Disassociation by Craig Haskins - HTML preview

VII

After a short run - he wasn't quite that fit - the philosopher trundled for 15 minutes, highly agitated, glancing back on occasions; deciding which street or alleyway he would venture. Eventually finding a relatively busy park, he sought refuge. The first bench available had a man perched reading a book at one end. Weary from the impromptu run, the philosopher sat down at the opposite end. Breathing heavily elicited some looks from the man; to which only an exasperated muttered 'Shit!' was produced, along with a half-grin of acknowledgement.

After the flight of the philosopher, the concerned officers made a few enquiries. It seemed that the philosopher had a forged clinical psychology licence, calling into question the practice he had set up (although the building's receptionist – not the personal secretary - always maintained it was pure voluntary, non-clinical arrangements between the philosopher and others). Extra enquiries would have found that out of his many published papers, only one had made it into a peer-reviewed journal. The rest were published in obscure journals, with little evidence of widespread readership in the current psychological science community. The receptionist was told in no uncertain terms, that when the person of interest shows up it would need to be reported either directly with the police or – state of mind permitting – that she should persuade him to contact the local constabulary for further questioning. This proved to be in vain, as a week later, a body appeared on a local beach.

Bloated and showing evidence of providing some creatures a hearty snack; it was quickly ascertained that this was indeed the philosopher. No foul play was suspected. By coincidence, it was the same coroner that presided over the suicidal entity's' death inquest. Knowing some of the background helped her determine that this may indeed be straightforward suicide. With a nearby bridge being the likely point that the philosopher jumped to his death, before being swept into the sea. All she had to do was go through the necessary rigmarole and come to a considered conclusion. It perturbed her slightly knowing that two deaths were so closely connected in time and circumstance and left her wondering; what was going on in each of their thought processes? What were the final moments of their lives like?

To: Jack Thompson

Subject: No problem

Jack,

OK, can you send me the photos of the live lions? Where are you getting

Gazing nonchalantly into the distance, then at the stranger beside him and what he was reading, a few of the book's words were deciphered. Though nothingness resonated more than any words; a gloomy mindset overtook his disposition instantly. Sobbing, he caught the attention of the man sitting on the same park bench. In a fairly jovial mood due to the book's content, the man decided to ask if anything was wrong.

“I'm OK. Just had a tiring, tedious, drawn-out day”, came the reply.

“We all have one of them now and again!”, the man raised his eyebrows and smiled half-heartedly, imploring the sadness to halt.

 “Yes. Yes we do. All our heuristics are completely wrong though. Everything we think, is fundamentally flawed. Taken with a pinch of salt!”

Before a response was fully articulated, bowing his head slightly, the philosopher stood up and walked away. Walking at an increasing pace, with more purpose to his stride, he looked up to the Chiltern bridge.

Within a few minutes, he was within a few hundred metres of the overpass. Looking around, there didn't seem to be any pedestrians in sight, the usual glut of commuters driving over the bridge seemed sparse. In a calm journey along the bridge's walkway, each point was weighed up for accessibility and height. One particular section looked favourable and this is where the philosopher quickly jumped over a barrier, gaining a foothold onto the outer edges of the steel structure. A heavy inhalation and exhalation, with closed eyes, gave some resolve to the jumper and he leaped.

Wind whistled past his ears. Heart beating rapidly. Breathing furiously. A thousand neural network pulses raced through his synapses. He cried out 'Lasha!', maybe once or twice. Each millisecond stretching out to encompass his final moments. Each thought process, once initiated, resulted in the same conclusion: 'I shouldn't have done this'.