The Infinite Nothing

XII : Socrates can die

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Tristan was convinced that if Socrates were to be alive and among this pitiful human race, he wouldn't like Tristan.

To the Greek philosopher, ignorance was the world's only and biggest evil, and knowledge its sole good. Tristan liked to pretend to seek knowledge; but in the end it was always just him alone in his room, shooting up on ketamine and falling into a slumber one could hardly describe as peaceful.

It was merely an escape from a world Tristan couldn't face. He chose ignorance for it always welcomed him with open arms, and it was much more pleasant than reality. Tristan suffered every day in an environment he couldn't change; the world was its own enemy and Tristan a mere victim.

But when Tristan laid on his mattress and smiled at a stained ceiling he could barely register anymore, he didn't feel so small, and reality seemed far away. At least in his head he was safe for no one could follow him there.

He registered through glassy eyes that he wasn't alone. Ivan was sitting in that creaking chair again, flipping through Seneca's pages with furrowed brows and occasionally shooting Tristan a glance to check if he was still breathing. Tristan couldn't remember inviting him in and at this point he was too far gone to question his presence, so he remained silent.

Tristan didn't seek Socrates' acceptance, anyway. He claimed children to be tyrants and blamed man's unhappiness solely on women. Tristan could only describe his time's misogyny that dragged itself through history like a venomous snake as a philosopher's inability to get laid – there was a quote that went somewhat like, if a man is happily married he's all set, if he's unhappily married he becomes a philosopher. Tristan couldn't remember where he had read it but who cared; they were dead, anyway.

Tristan didn't think of women as worthless. Rosa had offered him a place to stay when the devils that brought him into this world gave up on him. Tanya had taken him in not soon after, willingly sharing her already crowded and narrow apartment with a reeking homeless kid.

Tanya had held him through his cold flashes in nights he couldn't stop vomiting for he had put down the sole thing that had brought him happiness. No, not happiness. Mere escape.

Tristan was certain Socrates had never met a woman like Tanya. A woman with a smile so honest it made lying to her face impossible. A woman with hands so skilled and an attitude so positive she managed to do what most failed at, following her dreams and spending her days piercing bodies.

Who cared about Socrates, anyway. He looked like a distended whale in human form that had laid in water for too long, with a nose similar to the Grinch's, so small and pointy and annoying.

Tristan chuckled and Ivan glanced at him again, and Tristan suppressed the urge to reach out and pull him onto his mattress. Today Ivan's hair glowed in the little sunlight falling through his windows, and his small frown distorted the usual peace on his face just enough to take away a hint of his innocence.

Ivan was light and life and everything Tristan had given up on. He was content watching him through half closed eyes, not reacting to Ivan's words that barely reached his ears.

Ivan gave up on trying to talk to him and returned to his book. Tristan didn't want him to read Seneca, or bother with death, or confront the things he so obliviously despised. And at the same time Tristan wanted him to know the truth so that Ivan too could die peacefully, and without fear.

Tristan hadn't finished How to Die yet. If he were to die today he wouldn't be prepared, and all his years of contemplating about the end of everything would be rendered useless. Tristan closed his eyes with a sigh. He had no desire to wait much longer.

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