X, Y, Z

Luke was depressed again. He laid in bed while the morning started and regretted only having closed the shade halfway last night. Under the blankets, he rolled onto his stomach, willed his eyes shut though by now he was clearly awake.

What was the point of it all? (You're so original Luke. That's the question of the day.)

At least he didn't need to go to work, or maybe that was only lucky for The Universe. The one outside of him. Because in bed it was just Luke, Luke and a pile of unsubstantiated, unnecessary misery.

Well, fuck 'em. Sigh.

His face breaks and crunches inwards but he stays still. He is clutching the corners of the pillow underneath his head.

Why do I feel feeling x (all alone), feeling y (ill), and feeling z (driftwood)?

X and y were getting old, seemed a little cruel anyway, for returning so often, striking from anywhere till Luke sought out the bed, his room and the solitude to face them like the sniveling man he was. Z though, z was approachable, almost friendly. Z was already in the day by day, familiar to any young person who'd ever given more than half a damn about

Life. Gah. What was he doing with his life? What could he do with his life? Why did it matter, anyway?

Always pragmatic, Luke decided to try and sort z out.

Well, he was living, comfortably by most standards in the house he rented with his best friend since college, Mark. His job was not great, or maybe it was – no sometimes it was. But most of the time, Luke was bored. He was in sales. Looking for a nobler calling? No, not really, though if it should strike him, he might take a second glance. He'd always admired his friends that went to medical school – not for their ambition or hard work, but for their passion, so to speak. To think one could do something significant in this world, to have a whole life mapped out by what in all measures was a solid plan, trusting that this path was right.

Right? What did that even mean, for anyone? No one could really know, could they? Luke had rolled to his side by now, had been staring at a point on the wood panels of his wall concentrating and not seeing. Now he reached under his mattress which was on the floor without frame or box spring, and pulled out the knife he kept there, a small paring knife. For a moment, he handled it, passed it back and forth between his hands. He rolled onto his back, feeling its weight and contours. Delicate was his touch, like he might be stroking a woman if one were in his bed.

There was no right or wrong, of this Luke was sure. But it didn't matter, so much. That wasn't the question really, and far too often it seemed to muddy the waters of Figuring It Out, even Holden knew that.

The traffic was picking up outside now, with the light. Mark was awake; Luke could hear him in kitchen, making coffee no doubt. Luke loved coffee, pictured putting on pants and going downstairs – but only for a second. Matters at hand, he looked into the knife, which was gray. The room was gray, everywhere the sun did not stream, which was a little less by the minute.

No point really, Luke thought, looking at the knife in his hand. He'd laced his fingers over-under-over, undid them, redid them. Makes no difference if I'm here or there, if anyone is here or there. Aren't we all just a blip on the radar. The tea kettle beneath him screamed.

I'm so tired, thought Luke.

I'm so x, y, and z. And now he had the paring knife in a grip, a pose like a horror movie stabber would take, in miniature.

So goddamn – he rolled over to his stomach, to the middle of the bed, and plunged the knife into the electrical outlet above the mattress – x – the shock made him shake, his hand burned, clutched hard and he let go.

He picked the knife back up and plunged again – y – and this time he felt fuzz, like he intimately knew each electron running along his skin.

And z! The last time, throwing in the paring knife, singed. A distant snapping noise floated up from downstairs, Mark's muffled fuck.

The knife was scorched, dark gray, and Luke left it on the mattress. Got up – wait, he felt weak – ok now he got up, put on pants. He bounces down the stairs, meets Mark coming up from the basement, who says – hey man, I reset the breaker, fucking electrical went out in this house again. We really need to call Antoinette about this, I mean, I was making toast.

Luke nods and passes him, entering the kitchen. Don't worry dude, he says, Look, the light's back on the toaster and I'm going to make us pancakes.