Because with those things he felt. Now he feels almost empty. He does not know how to feel.
He misses the cooked food his mother would cook, even when it went from the table being set for four to three to just the two of them. His father left after arguing over so many trivial things. His brother left for college and it felt like he left their life altogether. Stanley made the choice not to leave. He couldn’t leave his mother behind. Not when she would have the table set for two of them. Every evening. Even now that he’s gone and didn’t get a chance to tell her how much he loved her one last time.
Not after all the love she gave him.
Not after all the sleepless nights when she would practice her compositions, on her beat-up cello, in between her job as a professor and privately tutoring students on the side.
On top of looking after Stanley and his brother, after trying to make sure they grew up to be fine respectable, gentle and good people. The compositions of music soothed him to sleep, night after night. A blanket of warmth.
It reminds him of the encompassing hugs from his mother, the smell of her rose perfume and her cheap body wash, to him it was never cheap, to him she was perfection. To him, she was the perfect mother. To him, even in the darkness and cold of their apartment at the worst of times, she was his warmth, his joy and to him she means home.
He misses the soothing voice of his mother, drowning out everything surrounding him. The nights and days when he had bad dreams, the awful days at school, when the kids teased him, a hard day at college and after a stressful day at work. That used to be his constant, something he could rely on no matter how hard times got. That used to be the most memorable thing in his life. Until it wasn’t. Now he cannot remember.
He is now in eternal purgatory. He has lost his voice. He has lost his sense of belonging. He has lost his choice. He has lost himself. He has left his mother alone.
The repetition drives him to madness. The same commands. The same suit. The shirt that's slightly crinkled because he didn't iron it that morning. The trousers have annoying inseams. The stiff sole of his dress shoes. He hates everything.
He hates the voice. Something he enjoyed at the start but he can do no right. That was when it was different. And he can do no wrong. He just follows the script. Time and time again. There is no deviation from the norm, because everything is accounted for. Every grain of sand in the sand timer that holds his life is accounted for.
The days do not belong to him as much as they belong to god.
He laughs. The comfort in belief. The comfort in believing there is a saviour when everything goes wrong. The comfort that someone is there no matter what, watching down upon the havoc of the world. He questions why people prayed in the first place. He used to pray for other things at the start, but those were nothing more than creature comforts.
Stanley only prays for one thing. He prays for the end.
“This is the story of a man named Stanley-”
This is the story written about a man named Stanley, he is upset he does not get to write anything of this part of his story. This is the story of how Stanley dies alone.
He wrote his start and beginning and doesn’t think he will write his end.
.
Corridor after corridor. Instruction after instruction. Step after step.
There is no point in trying to fight. So he imagines other things instead, he tries to remember, and he stays in the sanctuary left within his mind.
He ends up coming back to himself at the top of the stairs. The one where he jumps. It becomes easier every single time.
At first, he was taunting death, now death is taunting him.
The promise of an end. Is that truly when his suffering will come to an end? Is that when he’ll have scars that will last? Is that when he’ll truly be able to be himself again?
This is a time when he feels. The air surrounds his body as he falls. It feels like he's flying, even if it's for a few seconds. He feels like Icarus. At least he had an end after he fell to his death. However tragic it may seem. Usually, all stories come to an end. This one never does.
This time Stanley does not wake up. He sees his body laying on the concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs. The Narrator is screaming. There is no reset.
Stanley stands and as he does, he realises it doesn’t feel foggy anymore, he can feel again. He looks down and sees himself dressed. He feels the comfort of his favourite beat-up trainers on his feet. The softness of his favourite wool jumper he’s had for too long. The coarseness of his most worn pair of jeans.
He laughs. Because in front of him, it's his body and he does not care. He is free.
There is a gentle cough behind him. It is a tall man dressed in black.
“I apologise for taking so long. I suggest a break in time.”
Stanley grins at him and nods. It feels like he waited a lifetime and he probably did.
A hand is offered to him and they walk away. To somewhere there is a comfortable level of quiet, where there is love again and where Stanley can be happy.
He is reunited with his mother. He apologises a thousand times over, she forgives him even though there is nothing to forgive. She showers him with kisses and hugs.
She sets the table for three again, sometimes their new friend joins them, but two places are always taken.