On the Edge

I open the fridge with shaking hands. Writing doesn’t help, black metal doesn’t help, screaming doesn’t help, punching the pillow doesn’t help. I don’t want to go for the beer but I am out of options. Look at me, I think as I open the bottle, hating myself. Look at me, I’ve only been awake for three hours, thirteen to go before I finally die an eight-hour death, all I long for, and already I’m boozing. How am I going to make it?

“Shut up and work,” a voice inside keeps saying.

All I want to do is scream at it. “Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up! I can’t do all this shit! I just can’t fucking do it!” Cursing doesn’t help either.

The voice ignores me. “You’ve got to do it,” it says. “Without money you’ll die. And these are your biggest clients you’re working for. Screw them over and not only will they not pay you, but they will never hire you again.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?!” I scream at the voice. “Stop reminding me, goddammit!”

I don’t know why I even bother complaining. “When you know they will never hire you again, the future seems so bleak it will drive you over the edge,” the voice continued. “You know you’re already on that edge. You love it. You’re in love with the edge. You like it when your toes are dangling in midair, and a gust of wind can blow you off the roof.”

“No, aargh! I don’t fucking love it, I hate the edge, I hate it, shut up!” I drink half a bottle to get rid of the voice but it doesn’t work.

“Get back to work, you loser. Loser. Leh-hoo-zeh-herrr!”

“Are you doing Jim Carrey now? Who the hell are you? Get out! Get the fuck out!” I take a deep breath through the nose and grit my teeth. “Get . . . out.” My voice promises murder.

“You’re going to murder yourself then? Newsflash! Newsflash! This is not Jim, it’s you.” The voice chuckles maniacally. “Loser.”

“Aaaargh!” I bash my head against the desk but don’t feel the pain.

“Told you you love the edge.”

There is no reasoning with the voice. My fists are clenched tightly. I won’t respond to the voice again, I vow. Ignoring it would be best. Yes. I try to relax my hands.

When the voice comes again, it seems to come from far away, as if shouted to me from a mountaintop in the distance.

“Looooser! Loooooooseeeer!” I can’t get rid of the image of Jim Carrey screaming at me, doing a weird dance in the process.

The bottle is empty in an instant. I crave more but fear my ability to work will be all but gone within half an hour if I keep this up. I hate the voice with a passion, but it is right: I have to get back to work.

“Jump. I dare ya.”

Shaking hands open the fridge again, and out comes another bottle.

“Please . . .” I utter. I know it sounds pathetic.

“Begging now, are we? Told you you were a loser. Only losers beg. Winners get to work.”

“I don’t want to be a fucking winner!” I scream, my vow forgotten. I wonder if I am going crazy.

“Oh, you don’t, do ya? Why is that, loser?”

“Fuck you. Just . . . fuck you . . . I hate you.”

“Get to work. You know you have to do it.”

The laugh that follows sounds terrible . . . evil. I know that I am talking to myself when I respond to the voice. Truly. But the voice just keeps mocking me and trying to cajole me into working. It is only doing a good job of the former. It is doing a better job than I want to admit. I press my palms into my eyes, and a sob escapes my throat.

“Do it. Do it. Do it . . .” The voice doesn’t stop.

“Quit it . . .”

“Do it. Do it . . .” It just doesn’t stop!

The second beer is half empty when I open the document I have been translating. The voice stops. I look around, surprised. I know there's no one to see, but I am just so surprised after hearing nothing but “do it” for the last couple of minutes that I can’t help myself.

Then I seem to hear “do it” again, but from far away, like a whisper. I must just be imagining it, I tell myself. I’ve just heard the freakin’ phrase too many times.

I type something. I want to cry, but I type some more. Stupid fucking work . . . I translate this crap, some guy makes money selling it, I translate some more, some asshole makes some more money selling that . . . What is the damn point? I think.

I type some more, face expressionless, defeated, dead, then take a sip of my beer. “Do it . . .” the voice whispers again.

My jaw and fists clench and unclench. I type some more useless words. Leave me alone, I think, but I don’t speak.

“Never.”