Chapter 1

The man leaned back in his chair. Comfortable upholstery made it possible. A smart investment. Would boost efficiency down the line. He repeatedly bit the inner lining of his cheeks and lips. A coping mechanism. But for what? He had forgotten. Lunch? His seventh espresso and a carrot salad.

The pause room was empty. As he had anticipated. A matter of agile decision-making. Less interaction minimized his irritation. He was an entertainer. But only on the clock. Office work did not attract the kind of people he wanted to talk to. At least not for free. What kind of people he wanted to talk to? No one. This place allowed him to think as little as possible about such questions.

Soon the last sip was gone. Half the salad ended up in the trash. He felt no hunger. Back to work.

His position? Some kind of senior specialist. His calm confidence had no quite authority to it. But his coworkers liked him. Juniors and seniors alike. He did his job. Never asked for help. Never left any work undone. Made no mistakes. When someone asked for help? He came up with a solution. Or just did it himself. The latter more frequently. Less interaction minimized his irritation. Cost-benefit analysis.

The bigwigs were who he caused irritation. Did not put up a smile for his performances to them. Never missed. The data were flawless. Interpretation on point. Derived action plans always led to the desired results. The company demanded so little from him. Thinking? Not required. Workflows were as automated as his facial expressions and gestures. The words did not come from within him. He grabbed them out of thin air.

It did not matter. Not to him. Three winters in a row. A bit later a wolf ate the sun. Nine years ago. Images from childhood stories. He felt comfortable with them. Thinking in symbols meant less words in his head. Words had meaning. Images did not have to. They could just be kind of nice to look at.

He was back at his workplace. Computer unlocked. Latest data retrieved. Reports converted. Spreadsheets looked at for two hours straight. Meetings for another two. Forty minutes of real work somewhere in between. Would more have been necessary? No. Not really. Time to call it a day.

Another winter had arrived. Mild and forgettable. The days blend into one big blur. He could not even recognize his own outline. Did he even have any? Probably.

He entered the gas station. Took two cans of cider from the second shelf in the front. Asked for a bottle of cheap liquor from the top shelf behind the counter. Like any other day. Enough to sleep. Half the bottle. Not so much that he would not get out of bed. He had to function.

The elevator was out of order. He took two steps at a time up to the place he inhabited. Small apartment. Not much in the way of furnishings. He could have afforded much more. More space. It did not matter one way or the other. The problem was all that time.

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Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Hours passed. Days passed. Weeks passed. Months passed. Three.

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The man sat on the edge of his bed. No attachments. Every part of the machine was replaceable. The administrative procedures were done. Checked off on his list. Twenty-eight and ready to clock out forever. Have a business plan. Think always ten years in advance. Kill it.

Nine years would have sufficed. He was cold. Did not care. Too tired.

Third glass empty. Promptly refilled it. Half spirit. Roughly forty percent. Half cider. Four percent. As in the first three. Habitual movements. Earned value.

These had been nine years’ worth of overtime. He had kept spinning for his parents. Then for his mother. Good little cogwheel. But now? Not a performance indicator anymore. Constructive resignation. No letter required. Who even was his employer in this scenario? Vacant position.

His sisters would get over it. They both had families. The last productive conversation between him and them must have been over a decade ago.

He had made preparations. They would not be burdened with more than the mandatory workload. There was even a small sum for the two of them and their attachments. Another vacant position. Minor to them. Back to business as usual. Easy to rationalize.

His breathing became slower. Fourth glass half empty.

The city outside was shining bright with neon lights. His apartment was illuminated by darkness. He hated artificial light up close. From behind the west-facing glass facade of the room it became a slightly amusing visual performance. Repetitive. Far below him.

The traffic was not too loud. High above the city. He enjoyed the train noise. Reminded him of his childhood. When it was the only sound piercing quite nights. Tilted window. A time that seemed incredibly distant to him. He felt no melancholy. At times it was surprising to him that these memories were his.

He began to feel nausea. His heart rate accelerated.

His gaze fell upon the shoes he was wearing. Black leather. Shiny. Polished this morning. Trousers pinstriped. Grey. Shirt buttoned up. Light blue. Sleeves rolled up. The pressure of the suspenders weighed lightly against his back. Dressed well for the occasion. He looked up again. His leather briefcase nestled neatly against the desk. Brown. Pretty brass buckles.

He let out a knowing hum. He took the bottle of pills. Swallowed a few more. Washed it down with the rest of the fourth glass. Better safe than sorry. He turned the bottle in his hand. Almost started to read the backside. Put it away again. He knew what pills he had popped. Too drowsy to read anyway.

He let his upper body collapse onto the bed.

A slight discomfort remained in his upper abdomen. His pancreas. Not acute. Chronic. This time he would not have to sit it out. The painkillers dulled the familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The rhythm of his heart became irregular. He felt like he had to puke. Cold. His consciousness faded away. A face remained in his mind’s eye. A woman. He had known her. Nine years ago. The light did not reach up here.