Raymond felt he sand between his toes and
just kept on walking, not even realizing he was walking towards the ocean. To
him, it didn’t matter anymore. His life was stuck on a loop and he had lived
what he needed to live. He felt there was nothing more he could do or that he
could get out of life on Earth. He had decided to think things by taking a walk
and, unknowingly, his subconscious had already decided that it was time to end
it all. The water reached his pants fast, and then his underwear. Then his belt,
his shirt and finally his glasses. The current and the sheer strength of the
ocean did the rest, taking his body from that cold, windy beach to the bottom
of the ocean, from where no one would be able to take it for some time.
He wasn’t someone people would miss and,
although the ocean released the body, the police didn’t identify him for
several months, as no one would ask for him. When they finally did identify the
body as Raymond Bloom, it happened just because of a casual matter and not
because someone was looking for him. The truth was he had no wife, no children,
no parents and no friends. According to the information an officer was able to
gather, he had lived alone for at least twenty years in a small attic on a very
old building. The place smelled awful, as no one even knew the owner was dead.
The officer found there some leads on who the man was and, maybe, on why he had
done what he had done.
Officer Jenny Marshall was one of those people
who believe the best of every single person. It was strange for a cop to have
such an attitude towards life but there she was, trying to cheer people up and
making the best of her day every single day. She had been transferred recently
and it was only the second post she had held ever so she wasn’t really assigned
to the streets or to some interesting investigations. Jenny normally did the
paperwork for every case and was in charge of keeping the archives in order,
something she took very seriously. Deep down, she knew that her male
counterparts loved to see her tie down to a job that didn’t lead anywhere but
she ignored that fact and just did her work.
Investigating the death of Raymond was
assigned to her because she requested it. She told her boss she wanted to
change her work a little and such a case would be perfect for her. After all,
it seemed pretty straightforward and she could even do all the paperwork
herself. So she convinced her boss and there she was on Raymond’s apartment,
pinching her nose to avoid the foul smell of rotten food and trying to uncover
the reason why he had committed suicide. To Penny, personally, it was not clear
how a person could do such a thing. For her, life was sacred and no one had the
right to take their own, even if they felt helpless and desperate. She knew
there were always better options.
She went through Raymond’s things and
discovered that he had been published. The books did not look very nice on the
outside but then she decided to sit down on the bed and just read one of the
many stories the man had written in them. One was particularly moving; dealing
with a ghost that saw how his childhood home was tore down to build an
apartment building. She found very interesting but very sad too. She kept on
looking for clues on Raymond’s house but she realize the only thing worth
looking in there was his books so she put them all in boxes and took them to
the station. She would try to find something in them and get to the bottom of
the case, that way making everyone realize she could be a great agent and even
a decent detective.
Jenny started ready every single one of
Raymond’s stories at work. No one really said anything to her because she
wasn’t annoying anyone and she was doing her main job, which was taking care of
the all the data. As she did that and on her free time, she would only read and
read everything. Months passed until she had read every single piece of writing
in Raymond’s apartment. It was winter
now and the last words she read from him where strangely appropriate for the
climate: “I feel the cool breeze coming and telling me it’s time to go”. That
was a short story about a man radically different from Raymond, with family and
love all around him.
The officer decided to let the case go for a
while, so she went home and spent the holidays with her parents and her
boyfriend and every other family member that had decided to come to the city
for Christmas. She had a wonderful time eating and talking and dancing. She
laughed a lot and wished for life only to be like that, full of joy and people
whom you loved and who loved you. She realized Raymond’s writing had begun to
depress her a bit but her family and all the love and special mood of the
season brought back to her the best feelings and that nice warmth that only
love can take to someone’s heart. And then, right in the Christmas dinner, she
understood what had happened to Raymond.
He had killed himself, not because he was weak
or suffering in a too awful way. He died because he was alone; he had no one to
take care of him or to even listen to what he had to say. And that was obvious
just by reading what he wrote, as he said everything about anything he had ever
thought about in life. It was amazing to read about so many things, but funny
and serious, happy and sad, short and extremely long. His writing had been the
way for him to externalize every single thing he had bottled up inside, as he
ad never had anyone to properly talk and share his thoughts with. He had been
trapped by his own life or, at least that’s what Jenny thought. Even if he was
to blame, he had no choice.
When the holidays ended, she wrote her report
on the death of Raymond Bloom and decided to properly request her transference
to the detective’s unit. She knew she could do more there and when her demand
wasn’t accepted, she resigned the police. Jenny had learned from investigating
Raymond that she needed to do with her life as she wanted, she couldn’t afford
not living and not doing what her heart demanded of her. She didn’t want to end
up like Raymond, all alone and talking to the books because there’s no one
there. Unappreciated by the world and ignored to the point when, at her death,
no one would ever think of grieving her. She wanted more from life and,
eventually, she got it.
Raymond’s books were donated to a public
library and it was almost two years later when Jenny saw Ray’s name on the
news. She was working with the FBI and now had a partner and was properly
working the field. But during the investigation of a case, she saw the headline
and bought the newspaper to find out what it was all about. Apparently, a book
expert had been investigating the libraries of the cities looking for
antiquities and particular books and so on. He had discovered Raymond, who had
been an unknown author all his life, and declared he was one of the best
storywriter he had ever found. He didn’t know that Ray was dead but he did know
something else that Jenny didn’t: Ray hadn’t been as alone as she had thought.
According to the article, the man had found
several letters in the apartment Raymond had lived in, now turned into a posh
flat. During the reforms on the place, they had found several letters and the
expert had read them, discovering he had owned a dog for a long time and that
he had died just about the time the author had stopped writing. Besides the
dog, he had been in love with someone he described thoroughly in his letters,
every physical aspect and some traits of characters. The letters, with such
richness and passion, ended up being edited into a book that sold millions of
copies, making the expert a rich man.
Jenny was sad that Raymond had not been there
to enjoy his fame and fortune. They eventually discovered he had committed
suicide and that made his letters and all his books even more popular.
Eventually, there was no one that didn’t know the name of the author and his
tragic story. Jenny had thought, for a moment, that she had known the author
but she realized she never did. She realized that no one had ever known him
properly. He had been in love, that man who felt so alone and so sad. He had
experienced life and life had not experienced him and Jenny felt that he
finally understood why he had done what he had done. It was clear as water and
she wouldn’t argue with it.
Raymond became famous, as well as his views on
life and his pain, which was painted all over his letters. But no one would
ever know him as he was already gone and everyone had lost the chance to tell
him “I’m here”.
