Five minutes

The pink clouds in the night sky looked as if stepped on and smudged by some ill-tempered god. The type to slam the door shut when leaving the room after an argument. The clouds stretched infinitely far in all directions; at the same time, they seemed surprisingly close, as if one could reach and grab them if only they bothered to climb up a few stories.

Time moved slowly, slower than a lazy cloud dragged by the wind. He was staring at the computer screen, barely sparing any attention to its content, trying to imitate a sophisticated stare that looked more like a cartoon caricature.

“Five minutes left,” the thought comforted him. He knew that no matter what he would do, this time would gently roll over him, second by second. He did not worry about losing himself in thoughts as the clock snatched time from his pocket. He did not think about what he was going to eat for dinner or about things he forgot to do that day. For those five minutes, the universe was in his hands. He was the timekeeper, counting up every second that passed, as if the clock in the corner of the desktop were a merchant trying to scam him for change. He knew it could bargain hours, days, years from one.

Leaving a few seconds for change, he turned off the computer and clocked out. He walked through a dim, half-empty office, making his way toward the metal doors lit up by the green exit sign.

It was already dark outside. The autumn night had been creeping up day by day like a cat, unnoticed before it was too late. Stepping out into the dark, a weird sense of comfort filled his body, as if someone had wrapped their arms around him in an embrace or thrown a soft blanket over him. Something in the divine darkness of the sky felt so forgiving—something that would hide you from others, or even from yourself.

The office driveway faced a colorless, pale street leading out of town. It barely had any light poles; most of the illumination came from the heavy traffic passing by. He strolled out of the gate, down the narrow pavement. He could barely hear anything except the noise of cars. At the same time, he would probably be at a loss if he didn’t have it, he thought. Silence would be too exposing.

The cars were coming one after another like on a conveyor. It seemed as if somewhere there should be a black box where all of them came out of, and another black box down the street where they all disappeared.

His apartment was a five-minute walk down the street branching out from the main road. Cars seemed to ignore this street in particular. Apartment buildings and small houses were packed tightly together, with occasional cropped-in stores that looked like they hadn’t changed their banners in at least fifty years.

Noise from the traffic gradually dulled down until it became so quiet he could hear the sound of his soles scratching against the rough asphalt. The rhythmic sound of his steps echoing down the empty street slowly pulled him into a trance. His feet carried him to the familiar staircase leading up to the second floor, his room all the way at the end of the brightly lit balcony. Approaching the door, he timed the clinking of the keys in his hand and the sound of the door lock opening to the echo of his steps.

He slid into the dark room like a thief, his arm reaching for the switch in the dark. There was a certain quality to his movements that made them look hurried yet performed with utmost precision. Everything looked like a single motion. He slipped off his shoes, threw the leftovers in the microwave, and set the timer for five minutes. The food was ready by the time he loaded the laundry and started the bath running. He ate straight out of the hot container, standing naked in the kitchen, listening to the rhythmic thrum of the washer.

Judging by the water splashes starting to sound heavy, he could tell that the bath was ready. He prepared a towel next to him and immersed his body in the steaming water. The moment felt triumphant. “Finally, a day when everything goes right,” he thought. The thought put a proud smile on his face; his eyes shut in relaxation.

Every single muscle in his body had let go, except for this pleasant tension in his throat, where the water surface ringed around it. The tension grew stronger; he could hear the washer in the kitchen spinning vigorously. It spread down his warmed-up body until he could not resist it. He stretched out to a cabinet under the sink, dripping water all over the floor, and took a small pouch. A few bottles of detergent and cleaner fell out from the cabinet and went rolling down the wet floor. Ignoring them, he opened the pouch as carefully as he could, barely seeing what he was doing, hands trembling. He threw on a loose rubber band around his arm, soaking a paper disk in alcohol at the same time. He cut his fingertips in the hassle of trying to take out the blade from the paper cover. A swift motion released the force he could not hold in anymore. A few moments later, calmness returned. He looked at the cut and carefully held his hand above the water to avoid dripping blood on the floor. “Looks more than usual,” he thought and set the timer on his phone to five minutes. He could not resist a chuckle. “The whole thing must have looked awful,” he thought, looking at the mess on the floor. The patch of red in the water grew slowly. Small pulsations made it look alive. For a moment, he felt an immense emptiness in his chest, knowing he would drain it eventually. It felt like taking a life. The washer had finished its cycle, and the room fell silent except for the soft dripping sound. He started to hear his heartbeat. It was a nice, steady rhythm, like a clock. The dizziness became stronger. He reached for the phone and noticed he could barely move his arm. The wet screen was still showing the five-minute starting point. He was too weak to let out a laugh. He quickly dropped the phone on the floor and put all the force he had left into tightening the rubber band. His body, unable to hold itself upright, slowly slid down the smooth bath surface, under the pink water.