The knife quivered. It was not so much the knife that quivered, but the hand that held it. Poised between his chin and Adam’s apple, it began to waver slowly downward. The knife, trailing a thin red line from the sternum to the stomach, evoked only the slightest of blood drips, which curved its path around the navel and rested just below it. Will, through the whole process, appeared completely calm. The quivering of the knife was the only hint that anxiety lay within the him. The sharpened instrument was placed upon the dresser as Will selected a crisp white shirt, pushed his arms through the sleeves and fastened the buttons, admiring the way the doubled fabric hid a bloody secret – an unseen pain. He left his room, checked his appearance in the hallway mirror, collected his keys and wallet, and made his way to his car.

The motorway was not so busy at this time of day, after the early morning rush and the late-for-work chaos, it was almost peaceful. Driving toward the city, Will rummaged around his glove-box and found a cassette tape. He held it up to the light, tightened the tape with one finger in the cog, and inserted it into his player. A steady drumbeat belted out from the stereo, pounding notes into his skull, crushing coherent thought and emotion. He drove blankly, his vision kept straight on the road ahead and his feet on the pedals, one hand clutching the steering wheel and the other resting lightly on the gear-stick.

Will turned, dodged traffic across King William Street and walked into Hindley Street, pushing past suit-wearing professionals and jobless chain smokers. As he walked, a homeless man in a doorway grabbed his leg. His grip was strong, as strong as the smell of stale whiskey, and as Will tried to escape the man’s grip, his pants leg tore. The fabric gaped and flapped and Will tripped with the sudden inertia of no longer having the man hold him back. He fell, landing with a sickening thud on the pavement. Will lay, clutching his head and listening to the sounds of shouting and running feet. He looked up to see a nearby café with its front window smashed. Glass was scattered across tables and chairs and a shocked waiter stared in dismay as the curtains flapped in the gaping hole that was a window. Will got up, stood for a moment to regain his balance, and walked toward the café. He went unnoticed among the busy waiters cleaning up the chaos of glass and food as he selected a large shard and slid it along his hand. Blood emerged from the cut and trailed along the Head line on his hand, and dripped onto his shoe. The outward effect of this produced only laboured breathing from Will as his eyes darted, searching for a change in the street scene, searching for resolve. He tried again, this time slicing along the Fate line, evoking more blood, which slid across his palm and onto the ground. The world continued without further damage.

At home, Will separated his white shirt from his body and tossed it onto the floor. He made his way to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. He measured out one and a half teaspoons of instant coffee into a mug. The kettle gave a click. Will poured the water and watched as it separated the coffee grains, pushing them to the sides of the mug then pulling them in, erasing their solidity and dispersing their aroma. From the adjoining room, Will heard snippets of the evening news.

“Today…freak accident… Hindley Street resulted in the death of a man. He…repainting the Red Square club on a ladder. Slipped…ladder…caught two power lines on the way down…torn down…street below. Red paint…splashed pavement…”

Will’s hand faltered, spilling boiling water on him. He swore loudly. Will rushed to his room and hastily put on a t-shirt, collected his keys and left the house. He half ran down the street, barefooted, to the service station ahead. He was met with neon lights and neon promotions. Automatic doors slid open as Will entered the store and went to the counter.

“Horizons. 20s.” he said, almost breathlessly, to the young attendant. The boy turned and seemed to have trouble locating the desired cigarettes; his finger hovered mid-air as if it were a sensor for tracking brands. Behind him, the doors slid open again and a woman entered the store. She approached the counter. As she did, Will noticed her blood-shot and black-ringed eyes, her pallid skin and the bruises in the crease of her left elbow. The woman stood beside Will and put her hand in one pocket. Upon retracting it, she revealed a black revolver, not unlike those used by local police. She raised it shakily, pointing it at the back of the attendant. Hearing the presence of a new customer, the attendant turned, saw the woman, saw the gun, and ducked under the counter. He silently fumbled with the counter above him, located the panic button and shoved it hard with the palm of his hand. On the other side of the counter, the woman was startled by the boy’s sudden disappearance, and in her drugged and dizzied state, she turned and pointed the gun as Will. A flicker of fear crossed Will’s eyes. In his mind he knew this was the End Of All Things. Will stood silently and stared at the woman, who flicked the lever, heard the barrel turn and promptly pulled the trigger. She fired three shots into Will’s chest. Will remained upright for almost a full minute, listening, as heavy breathing was all that could be heard above his heart quickening. As he fell back, as in slow motion, the woman turned and ran. Will slumped against the counter with the attendant sobbing wildly on the other side. He counted his heartbeats: one two, one two, one…two, one…two, one…

two…