Idle Hands

Idle Hands

by Narsimha Chintaluri (please leave comments after reading)

As the sun dimmed, I sat on the stoop in front of my apartment building in the city, a rustic red structure, with paint peeling and bricks crumbling under centuries of pressure. I tied my hair back into a knot, strapped it with a black band and leaned back against the steps. My eyes traced the path of a Cadillac speeding down the street in front of me. The headlights gleamed forward, outlining the silhouette of a man crossing the street. Shadows stretched and swayed as the car swerved and the man sprinted, but my eyes predicted the collision before sound followed sight.

I remained seated as the sun continued to extinguish, and the streetlights manifested new light. Everyone else had retired into their rundown buildings while I remained seated, and the Cadillac was no longer visible. Cautiously I gathered my war-torn backpack, secured it over my dark hoodie, and rolled up the top of my faded sweatpants so that the chilling wind that was nipping at the exposed skin around my navel, beneath my plain white tee, was held at bay. I paused for a moment and then readjusted the waistline so that it was riding a bit low once again, allowing the blistering breeze to attack in full force.

Shivering, I crept up to the body that was spread face up and limbs out across the pavement. I didn’t do this to see if the man had survived, he was better of the way he appeared, but instead to settle an argument I had with myself earlier this week.

See, a part of me believed that your dying expression determined your ascendance into heaven or hell, if you believed in those places, with your actions, your goals, your morals, and your ambitions during life meaning nothing. But a part of me seemed to not want to believe that a life of good deeds would go unrewarded-that every kind act, every selfless feat, and every noble trait all equated to shit in the end. For days I’ve been trying to convince these reluctant molecules in my mind to mend their views.

My theory was as credible as the Sunday school stories told to millions of nine year olds weekly, the same stories told to me ten lifetimes ago. If God was really watching, then why not judge us on the way we decide to leave this planet, with a smile or a frown, rather than what we contributed to it? If God was really watching, that would mean He was truly the Devil anyways because He’s been sitting on idle hands for eons, disregarded our race and dismissing the idea of even lending one of those idle hands for help. So why should He care what condition this Earth is in? If idle hands are the Devil’s playthings, how can God justify his inaction?

I crouched in front of the man and tilted his face, which was crooked at the neck, towards me. No smile. Guess he’s going to hell. I slightly smiled and walked back to the sidewalk. Grabbing my backpack by the straps, I held it tight to my back and walked down the now dead streets, guided by the fully lit streetlights.  

I followed the shadow striped path; my eyes fixed on the sidewalk as if a heavy burden had taken the role of gravity and pulled my head down. My destination wasn’t clear, but for once in my life I trusted fate to foster my path. The streets soon succumbed to hordes of men and women, whores and beggars, as I entered the metropolis.

My feet continued to carve a path through a sea of people, steering me away from contact and towards a new haven. I approached a Laundromat, moving with the type of confidence only acquired through experience. Eyeing a passive looking indistinct man leaning against the entrance, my hand involuntarily slid into my pocket, grasping a bundle of cash I didn’t know I had. In one swift motion, I palmed the bills and proceeded to exchange with the faceless man. I swayed towards the adjacent alley, finding support against a ridged red wall.

When you’re alone in the world, I feel as if you notice much more, make more observations, that your senses are much more magnified. In order to find companionship-family, friends or lovers-you need to notice less, to adapt, to dissolve, to blend in. But the longer you’re alone, the more you notice, and the more you notice, the less compatible you become. Knowledge is a burden, the bullets, but empathy is the gun and trigger.

You can still fit in if you’re burdened with knowledge, but only if you’ve stripped bare of empathy. You see druggies, hobos, prostitutes, gangs-you ignore them. You see an unsuspecting man pummeled, his life devoured by a stray driver, his face bloody, distorted, broken-you keep walking. Desensitized. You start seeking an escaping from reality in order to find your place in it. An escape from the repetitiveness of life, the lethargy. An escape from the reality that perverse violence is in every crease and crevice of this world; that even in this ally, within teen feet from where I collapsed in my new haven, there were pimps slapping whores who were probably my age. They looked lifetimes older.

We all seek escape.

I roughly rummaged through my backpack, pushing aside pens, pencils, papers, and loose bottles that were stripped of their labels. They contained pills and tablets, but like the man by the Laundromat, they were faceless. It was unimportant what they were-escape is escape. I swallowed a few more and re-entered my backpack. Underneath a white cloth, which securely sheltered some object-this bag was full of my releases, my methods of escape-lay the items I sought.

I grabbed a lighter, spoon, band, and needle. I torched the smooth steel underbelly of the spoon, liquefying the rock, creating a murky liquid. I observed the liquid, listened to it, let it breathe. I drew in the liquid with the needle, maneuvered the band to extenuate my veins, and let the tip prick skin, puncturing my flesh, creating immediate pain; fiery pain, a volcanic eruption eroding my senses, vanishing my thoughts, enraging my soul. Followed by a stillness, a cold chill. White water washing away the pain, numbing my being, mimicking the process of life. This calm that followed pain is equivalent to death following life.

