The day I killed myself.

The day I killed myself.

The day I killed myself I’d had enough, the old saying “enough is enough” played loudly in my head, a never-ending manta that just wouldn’t stop. I made it stop.

I’d spend hours on how… you ask why, why would you spend so much time and energy on the how? Well… Ask you inter being what you’d do if you killed yourself and it didn’t work. What if didn’t die? What if you maimed yourself and you lived, lived with a broken body you caused and failed at such an easy thing to do. Can you even imagine what kind of loser you’d be? All you had to do was kill yourself and you even fucked that up…

I’d thought long and hard on the when’s, date, time, where, of course how.

Date: The date should have some kind of meaning if only for me personally. If no one figures it out that would be fine with me, but I’d like a few close associates to wonder if the date had some deep meaning… note I said associates, I have few friends, even fewer close friends. I’ve just never been able to make good friends. Yeah a few over the years, friends that you can call and see if they want to stop by the local pub and have a few. Most of those are hoping you’re paying, yeah, I pay, so much for decent friends.

Time: Does the time really matter when you kill yourself? Yeah, it does… Mornings are the only time of the day I enjoy. A fresh start of the day, bright skies and morning breezes, birds singing, traffic light at that hour, lack of noise, it’s all good. It lasts about two hours… Two fucking hours of peace before the neighbor freaks wake up and the yelling starts. You know how it goes… Mom’s yelling at the kids “Hurry up you’re going to miss the bus etc. etc.…” Then the night before drunks are up and screaming at the wives before they hit the road to jobs they hate; but being the only one’s bringing in an income off they go. I hear a wife scream back… the crack of a hard right-hand ends that.

Where: Well, where in the hell do you think? Do you think I’m going down to the local Museum and committing suicide on some stupid display of the Crowning achievements of the 18th century? Seriously I almost left this “Where” out. The only reason is, some have picked a spot where they had strong memories; fun, love, hate or the ever-present demon of pain. I had a spot I thought about up in the forest area heading to the coast. I had a girlfriend once that had hiked into an area and then later in life buried a loving pet there. We hiked up the steep slope, she showed me the place. For some reason it was a special place to her. I have no such place, pity me… fuck off.

How: I’ve covered this… The how has to be for sure; fucking this up would be the perfect way to prove to everyone you’ve ever known that you are the most fucked up piece of shit that ever lived; he/she couldn’t even commit suicide without fucking it up. They should be required to put that on your tomb stone when you finally get it right or just die because that’s what the God’s finally decided to do with your idiot self. “This idiot finally came to death, not because he/she tried but because we were all finally gifted that.”

Gun, knife, pills, jump off a bridge (covered that), hit by a truck (again covered that), the list is getting slim. You’re either going to do it, or your gonna find a way to blame it on someone else… That makes you a punk in my book…

Gun: If you don’t freak out and miss or just blow half your head off, it’s one of the for sure ways… mess it up and there you go with living on with half a head. Nice job… If you don’t think of the cleanup crew then you are a heartless asshole in my book. How’d you like to have to clean up a spattered asshole with a huge hole in the back of his/her head with goo all over the walls… Nice jerk…

Knife: Oh sure, you’re going to stab yourself in the heart… I don’t think so. Slash your throat… not likely. I’ve heard that if you ice a wrist, you might be able to get along with that as long as you go down the length of the arm deep, not a pussy cut across the wrist; after a few tries some get it right. Doing it in a nice hot bath keeps the wound open and if lucky you bleed out. Not too much of a mess for those that have that job of clean up.

Pills: Not a bad idea, if you have the right pills. Again... fuck it up and off to the races you go with anyone that knows you, plus the media will have a ball at your expense. The new designer drug fentanyl is very promising; lots of people are over dosing and dying, might be a winner. Clean, no goo for those people to clean up. Only question is; do you want everyone to think you’re a drug user that fucked up? Only you can answer that question, do you even care? I guess I do…

I’m not going to bore you with how I did it… It’s always a personal choice… do it right and you’re dead, if not… live with it.

