The Perfect Spot

IT WAS, HE’D DECIDED, the perfect spot. From his lofty perch, perilously close to the edge of the car park’s uppermost storey, a glorious panorama unfolded before him, a view which contrasted greatly as he slowly revolved in an anticlockwise direction. 

How apt it should be anticlockwise; at this juncture in his life the prefix “anti” had seemingly overtaken his entire existence.  He lived on anti-inflammatories to quell the swelling of his jaw and antidepressants to quell the shrivelling of his soul.  He swallowed antibiotics like there was no tomorrow (his doctor having long ago taken to doling them out just to be rid of an infuriating patient and his imaginary illnesses), and likewise antihistamines for the hay fever which hadn’t actually afflicted him since he was seventeen (though to his mind this merely confirmed how good they were).

As a consequence of his pharmaceutical intake, allied as it was with the hiatus hernia he’d had since forever, he also took a shed load of antacids (linguistically an “ant” rather than an “anti” but more than close enough), both prescribed and store bought, to quell the acid that would otherwise burst burning into his throat amidst a cacophony of coughing and retching, ripping him from sleep, replacing the imagined terror of his dreams with the all to real terror of fighting for breath. 

Away from the pharmacy counter, but still in the chemist aisle, he doused himself with antiperspirants by the bucket full, convinced even now that his so called school friends had been right when they cruelly, ruthlessly and (one hundred percent) untruthfully labelled him “smelly-smelly-stink-stink”. On top of this he’d spent a barrel load of credit card cash on anti-aging products for his skin that did zip when it came to preventing other people from thinking he was older than he was.  Not that he had that discussion with many of his species; he was not so much antisocial as anti the human race.  I doubt he ever would, or maybe ever could, admit it to other people, but the face he presented to the world, brash and insensitive, uncaring and intolerant, was nothing more than an antidote to his interior loneliness…..

IT WAS, SHE’D DECIDED, the perfect spot.  From her lofty perch, perilously close to the edge of the island’s tallest cliff, a glorious panorama unfolded before her, a view which contrasted greatly as she slowly revolved in a clockwise direction. 

How apt it should be “clockwise”; she’d reached this juncture in her life precisely as a result of always going with the flow, she’d never been “anti” anything in her entire existence.  She’d gone to church because her parents said she must; she’d studied law at university because her teachers said she should; she’d trained to become a barrister because her employer dictated she did so; she’d saved her virginity for the marital bed because her God demanded nothing less; she’d gotten engaged to the perfect son of her families’ oldest friends because both sets of parents deemed it fitting; she’d had the big white wedding with all the trappings because that particular fairytale has long been set in stone.

As a consequence of following the path fate, faith, family and fealty had set before her, those trappings, seen as a necessary embodiment of the “greatest day of her life”, had been the prelude to a trap, the fairytale becoming nothing more than the precursor to a nightmare.  The son doted on by his parents, the son-in-law drooled over by her own mother and father, had turned out to be a loveless, egotistical, all controlling psychopath. 

So it was the once confident, upstanding barrister had been transformed into a terrified, cowering servant, ripped from the heady heights of the court room to the anonymous drudgery of the kitchen.  Her husband’s dinner was, without exception, to be ready when he got home and the house was to be spick and span, the bed made, the washing up done, his clothes washed and ironed and perfectly put away, the floors vacuumed, the furniture free from dust. 

The exactitude of her master’s demands was verified daily by the ceremonial running of white cotton gloved fingers over each and every surface; should she fail in the slightest his eagle-eyed inspection the gloves would truly be off. 

The hand of love had become the fist of chastisement; the chastity of the willing virgin had been bulldozed aside by the insatiable demands of a sex mad monster; the visions of romantic lovemaking on a bed strewn with rose petals were cruelly destroyed by the multi-holed plundering of a pervert; the clearly mapped out future of career, kids and marital bliss was replaced by an endless path of pain, fear and servitude…..

IT WAS, HE’D DECIDED, the perfect spot. Ahead of him, at twelve o’clock if you will, its golden roof glinting in the late summer sun, was the ultra modern library building, by turns loudly lauded (in terms as glowing as the building itself), or disdainfully dismissed (in terms as unyielding as the foundations on which it stood).  As he turned slowly to the left, at the eleven o’clock position, the roof of the library appeared to join seamlessly with the railway viaduct which stood beyond.  At that instant an outbound train rattled into view, seemingly from inside the building itself, reminding him of the monorail that runs right through the lobby of one of the hotels at Walt Disney World. 

