THE CONSEQUENCES OF DOUBT
The cuffs of Charlie Waterfield’s shirt slid over his hands. His watch slid off his wrist. His pants bunched up around his ankles. Charlie tried not to panic. He failed. His panic increased how quickly he shrank. The black-and-white floor tiles rushed toward him. His jacket and then his dress shirt slipped from his rapidly diminishing shoulders. At his present rate of shrinking, Charlie would disappear in less than a minute. It was at this moment that he saw his reflection in the blade of the knife Shirley Miller had dropped on the floor.
The blade of the knife rested against the leg of the desk, so that as Charlie looked down, his reflection looked directly at him. As Charlie continued shrinking, his reflection grew larger and larger. It was impossible to determine whether this was a trick of light and reflective surfaces or whether it was actually happening. When he realized that the dried blood along the edge of the knife was his, Charlie looked away. He continued shrinking. It was desperation that compelled Charlie to look back at the knife, and when he did, his reflection began acting independently.
‘Hope is a weapon, most often used against oneself,’ Charlie’s reflection said.
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘You’ll get it.’
‘That is not helping.’
‘Yes it is. Breathe. Just breathe. Breathe in, hold it, let it tumble out of your lungs like water in a stream.’
‘Jesus! Enough! Give me something I can use!’
‘I’m trying to!’
Charlie did not feel like he had enough time to experiment with his reflection’s suggestion. But he didn’t have any other ideas. He continued shrinking. His rate of shrinking increased even more. Becoming desperate, Charlie took a large breath. He kept it in, then he let it tumble out of his lungs like water in a stream. Doing this made him feel extremely embarrassed, but he had to admit it also made him feel better. Charlie’s rate of shrinking slowed, although it did not cease.
‘What I’m trying to suggest is that commonly held notions and conceptions of hope, ones you obviously entirely agree with, could very well be flawed. Are you open to that idea?’
‘You’re saying that hope is a bad thing?’
‘I’m saying that hope is a many-sided thing. I’m saying that hope is a very powerful force. And like all powerful forces, it can be used for good or bad, constructively or destructively. Hope’s function changes depending on the needs of the person holding on to it.’
‘Even in Metaphoria?’
‘Even more so.’
‘You’re telling me to give up hope?’
‘I’m telling you to question your intent. I’m asking you to think about how you’re using hope. I’m suggesting – and sorry, you’ll have to forgive me but there is no other way to say this – that you need to becoming motivated not so much by hope, but by following your heart.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Yes, but there is a trick to following your heart.’ ‘Care to pass it on?’ ‘You have to give up all belief that you can control where it’s heading.’
Charlie Waterfield felt this was true. As far as advice goes, it was more abstract than he’d have liked, but nonetheless the words of his reflection in the blade of the knife that had recently cut out his heart had a calming effect. Charlie closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t ignore the ticking, but he was able to lower his response when each tick happened. He took a second deep breath and then a third. On the fourth, the sound of the ticking in his ears became almost soothing; the metronomic pace brought order to Charlie’s speeding thoughts. His fingers got longer. His toes pushed outward. His legs increased in length.
Charlie returned to his original size. He gathered his clothes. He dressed. He sat on the chair behind the desk and tied his shoes, thinking about what his reflection had said, that he needed to rethink his ideas on hope. Charlie knew he needed to do this. He could feel it in his heart.
But exactly where his heart was, he did not know.