I got up the next morning and had coffee, with cream. Left the house in the bright morning sun, birds where chirping and the sounds were soft. I walked away from the city and into the treed area just outside of town. The wind made soft purring sounds in the branches, the grass soft under my feet; I noticed I had no shoes, just didn’t seem to matter. It was a beautiful morning.

I came to a little clearing in the trees with a clear view back towards town where I’d lived most of my life; it was all gray as though that no longer existed and was fading. I guess for me it didn’t; a thought came to my mind… I hope I didn’t make a mistake.

From the Ramblings.

t

Taum Lee, Two. The deal.

Taum Lee; Two, the deal.

Room 7 deep within a secret Government command building. Called for a mandatory meeting; flight from Budapest a horror; hot, tired more than a little pissed. Mandatory meeting? Sitting waiting in a large room reminiscent of a library from someplace in history; British early 20th Century, bullshit came to mind.

Faint door closing, fainter footsteps. Mumbling voice getting louder. In walks an older man wearing tweed fitting perfectly into the décor of a hundred plus years ago. “Ahhh here we are.” Heavy British accent.

Taking a seat behind the large desk he dug deep in a side drawer pulling out two glasses and what appeared to be Scotch in a small finely cut-glass bottle. “A touch, yes?”

Slight nod of the head.

The ghost of time long passed poured two fingers worth in each glass and slid one across the desk.

He picked up small pair of half round cut reading glasses and worked them tight on his nose.

“Mister Lee.” Long seconds pause.

“We’ve asked, then more or less demanded that your old employer release you to us. You have unique skills we are in dire need of it would seem.” Theodore Spencer whispered in his crackly old man voice. “I know this is rather sudden but we need your skills.”

“Unique?” Taum said with a flat tone. Most people would have a chill run up their spine unless they were brain dead. A flat one word with tones of impending violence, extreme violence.

“Yes, quite so, you have a rather unique way to read a situation and make multiple assessments that we rather need in an agent of skill.”

“So, if I want to walk out of here?” Dead tone.

“If you want to walk you walk. If you’d like to hear the deal, stay. It’s up to you Mr. Lee. But you will not have an employer at this point; you’ve been transferred to us, like it or not.”

“I don’t like… some people will have to answer for this.” “You have five minutes and I walk”

“Grigoriy Rostislav” Theodore let the name hang in the air.

Silence.

Both men stared at each other, neither blinking, complete silence, threatened violence heavy in the still air. Theodore was very much aware of the skills Taum Lee possessed, he’d be dead in seconds and Lee would eliminate everyone in his way to the street. Seconds passed; if things went bad, he’d be dead and responsible for several more deaths, they’d have a rogue killer on their hands.

“Grigoriy Rostislav is your prize if you agree to work for us. We will make it happen, you’ll call the shots and we will fund everything. Other assignments of course.” Slight pause. “We need your services for five years then you retire if you’d like, you’ll be forty-five with a huge bank account, invisible to all.”

“24 hours, open the door.” Taum Lee growled.

June 16th 2024. 2217 Rainham St, London, 8:45pm.

Finishing dinner Theodore heard a faint “clink” that came from the sitting room. He brought his left hand to his lips shushing his wife as he pulled a .380 from his vest pocket. He motioned her to sit tight.

Moving silently to the door between the kitchen and the sitting room he saw a shadow figure sitting in his easy chair sipping bourbon under the dim light of the floor lamp.

“Ah Mr. Lee you’ve decided to join us.” Louder, “Mildred I’ll be in a meeting, thank you for a wonderful dinner my dear.” He pulled the slider shut behind him.

“You asked for 24 hours, it’s been three, no four days.” Theodore said with humor.

“Your Bourbon is flat.” Lee’s voice flat dead tone.

“I’m sorry, I’ve switched to Scotch recently, I have an unopened bottle if you’d like, no trouble.”