Life is pain. Death is escape.

Everything we do is a form of escape.

The friends we keep, the families we belong to and create-all escape. From the food we eat and the drugs we take, to the education we seek and the lovers we keep, everything we do is an escape; it’s all the same. Everything we do is for that immediate relief, that instant gratification, fleeting euphoria, finite ecstasy.

That’s why everything blends together, why all forms of escape become faceless and unidentifiable. One form of escape is no different from the next. The contents of my bag, the dealer with concentrated escape, the men I’ve slept with, whose faces are a blur, forgotten, and their names forever lost-all Escape. Life is a trap. Reality is fiction and the subconscious is eternal. In order to keep our sanity, to fight the harsh harbors of reality and stay afloat in the endless ocean of existence, we seem to require unnatural forms of Escape.

Existence and reality, the two spheres of life that oppose finding true purpose in living, are essentially infinite. An individual’s life, however, comes to an end eventually. Death is the natural from of  Escape. Pure, serene, ethereal. But until death greets you, relieves you, you are stranded in this ocean. The concepts of existence and reality are infinite, although the individuals experiencing them are not. We use unnatural escapes in order to avoid truly thinking; to avoid thoughts of how miniscule our lives are. Any form of escape, besides death, is unnatural. We use the other forms of escape-drugs, sex, families, friends-to find short-lived pleasure. Truth is, pleasure never lasts long.

I punctured my skin once again. Rewind and restart, releasing more liquid.

My body was catatonic but my mind soared. Thoughts of my mom, my dad, my brother. Faces contorted, a blur of shapes and shadows-their memories fading because they were simply another form of escape that didn’t last. There was minimal color in the depth of my mind. Everything had a muddy tint, nothing was vivid. Just faceless figures melting together. My brother approached me first, his voice inaudible. He simply motioned and I followed.

He looked older than usual, more refined, but still eyed me, his older sister, with admiration and pride. He led me to our old house. I tried to discern the shape, but everything was melting away. I couldn’t focus on a single shingle or window for more than an instant before it instantly melted.

I blindly followed my brother to the porch. As my foot touched the first step, the murky air, dim sky, and muffled nature of my surroundings were suddenly struck away, as if a light had been switched off. My brother, my house-they all disappeared.

But in an instant it all returned, all too real. I realized where we were, but my brother simply stood by the door, waving me in. I tried to speak, tried to warn him, comfort him, but I was still mute. I swallowed my warnings and swayed to the door. I was going to give him what I couldn’t before. I grasped his hand and he led me into our family room.

My mom and dad sat, strapped to chairs, besides each other; their eyes pleading, and voices shrieking shouts of mercy. My brother looked at me as I knelt before him and grabbed his shoulders. I tried to plead with my parents, to comfort my brother and tell him that it didn’t have to be this way, that we could deal with his problems, that there was medicine, therapy, something, that we could try. I begged him to realize that we loved him, that we would care for him through his lows and laugh with him through his highs.

Every word I whispered remained trapped in my mind as he swiftly appeared next to my parents, a knife in his hand. I tried to run. I tried to stop him. But he slowly slit the throats of my parents, looking at me for help. Surrendered sorrow etched eternal. He raised the knife to his throat.

I grasped at the needle, forcing it at my arm. The tip snapped, pricking my skin and leaving me stranded. I lay there staring at the sky. The high reaching walls that surrounded me created a funnel vision straight towards the heavens-where God was laughing at me.

As I stared at the sky, different colors streaked across the stars as it began to rain. The wind whistled as it dodged the buildings and blew the rain towards me. It started to pour, the drops pounding on my face and washing my hair into the cement. The sky transformed, changing from black to blue to purple. Magenta? Maybe.

Others in the alleyway stepped over me as I lay spread out, basking in the tears of God.

Maybe I needed salvation. There was never guidance in my life. Any amount of strength my parents acquired went directly towards my brother. He had a fragile mind, a gentle soul they said. They said God was testing us to see if we deserved his love by providing us with the opportunity to be healers among men. He gave us my brother the way he was on purpose, because He knew he would complete our lives.

Sorrow and suffering, my mother used to tell me, are what make humans unique. God blessed us with empathy, so we had to care. We owed it to Him. And my brother.

I straddled the line between life and reality for a few more moments before slowly stumbling to my feet. I clutched my bag and headed towards the silent streets. I walked alone, past the Laundromat, past the stores and restaurants, past the parks and the schools, until I reached the path to the church. It was rundown and abandoned, overcome with shrubs and bushes. The once paved path had long since given way to dirt, with trees now looming overhead, lining the way towards the church doors.

