JakeD
10-06-02, 04:11PM
This is one of my latest submission on AKpCEP.
Caught Up in the Moment
“Well,” I think, “at least I won’t have to go to work tomorrow.”
I heft the pistol in my hand. It feels like a brick of lead, so heavy yet so small. A Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum revolver. 6 little friends. 6 little ways to die.
Right now I have two options.
Option #1: I can put the gun to my chest, approximately where my heart is, blowing a majority of it away yet risking the concept of surviving a mortal wound.
Option #2: I can stick the barrel in my mouth, blowing off the top of my head and a good bit of my gray matter, yet the risks? See aforementioned statement.
I choose option #2, for aesthetic purposes.Just for the sake of the coroners and medical examiners.
I begin to count down from 5.
Five. Four. Three. Two,
I grit my teeth around the barrel and begin to tighten my finger on the trigger.
Hot tears are rolling down my burning cheeks. I’ve got a pounding fucking headache that’s on the verge of being cured by a single Cor-Bon 280 grain bonded-core lead aspirin.
The phone rings.
I jump out of my chair, scared shitless.
I reposition the gun in my mouth like a wretched child on a teat of death, gritting my teeth onto the barrel, trying to ignore the ringing telephone. My thoughts begin to wander. Who could be on the other line? Ideas of salvation from a telephone line, someone else’s voice begin to cloud my head. FUCK! No! I try to concentrate on the task at hand, in my hand.
The phone trills for the fourth time. Should I answer it ? Ah, no! I can’t. I gotta do this.
Instant relief, and I’m willing to throw it all away over a telephone call. Gotta be tough. Gotta be a man. Instant self gratification, freedom from this dirty fucking mortal coil. Right here. Right now. I tighten my grip on the pistol, and begin to tense the muscles in my finger.
The answering machine kicks on. I hear my own voice for what may be the last time. I roll my eyes as the greeting drones on with all of its little insignificant requirements…Leave your name, number, and a brief message and I’ll give you a ring from the afterlife.
My best friend’s voice echoes over the speaker.
“Dude? Hey, this is Justin. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come down to Blue’s and have a few beers with all of us. It’s Lisa’s birthday, so grab a card on your way. I’ll see you when you get there. Peace!”
I look over at the mirror next to my bed. I look like an idiot, slobbering all around with half of a gun sticking out of my face. What was I thinking, anyways?
I sigh and take the gun from my mouth. I walk over to my laundry hamper and pull out a used towel to dry the spit off of it. I look at the pistol disdainfully, and decide to eventually take it by the pawn shop and get rid of it. Give me $300, give me $5, just give me a reason not to use this thing on myself.
I pull on a shirt, spray on a bit of cologne, grab my housekeys and walk out the door. I lock it securely and turn around, stepping onto the sidewalk. I glance both ways before I step off the curb and onto the crosswalk.
So much for salvation.
:c: Jake D '2002
Caught Up in the Moment
“Well,” I think, “at least I won’t have to go to work tomorrow.”
I heft the pistol in my hand. It feels like a brick of lead, so heavy yet so small. A Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum revolver. 6 little friends. 6 little ways to die.
Right now I have two options.
Option #1: I can put the gun to my chest, approximately where my heart is, blowing a majority of it away yet risking the concept of surviving a mortal wound.
Option #2: I can stick the barrel in my mouth, blowing off the top of my head and a good bit of my gray matter, yet the risks? See aforementioned statement.
I choose option #2, for aesthetic purposes.Just for the sake of the coroners and medical examiners.
I begin to count down from 5.
Five. Four. Three. Two,
I grit my teeth around the barrel and begin to tighten my finger on the trigger.
Hot tears are rolling down my burning cheeks. I’ve got a pounding fucking headache that’s on the verge of being cured by a single Cor-Bon 280 grain bonded-core lead aspirin.
The phone rings.
I jump out of my chair, scared shitless.
I reposition the gun in my mouth like a wretched child on a teat of death, gritting my teeth onto the barrel, trying to ignore the ringing telephone. My thoughts begin to wander. Who could be on the other line? Ideas of salvation from a telephone line, someone else’s voice begin to cloud my head. FUCK! No! I try to concentrate on the task at hand, in my hand.
The phone trills for the fourth time. Should I answer it ? Ah, no! I can’t. I gotta do this.
Instant relief, and I’m willing to throw it all away over a telephone call. Gotta be tough. Gotta be a man. Instant self gratification, freedom from this dirty fucking mortal coil. Right here. Right now. I tighten my grip on the pistol, and begin to tense the muscles in my finger.
The answering machine kicks on. I hear my own voice for what may be the last time. I roll my eyes as the greeting drones on with all of its little insignificant requirements…Leave your name, number, and a brief message and I’ll give you a ring from the afterlife.
My best friend’s voice echoes over the speaker.
“Dude? Hey, this is Justin. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come down to Blue’s and have a few beers with all of us. It’s Lisa’s birthday, so grab a card on your way. I’ll see you when you get there. Peace!”
I look over at the mirror next to my bed. I look like an idiot, slobbering all around with half of a gun sticking out of my face. What was I thinking, anyways?
I sigh and take the gun from my mouth. I walk over to my laundry hamper and pull out a used towel to dry the spit off of it. I look at the pistol disdainfully, and decide to eventually take it by the pawn shop and get rid of it. Give me $300, give me $5, just give me a reason not to use this thing on myself.
I pull on a shirt, spray on a bit of cologne, grab my housekeys and walk out the door. I lock it securely and turn around, stepping onto the sidewalk. I glance both ways before I step off the curb and onto the crosswalk.
So much for salvation.
:c: Jake D '2002