As he continued his sweep he liked to imagine a verdant canopy of trees overarching the ground between here and the river that flowed beyond, while in reality as well as numerous trees two car parks and a busy main road were all too apparent.  Maintaining his slow pirouette, moving through ten o’clock and then onwards to nine, he saw the Hills, as majestic as any mountain range.  It seemed for a second he need only to stretch out his hand to touch the hilltops but they were as much out of reach as any and all of his dreams and ambitions. 

From nine o’clock through till the three the foreground was composed of the topmost floor of the multi-storey car park itself while beyond was a patchwork of treetops (looking to him to like a multitude of “Kilroy’s” peeping over an equal multitude of walls), rooftops and steeples, the latter dominated by the tower of the cathedral which stood ever foremost in his thoughts of the city. 

The fourth and final quarter of his eyes’ panoramic excursion was effectively screened by yet more trees planted close to the car park walls….. 

IT WAS, SHE’D DECIDED, the perfect spot.  Ahead of her, its blue grey waters glinting in the late summer sun, was the empty sea, by turns undulating softly, as gentle as the breathing of a sleeping cat, or roiling fiercely, as frantic as the breathing of a riotous mob. Looking down her eyes took in the near vertical wall of the cliff face, a tapestry of vegetation that went down and down before being abruptly halted by the bare, unyielding rocks of the water’s edge. 

As the greenery of the cliff gave way to the browns and greys of the rocks, so the latter gave way to the turquoise hues of the sea, darker at first then gradually becoming lighter, due (she surmised) to either the rocks continuing under the surface or to the kelp she knew to grow nearby.  (She didn’t really know the whys and the wherefores but then again she didn’t really care; it was enough for her that she found it beautiful). 

Turning to her right she could see down into one of the sandy bays that defined this stretch of coastline, as inviting as any foreign shore.  It seemed for a second she need only stretch out her hand to touch the always cold but ever oh so tempting water as it lapped against the sand, but it was as much out of reach as all and any of her aspirations.  A colossal sand castle, built with childish energy today but doomed never to see tomorrow, brought a fleeting smile of remembrance to her otherwise careworn face. 

As she continued her sweep from east to west the sea stretched out to the horizon, an unbroken vista that lay before her in the same way the endless possibilities of her former life had once done, her life before the grim reality of her marriage.  As she turned from the west to look northwards the cliff path again came into view and finally the car park of the tea room she’d loved so much as a child…..

IT WAS, HE’D DECIDED, the perfect spot. Directly below him was the deserted patch of wasteland between the car park’s foundations and the walls of a long abandoned night club.  There would be no danger to anyone below; there should be no reason to halt the traffic and inconvenience the commuters driving home; there would be no crush of bystanders, be they shocked and upset Samaritans or morbid, cell phone wielding ghouls; there should be little more impact (bad choice of words I know) from this death as there had been from his unhappy life.  How fitting then the earlier allusion to swallowing antibiotics like there was no tomorrow; as of today the prospect of no tomorrow will surely, for him at least, prove tragic in its truthfulness. 

It was then he heard quiet footsteps behind him, quickly followed by the calm voice of a compassionate stranger, asking him if he was alright, imploring him to step back from the ledge.  Turning to face the voice he saw a hand reaching gently but beseechingly toward him, the open palm of hope and understanding, poised to take care of his flesh and his spirit…..

IT WAS, SHE’D DECIDED, the perfect spot.  The rocks that lay at the base of the cliff would do the job, the waves themselves might well take care of the funeral arrangements, the empty camera case she would place right at the edge of the cliff top would provide a plausible explanation; there should be little more scrutiny of this death than there had been of her unhappy life. How fitting then the earlier allusion to the sandcastle seeing no tomorrow; as of today the prospect of no tomorrow will surely, for her at least, prove tragic in its truthfulness. 

It was then she heard heavy footsteps behind her, quickly followed by the angry voice of the stranger she’d married, telling her not to be stupid, ordering her to step back from the edge.  Turning to face the voice she saw a hand reaching angrily and insistently towards her, the iron claw of domination and suffering, poised to take hold of her flesh and her spirit…..

IT WAS, THEY’D EACH DECIDED, the perfect spot. As to whether one or the other was correct, or mayhap both, or maybe neither, I leave it to you to decide……