All the hard lessons he had learned, centered
around one simple and unalterable necessity: self-reliance. And here he
was, flat on his back, unable to fight or recover, unable to support
even himself, let alone those he cared for. He was less than useless, a
drain on their efforts, on their need to reject him and go on. Never
had he known such helplessness.
But here the words run out. It was not a single catastrophic event, nor
a succession of smaller devastations, which led him to his moment of
destruction, but a lifetime of endless conflict, broken dreams and dark,
twisted, hopeless roads. There was nothing left to say or feel. He
simply could not go on. As Sylviana read to him the last chapter of
Hemingway, the futility of life congealed into a single, inescapable
blade that no longer hovered at a distance, but stood poised like a
needle above his heart. All was black, and like Kamela before him the
very throbbing of his heart, with its surges of love and hope was the
final, crushing despair.
He waited until the girl was asleep, then put her knife into the soft
flesh beneath his ear and began to cut downward, a sinister, sweeping
smile.
But the pain was greater than he imagined, and something yet stronger
stayed his hand. It wasn't that he lacked the courage.
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