The Suicide

Removing the chrome plated .38 caliber revolver from the dresser drawer, he places the barrel in his mouth. The taste of the cold metal on his tongue causes him to wince. Darren likes how it feels in his hand as he closes his lips around it and places his finger on the trigger. Darren catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and thinks how disgusting he looks; how cowardly his appearance reflects back at him. But it does not sway his decision. It is his 30th birthday and he has made up his mind that facing another year is not worth the effort.

He has not written a note as there is no one to address it to or who would even care what he had to say. His reasons do not matter just as his life does not matter. Sweat beads on his forehead as he slowly applies pressure to the trigger, the knuckle of his index finger now white on his nervously shaking hand. Closing his eyes, he squeezes. In a flash he can feel the bullet piercing the roof of his mouth, ripping his flesh apart as if in slow motion. The pain is unimaginable as the flying piece of steel enters his brain, twisting and turning as it carves a deadly path through his sad endless memories. And then, everything goes black as the back of his skull explodes, spraying shards of bone and brain matter across the room. His lifeless body hits the floor with a thud; eyes closed, mouth open and the weapon still clutched tightly in his hand.

Darren opens his eyes and slams his fist against the warm stone floor. “Oh God, not again— not again!” he shouts.

A loud raspy voice bellows from the darkness, “God cannot help you now.”

Darren sits in his rusted cage and between sobs pleads, “But why—why must I relive this over and over again?”

“This is hell, my little goat; your hell. You should have realized there would be a price to pay for taking your own life,” growls the voice again from the black cavernous chamber outside the cell.

“But I didn’t know it would be like this,” he whimpers.

“You do now,” laughs the voice as it echoes off into silence. "You do now."

Removing the chrome plated .38 caliber revolver from the dresser drawer he places the barrel in his mouth. The taste of the cold metal on his tongue causes him to wince . . .

Impressum

Texte: Jack Ivey
Lektorat: Valerie Byron
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 31.10.2012

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