The rain had faltered, allowing the wind to resume with renewed enthusiasm. The leaves whispered around me, singing quiet songs of the night. They swept up in a flurry, but in an instant died down as the wind disappeared. They were just alive, but as long as the wind played the role of fate, they could be suspended in time whenever the wind wished. And just like that the vengeful winds blew again, ravaging the leaves, allowing them the freedom of flight for a little while longer.

Every step I took seemed to encourage the winds and enliven the clouds. The earlier shower swept back around to join them, drenching me as I crossed the muddy path towards the church. This was Earth’s escape I thought. The once majestic planet, long since devoid of its staggering power and elegance, now forced to succumb to the will of the peasants that inhabit it.

So it turns to Mother Nature; attacking the inhabitants with wild winds and harsh storms in order to regain some control over itself.  All forms of Escape must be about control in some way. Control over yourself, your surroundings, life in general. However, I think the Earth’s constant use of nature as an Escape soon becomes self-deprecating, because as it attacks us humans, it destroys its own body. The more escapes one uses, the more control they try to regain, the closer they become to transcending life. Death is the natural Escape.

And so my mind was muddled with thoughts of Death as I sought shelter in the ruins of the sanctuary. This symbol of unity, of higher thinking and power, had crumbled under the weight of nature many moons ago. Foliage and vegetation surged around the church, with vines and thorns scaling the walls and shrubs overwhelming the worn oak doors.

I maneuvered around tattered pews and shattered Bibles, finding my way to the leering cross at the far end of the room. Sudden pain overcame my body as I collapsed to the ground, my mind throbbing. The contents of my bag lay sprawled out in front of me.

Warmth, devoid of all comfort, built up in my gut, and in an instant, swept through my body. In every vein fire seemed to surge as the sharp pain in my mind escalated. The fiery blood seemed to reach my eyes in a concentrated effort, as if it was looking to burst out my irises and ambush the idols I faced. I looked up.

A painting stood tall behind the pulpit, leering, judging. I stumbled over the wooden rails and grasped at the image, ripping it off the wall. I knelt before the painting, mesmerized, lost. The frailty of life, of family, was right before me. Time had no relevance when it came to the absurd. Right down to the bewildered looking puppy that stood by feet of the married couple, the feeling of hopelessness that arises periodically throughout life was eternalized in this painting.

Etched in the bottom right corner of the decaying frame read “Copy, The Arnolfini Wedding”. The young woman, draped in a great green dress and a pure white headdress seemed to be guarding her womb with one hand, nursing the unborn child, and pledging her love to the man next to her with the other. Their hands intertwined, but an innate intimacy seemed lost. Their eyes wandered, never staring at other, almost as if they knew how contrived their relationship was. Just another form of Escape. They disgusted me.

I grabbed a rigid razor from inside my shoe.

I leered at the painting this time, who were they to judge me? They who so openly accepted the facetious nature of their marriage. They who couldn’t even stand to stare into each other’s eyes.

I brandished the razor. With swift swipes I carelessly crossed their eyes. I separated their arms, and ripped apart the child-the only reason they were probably even together.

I stared at the puppy at the bottom of the painting. It simply stared into the distance, no motives, no escapes. Simply stood stoically, innocent, untainted. I cut around its shape, detaching it from the rest of the vile painting. I placed it on the altar and sat in the closest pew, the eyes of various statues glaring.

Then, everything melted. The paintings, the statues…my body-all melted into one being. I spoke for the first time in months.

“Why?” I whispered, “Why! Where are you God? Come; join us down here, on Earth. There are many of us who need salvation. Petty poor souls succumbing to a life devoid of Escape. These souls, the ones who’ve been stripped of everything they’ve ever owned, who are truly alone, are the ones who see life as it is. Without any means of Escape to avoid reality, the dirt and the grit, the torturous nature of nothingness that envelops the universe is made vibrantly apparent. They face the absurd with clear eyes, with the least self-pity. All for what? Nothing.  There is nothing worth this life. To be blind to the absurd is a gift. But once the absurd is acknowledged, there is no way to triumph. Once the absurd is recognized, any Escape, like success or wealth or family, gives way to hopelessness. So what if someone gets a promotion, a new car, a house, a wife, a child….it all adds up to nothing. Facing the absurd world knowingly doesn’t prove anything. It doesn’t grace us with enlightenment or allow for us to overcome the fact that You, God, don’t let us in on your secret plans. A hooded figure, transparent as air, quietly scheming, lurking in the shadows. You give us nothing.”

I collapsed. The church was growing incessantly darker, nothingness consuming my surroundings. I grasped at the contents of my bag, tossing aside the cloth in search for the fractured needle. Instead, it caught my eye. It stood out this time, for once it was distinguishable. Natural Escape is the only form worth recognizing, worth considering. I cocked the silver pistol and put the barrel to my head. I smiled.