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 ones 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, that 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 who
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 tombstone
when you finally get it right or just die because that’s what the gods 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 you're
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 overdosing and dying, might be a winner. Clean, no goo for those
people to clean up. The 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 were 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 the 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.
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Flash Fiction for your amusement! "Pains not bad, it's good, it teaches you things" C.M.
Thursday, July 11, 2024
The day I killed myself.
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