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The Right Thing

a short story by ShanQo

I slowly push the door to my room open, exhaling the last of the Marlboro lights in a breath of resignation. The dimly lit room carries the scent of day-old incense. The thumps of bass from the speakers match the thumps in my chest ... all the caffeine seems to have accelerated my cardiac functions...I walk over and turn up the music, while what was left of the cigarette flames away between my fingers, the burning sensation slowly creeping through the skin on my index finger, blistering it. It was Curtis Mayfield ...

"How did I get so far gone
Where do I belong
And where in the world did I ever go wrong?
If I took the time to replace
What my mind erased;
I still feel as if I'm here but I'm gone."


Eyes closed. Ears open. I absorb the lyrics with a grin on my face, my head slowly bobbing back and forth with the bassline, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end with a surreal sense of excitement. Music for the soul. With my eyes still shut, I slowly walk over to the lamp, feel for the switch, and turn it off. The glow from the nearly-extinguished cigarette butt creates a halo around my left hand. My eyes only half-open, I take one last, long, desperate puff, and put it out on the blackened corner of the wooden desk. I stifle a hoarse cough and exhale the smoke slowly, almost painting an illusional cloud in the darkness. By now, my pupils are acclimated to the murky darkness that envelopes me. I look at the silhouette of the extinguished butt...it is to be my last one. Really.

Again, I lean over to the speakers and turn up the volume just a couple more notches, and then slump my exhausted body into the hard and unreasonably uncomfortable chair.

How did I get so far gone...Where do I belong...And where in the world did I ever go wrong?

The wind outside is howling in fury, knocking the weak windows around with an aggravating din of clatter that stirs me out of my melancholic peace. I slowly turn around and with glazed eyes, and notice that my curtains billowing about. Maybe the same wind that dislodged my window open would knock it shut.

The soulful rhythm and consoling bassline gently wind down to oblivion as the track comes to an end. The tingling feeling in my spine slowly subsides as the silence becomes too overbearing to handle. I fidget. Restless. I keep the tune alive in my head. The wind is tormenting my weak windows, while the curtains demand attention as they flail about, hanging on for dear life. My safe haven is beginning to get violated. The only rescue comes from the speakers again. One thump. Then two. A discernable rhythm makes my head loll backwards, oblivious to the vicious howling wind outside. Bilal's "Soul Sista."

The darkness comforts my desolation. The music lulls my misery to sleep.

Rewind. Let's go back three hours. The rooftop.

I took off my watch -- birthday gift from my father -- and placed it on the hard concrete of the rooftop. I slowly...deliberately...walked over to the edge and looked down. Twenty-four stories. I walked back to the spot where I had left my watch, and slowly sat down. I glanced over at my watch. Funny, the second hand wasn't ticking anymore. It had stopped at 8:43pm...the very minute I had taken it off. In a desperate attempt for comfort, I checked my pockets for the pack of Marlboros I'd bought that morning. Only one cigarette was left. Ironic. I glanced over to my watch again. Still no ticking. Still 8:43pm. It was almost as if time had stood still. The wind was calm. I secretly hoped a gust of wind would blast by, pick me up, and hurl me down. The chorus from Curtis Mayfield's "Here But I'm Gone" was playing in my head.

I took out the last of the cigarettes and lit it with ease. Still no wind. Not even a subtle breeze. My watch was still at a halt.

How did I get so far gone ... Where do I belong ... And where in the world did I ever go wrong?

My lungs embraced the tobacco willingly ... almost expecting it. I held on to the smoke for a lingering second and then exhaled with a sigh. I noticed that my hands were shaking. I got up and headed for the edge again, cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth. The perspective was staggering. I hummed the tune in my head ...

How did I get so far gone ... Where do I belong ... And where in the world did I ever go wrong?

In a crazed and sudden haste, I hurried back to where I was sitting. Without a second thought I quickly picked up my watch and tossed it into my jacket pocket, while taking a long one from the dwindling cigarette. I took one look back at the edge, and then walked over to the stairwell.

The same fingers that were blistered from the cigarette burns earlier are now snapping to Bilal's "Soul Sista." I reach over and turn it up just one last time. Eyes still closed. A subtle smile taking me over. The tingling feeling back in my spine. Rhythm is giving me goosebumps. The wind is howling outside, almost calling for me. But my ears are deaf to the calamity outside, the angered growls and howls of the storm calling my name. I only hear the music. Bilal. Then Marvin Gaye. Then Al Green. Cut to D'Angelo, Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, and Sade ...

How did I get so far gone ... Where do I belong ... And where in the world did I ever go wrong? If I took the time to replace ... What my mind erased ... I still feel as if I'm here but I'm gone."

It seems like I had spent hours sprawled in that wooden chair before I decide to get up and turn on the lights again. The wind has calmed down outside. Just occasional whispers and whistles of persistence. I open my eyes slowly to the blinding light from the lamp I'd just turned on. The brightness seems strange ... almost alien ... to my eyes that have grown accustomed to the comforting darkness. I walk over the window, close it shut, draw the curtains, and then I wander off to the bathroom.

Leaning over the sink, I watch the cold water run for a while before I look up to face myself in the mirror. The image that confronts me is as frightening as looking down twenty-four stories. I stare in shock at the haggard face. Tears are inevitable. I could make out Jill Scott's encouraging "Try" coming from my bedroom. I wash my tears off without taking my eyes off from the man in the mirror. Still on the edge, I walk back to my lit room, and dust off blackened corner off my table. Sweeping away that last cigarette butt, I open my window just a crack and threw out the handful of dust and ash. The wind devours it all too eagerly.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my watch. Oddly enough, it reads 1:37am. I look up at the clock on the wall. 1:37am.

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