“I’d like.” Lee whispered.

“Mildred, would you bring the new bottle of Bourbon please.” Loud enough to be heard in the kitchen proper.

“Yes dear, just a moment.”

Faint noise of cabinets opening and closing. Mildred slides the rolling door to the left carrying a liquor bottle wrapped in a white towel into the sitting room.

Lee raised his left-hand stopping Mildred mid-step as she entered the room. “Please place the firearm on the buffet table.”

She stood dead still, a minor scowl on her face. Her gaze switching to Theodores face.

“Yes, please Mildred, this is Mr. Taum Lee, he’s a new employee of the agency. He’s here to go over our personnel agreement.” She laid the 9mm on the buffet table and sat the bottle on the table between the two easy chairs.

“I’ll get you a clean glass she said.”

“No, I’ll take care of it, thank you dear.” Theodore said in a happy up beat voice. “I’m very happy to have you join us, now what are your terms?”

Lee sipped his fresh Bourbon without ice, the proper way for a man to have Bourbon straight. “Time.”

“Time?” Theodore asked with a hint of confusion.

“Grigoriy will be in Syria in three days. No later than June 20th. Syria is a shit show, stupid, they are falling all over themselves. He will be in Damascus for two days in a meeting over weapons with President Bashar al-Assad. He will need to return no later than June 25th for a meeting in Russia.”

“That’s short notice.”

“That’s my terms, after that I will take or refuse tasks without complaint from your agency.”

“Done.” Theodore put out his hand to shake. Taum Lee put forward a scared fist; fist bump, so be it.

The touchdown was smooth, the 747 glided to a painfully slow approach to the air terminal. Damascus was hot, sticky, running in the high 90’s with 85% humidity, late spring early summer was the worse time to be in Syria with the rain and stifling heat.

Lee was met at baggage, sliding into the grey Mercedes-Benz rear seat the air conditioning blowing hard to break the heat.

“Five minutes.” His chauffeur said with a heavy accent.

“Shkrann izlylann”

Looking hard in the rearview mirror. “Shkraan jzylaan.” A clearly surprised look on his face.

The military was everywhere, sand bagged firing positions on nearly every corner; this is a Nation at war. Every block you could see Army personnel checking papers of those walking down the streets. One scanning the persons papers, two or more with automatic weapons at the ready.

It was a quick drive, Fayez Mansour Street, turning off to Al Rabwah with one more turn on Fawzi Al Laham stopping across the Street from the Faculty of Economics, Damascus University. The Hotel Al Pasha wasn’t much to look at. Low rated at one or maybe two stars, it had seen its day pass many decades ago.

Brown brick faded nearly matching the grey bricks that once contrasted, mortar cracked, chunks missing in the corners, wood door framing showing lack of upkeep, paint peeling. Lee stepped into the reception area, the front desk area was so small opening the door only cleared the front counter by inches, anyone standing there would have been hit as the door opened, shit and more shit crossed Lee’s mind.

The Hotel smelled of week-old socks, with just a hint of sweet spice that hit deep in one’s nose, it wasn’t pleasant.

Lee produced his papers. Mr. Samuel Buel of London. Passport inspected, room number and key exchanged, small talk of dinner places highly recommended with two fingers at the lips with a slight kiss to express the point.

The stairs were thread bare, treads squeaking with each step, cracked raisers, some showing through. “I’m going to need bug spray.” Slipped silently from Lee’s lips.

Lee worked the key both directs before it gave way, door sticky, opening with a wet popping zipper sound along the rubber door seal. Carpet that’s age had to match the grand opening of the Hotel, a small bed that clearly showed you’d sleep only in one space as the sunken center would be impossible to climb; one flat pillow highlighted the restless night to come.

Lee dropped his small suitcase on the bed, a small smile came to his face as he looked at the bed side table. A rotary phone from God knows when sat nestled up to an old lamp.

