Suicide Boy
My entry for the no e challenge of the hunger games (Title is allowed e's)
It is said that if you chant a particular group of words again and again, a young boy will show up and kill you.
It is said that this boy has no origin, no family, no alias. Not a symbol, not a sign, not a thing to justify that his visit occurs at all.
All you must do it chant that group of words. Just chant; ‘This is it. This is it. This is it. This is it.’
. . .
It’s a ton of crap. An outright load of bull. I do admit it’s hilarious that I thought it could actually work. But taking into account all this uproar Conspiracy Radio was whining about this morning, I had to think that it just was promising. It’s not as if I think a horror story such as that is truthful. But I thought it might amount in fun; I was margining on insanity as it was...
But now... now it is a task I must do by my own hand. I can’t put it off. I can’t uphold this procrastination.
This. Is. It.
. . .
I am sixty-four; which is to say that I did sixty four round orbits of our sun. A portion of humans may still call this young; but I am old. Too old.
I ain’t got much going. I’m in a job, high-ish position, but no family or companion. I’m on my own and I’m on my final stand. What point could carry an old man any way along than this? Born, only to finally vanish again. Why wait? Why not now?
I am old. I am worn. I am not going to hold my hat for tomorrows trip. I am at my conclusion.
This. Is. It.
. . .
It’s a long drop down. I am sitting on a rim of a tall facility building. I am hanging across this building’s brink, anticipating dropping it all. All things I am, all things I was, all things I did, and all things I had. This. is. it.
~Briiiinggg~ Vibration runs through my thigh.
I sigh. I should turn that off at such an important occasion. I should carry this out in quality, who knows, it may show up on TV tonight.
Uhh... why am I doing this? Why didn’t I simply blow my brains out...? I pluck my ringing companion from his hollow and flip it on to call. I moan; a work ID. This is why I’m goddamn jumping!
I’m hating my job. I’d go as far to say I am loathing it. At first I thought it fun; working with authors caught in a million dollar fad of constructing dramatic word art without using a particular Latin symbol. Oh how I was wrong!
“Okay, okay, I’ll sort it out on Thursday. I’m busy Wilson!” I blurt at my contact. Without a thought I snap shut that call and hurl. It spins forward fairly far until gravity grabs it and pulls it away. I watch it tumbling. Spiralling. Hurtling. It hits hard, smashing against a cold tar road.
. . .
I’m coming down. It’s my turn! Ground is waiting! This is it!
Or possibly not just instantly right now. Just a tick.
I tilt my position and shift slightly. To my right sits my only thing I had fun with in all of my boring sixty-odd span of living. It was a viola that was a gift from grandma on my fourth birthday. I wasn’t particularly good at it, but I had had fun. It was fun. I think I’ll go down with it; both of us in unison; just how it always should.
Crap crap crap crap! No!!! My viola slips down my lap. I go to swing for it but hold back. I almost forgot that big fall.
Dropping slowly, gasping, pain pangs in my lungs as I watch it go. Falling, falling falling. Spinning in slow motion, as my only joy snaps it’s throat at impact.
Though sound physically can’t fly atop a building this tall, a symphony of cracking runs through my body as I watch it’s wood snap into thousands of shards. No....my baby... that old thing was worth a lot!
I’m going now! It’s my turn! Now! Now! Splints and scraps of wood crawl across my vision. It’s ugly. It’s an ugly way to go. Soon that’s my body. That crack is my marrow, that casualty is my blood.
. . .
My old grandmas grin floats across my mind. Ah... grandma, so long ago but still in my mind. A woman who always said not to abandon your post. A woman who always had tips about our world and fantastic ways to triumph it.
I’m an old man in a mid-crisis but I still miss you grandma. I miss your words, I miss that scary story about that boy you always told at night! I can’t do this. I won’t kill my own body today. I will fight on! For you, grandma.
I stood up, proud. I will not jump today.
“Old-man.” A young sounding individual... What point would this roof hold for...
I turn around. It’s a boy. A young boy with no adults, no origin, no alias.
“I got your call.” That boy grins, shoving firmly. I fall. Backwards. I fall. It will look as if I did it. It will look as if it was a jump. But it wasn’t.... No proof that that boy was around. No sign of anything. As I fall I watch that boy vanish along with all things in this world.
This is it....
Points: 396
Reviews: 22
Donate