All it really takes is one person to tell you not to give up. If you can’t find someone who wants to see you succeed, then look for someone who wants to see you fail. When you’re on a path of self-destruction, those people are pretty good at urging you an extra mile or two. Gorze climbed down the cliff face with his blade between his teeth. Everything hurt in some way or another. Another day, another failure. He should have never climbed this fucking mountain in the first place. All those victories carried as much meaning as every other day, and they left exactly as much to show for it, none and nothing.
He sat with his feet by a fire, and his toes poking out from his sandals. Fire was warm. That warmth attracted other mountaineers who’d lost their way, too. Artists and saboteurs aren’t all too different; the only real thing that sets them apart is that saboteurs are professionals, artists self-sabotage for free. Even when they aren’t self-sabotaging, there’s nothing an artist loves more than making other artists doubt themselves. They’re a fundamentally meek bunch. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be artists.
‘So that’s it,’ a man said, coming from the mist like a spectre from a faraway time, not dead, not alive, maybe not one or the other, not yet anyway. ‘You’re headed back down already?’
‘I can’t keep going. It’s done. It’s a waste of my time.’
‘It is. You’re in two camps. You either never wanted it in the first place, or you’re in denial. If you’ve come this far and you’re giving up, then it could be either or. If it’s the former camp, then enjoy a slow descent and a life of wondering what might have been. If it’s the latter camp, then just jump and save yourself the trouble.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a long way down. I’ll die.’
‘Oh, it’s just death. If you die, you won’t have to live with yourself. So go on, jump or don’t. But don’t keep crying about it, you sound like a swordsman.’
‘Aren’t you a swordsman? Isn’t that why we’re here?’
‘First of all, there is no we. There’s only I on this mountain, you don’t exist until you do. Understand? Second, you have a sword, I have this, let’s see who wins in a fight.’ The man broke a large double-barrelled shotgun and loaded two shells into it. ‘If you’re going, go. If you’re fighting, fight. Don’t sit about moping all day. Not only are you wasting all of our time, but you sound like a faggot. You’re not a faggot, are you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then what’s it going to be?’ The barrel motioned impatiently to the edge, then to him, then to the edge. Jump, it said.
‘I can’t—’
‘I can’t, I can’t. What can you do?’ His finger flexed on the trigger, itching for use.
Between the gun and the sword, a fight broke out.
‘I’ve wasted a year of my life.’
‘You’re going to waste a lot more than that in this mountain. Did you think it would be easy? Did you think you were going to turn up, not practise, and be great? Did you think you wouldn’t bleed? Wouldn’t cry?’ The shotgun put a hole in the floor the size of a ten-car. ‘Have your friends given up on you yet? Good.’ Another hole. ‘Have you given up on yourself yet? Good.’ That double barrel erased chunks of the mountain in large triangular swathes, leaving only the cloud like a canvas standing.
‘Miss your wife? Miss your girl back home?’
‘I don’t have a girl.’
‘Good. That’ll only slow you down. Girls are for people who aren’t you. People who are happy to be there. Down there. Down in the happy village.’
‘I don’t want to be alone.’
‘You’re going to be alone anyway. You. Not them, but you.’ Gorze balanced on a rock, the ground below it vanished into the gesso linen land below. Just this rock, wide enough for a foot. Fall and die. Foot on rock, foot on heel. Stacked. Leap. Flip. Try something new. Hold the blade at both ends. Fingers blood. Sheering sparks against the steel. To the handle, caught on a clip.
‘Not bad. Maybe you aren’t complete shit after all.’
‘Good to know.’
‘Feel sorry for yourself, be my guest. Don’t do it in the heart of violence. After the fact, regret. In the moment, do.’ Before Gorze could react, the man rotated around him, shoulder to shoulder, back-to-back, shoulder again. Gun buck to the grid. Hallelujah. Pain all over.
Another bang. Light from the barrel. Light in the eyes of both men. Light so bright that both men weren’t men anymore, but shadows. Base shadow forms fighting in the blood of the mountain. Sword, gun, knuckle, teeth, it didn’t matter. Violence is as it always is. Give yourself permission to succumb to it, and let it take you where you need to go. It’s not real, not as real as you. Discipline, but give in.
‘Try something else. What you’ve done so far haven’t amounted to jack shit. Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then figure it out. One true strike is worth ten thousand half cuts. Why skin a cat when you can blow its head clean off?’
‘I need to cut this stone. The last thing I need is power.’ More violence, sparks in the night illuminating two figures of growing fatigue and desperation. Into a cave. Into the belly. Into the mud and the thorns and the spines and the blood.
‘Precision is a kind of power. It’s the easiest cuts that are the hardest. They sneak up on you. They tear the floor from under you. They hurt you in ways you don’t understand. How can it be so hard to cut something so still? How can it be so hard to make progress over flat land?’
‘What if I’m not enough?’
‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ Bang. Right in the chest. A cone of red and then a circle of crying black on the wall behind. Ink dribble. The birds return to roost. Silence in all the halls of the mountain.