The room had on standard 3.0 window with old shabby drapes. Lee hooked the drapes back and slid the window open, it made a loud squeak as it slid up its tracks. Three soldiers turned to find the noise, machine guns following their eyes. Lee waved at the soldiers and gave the universal wave that it was hot. They continued down the street. It was quite obvious moving along any street was going to be a problem.

The street seems impossible with the Army smothering every corner stopping checking papers of nearly everyone. It’s two full blocks to cover to get to the Syrian Facility of Engineering where Grigoriy Rostislav meeting would be held in 18 hours. Hanging out the window to his waist, it’s a clear shot both directions along the street. Mentally setting the yards to prominent objects, a sign post to the right, a paper box to the left. Problem is Grigoriy Rostislav will be sitting in the rear of any car, could be a hardened car that would withstand small arms fire. He could pick up an RPG in this war-torn Country with little trouble but still the angle would be difficult to manage.

His watch said exactly at 1000 hrs. Damascus time. Grigoriy Rostislav plane would touch down at reported time of 1100 hrs. Time to take a walk to the airport and see what he’s riding.

“Papers.”

He made exactly 100 steps. “I’m sorry.”

“Your papers now!” Rifles coming to post arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… They are in my breast pocket. Here let me get them.”

Three Kalashnikov’s now pointing at his chest. “You will not move!”

“I’m sorry, I’m British I don’t know what you want.” Taum squeaked in his fake scared voice.

The center soldier showing rank as a Corporal sling his rifle and grabbed Taum by the jacket. Top jacket button flying over his shoulder spinning to the rough concrete, bouncing in a high arch, one lesser bounce, down the storm drain grill. Taum turned his head to see it disappear. “OH my!”

The Corporal lessened his grip completely fooled by the seemingly weak foreigner. “Papers.”

“Yes, yes right here.”

Ten minutes, two radio calls and he was set free to continue his walk to the Airport.

Two blocks down he was stopped again, treated roughly and sent on his way.

Waving in the air a taxi pulled to the curb. “Airport please.” Time to end this, the street would be impossible.

Two-minute ride he stopped the taxi a block before it entered the airport proper. The taxi driver confused; he tipped heavily.

Five story nondescript buildings lined Fayez Mansour Blvd, their backs running parallel of the main runway. Walking a short distance up the street he picked one that should be about midway along the main runway. Entering, there was no front desk, two elevators in a short hallway, unmarked doors, not a single window. Perfect, he took the stairs.

Five floors up in the unairconditioned stairway left him short of breath and wet. “Well… hello America.” The door to the roof was locked, but what was funny was it was furnished with a Schlage lock set, straight from an American Company. Pulling his belt off he unzipped a small compartment sown in along its length. Removing a mini lock pick set two minutes on the easy lock and the door swung open. His greetings were blasting air hot enough to be from a hair dryer.

Roof top mostly barren, heavy tar with minimal sand allowing the hot tar to stick to everything. Center of the building was taken up with five-foot-tall heating and air conditioning units. Two-foot stub wall along the edges, a few pipes protruding through the roof with little tight 90 bends in the top to keep the water out. Looking both directions the roofs looked identical, heat waves shimmered dancing in the air. Walking to the stub wall he had a vast view of the main runway and two additional smaller runways in the distance. One flight sitting at the end of the runway waiting for a plane on final approach touched down perfectly on the painted minimal lines. To his left in the medium distance was the airport buildings and just further on the control tower. He stepped back to the shade and seclusion of the heat/cooling units watching a few planes depart and incoming flights land.

Thirty minutes watching the airport and a plan was solidifying in his head.

11:05am a sleek Pilatus PC-12 white with blue stripes made a perfect landing hitting the first taxiing exit putting it in line with the VIP plane parking area on the near end of the airport buildings. The plane took no time shutting down and the door opened with a stair ramp pushed into place. First off was a heavy man towering in the door way looking in every direction checking for anything out of the ordinary.

A second man appeared from the plane, without hesitation headed down the stair ramp, third, Grigoriy three steps behind, followed closely by the large man, head on a swivel as they walked the open tarmac to the building’s doors.

A taxi back to the shabby hotel, secure five-minute telephone call via satellite connection laid the materials needed and timing, it was up to the God’s of war for the supplies to arrive in time and secrecy to hold.

1:19am. Soft knock on the hotel room door, a package leaning against the door frame. Taum stood in the door way for five minutes waiting and listening for any movement. Silence, he could be the only living being on the floor it was so quiet, eerie quiet. Carefully opening the package, checking every component, finally slowly snapping pieces together it was ready. Pushing the start button, it came to life going through its start up procedure, clicks, lights turning on then off, waiting for commands.

The meeting was set to start at 8:00am just a few hundred yards away one street over, he figured an hour and a half, two at the most. He was now five stories up hidden alongside of the heating/air conditioning units watching the Pilatus PC-12 sitting in its parking space. Pilot and co-Pilot moving under the plane finishing pre-flight checks while the plane was fueled.

The wind was from the North setting the direction of take offs and landings to what it was the morning before, ending one of the last possible defects in the plan.

10:35am an aircraft start unit pulled up next to the Pilatus PC-12 and plugged in. Smoke blew from the rear of the jet as the start unit fired the jet engines to life.

The three men walked quickly across the tarmac to the waiting plane, Number one and two talking furiously, number three two steps behind mostly watching back towards the buildings.

Taum did a quick system check and fired up the program; lights flashing, a slight shutter, system ready green light flashing. Pulling electronic goggles over his eyes reading systems statuses, camera status, all go. He lowered the googles and waited.

The Pilatus PC-12 engines revved to life and spun the plane in a tight 180 taxiing down across the parking tarmac following the arrows to the taxi way to the end of the run way directly in front of Taum’s position. The taxi way was fifty yards closer to the buildings running parallel to the main runway allowing planes to taxi without plugging up the main runway to their take off positions.

Taum watched the Pilatus PC-12 taxi fast coming left to right directly in front of his hide. He slid the goggles over his eyes and waited a few seconds. The goggles showed the tar roof being just six inches above the tar, in the near distance was the stub wall across the roof. The camera in the goggles crystal clear.

A flash back two months ago in war torn Ukraine, mortar shells landing dangerously close as he slowly instructed three Ukrainian soldiers in the art of FPV drone flying…

The drone shot straight up clearing the stub wall heading the sixty yards from the buildings to the taxi ramp. Spinning the drone to the left hard the Pilatus PC-12 was eighty yards coming fast. Taum flew the drone at top speed down the taxi ramp towards the plane, camera showing the plane getting bigger in just seconds. Slight move to the left and lowering the flight path to just eight feet off the pavement the drone flew straight into the left wing of the Pilatus PC-12. A massive fire ball erupted from the wing fuel tank engulfing the plane. Spinning to the left the Pilatus PC-12 buried its self in the soft dirt stopping nearly instantly, nose down fire spreading.

Taum stuffed the goggles and controls in his small backpack and peaked over the stub wall, he was pleased with what he saw. The Pilatus PC-12 was melting down from the heat in long trails of molten aluminum, one loud bang as one tire burst in flames from the heat. Black smoke poured from the fuel fire; the left side of the plane gone in the smoke. Cabin door was obscured but he saw at least one person fall twenty feet from the plane in the grass over come by the smoke.

Sirens screamed in all directions; it was time to go.

Taum entered the small foyer area walking a short distance down a side hallway through a glass door marked private. Pushing an intercom button he was greeted with. “Can I help you?”

“Taum Lee 4,5, Delta 0, 8,4 Lima Lima 6.”

“Hello Mister Lee, Level 3, Room 4 please.”

Stepping into the elevator most people expect to go up, he went down.

Elevator stopping on level 3 doors opening to a long white on white corridor, bright LED lighting making his eyes squint.

From the Ramblings.

t