My Finale- A Short Story of Pain, Suicide and Grief

There’s a crowd of mannequins clambering over my bed. Their faces grotesque, blood gushing from their eyes. The clothes reflect a period long gone, where suits and fedoras weren’t just awesome, they were the dress code standard. Shrieks and screams echoed from speakers that had burst out of their stomachs, and they echoed around the small room. The horror. My horror.

The blood is now forming a massive puddle around my slippers. All I can do is try to push myself through the frozen crowd. Such plastic bastards, I’ve dealt with your kind before. You fancy dressed fuckers! Eat slipper! All I can do is belt away at them, as they try and claw at my face. The blood is flying everywhere now. As it splashed onto my pillowcase, I saw in horror a reflection of myself in the alarm clock. It was quickly glazed over with a thick gush of blood, but not before I saw my twisted and carved face glaring feverishly at the clock. Jesus Christ. No. No.

Had I really become a bad person. I didn’t do anything to deserve this pain. Had I? My father problems, though they were brief, did leave an impressing scar. A lack of love is what I should have expected. Males are naturally born to love, just that they’re born to love everything other than the right things. Like their vehicles, or their job, or a political party or a church of hideous crones. In fact, forgetting my lost Rosalyn, sweet as she was, I have been truly loved by nobody. Not even my own mother had no sense of care for me. She only cared about her own suicide, thus putting me in the car with her and the petrol fumes at the age of 2. Don’t ask me how I managed to survive longer than her. I was only 2.

Friends came and went, and alas so did my soulmate. Rosalyn remains engraved in my mind and arm, and I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to forget those very few months we had, when I had gotten past my poisoned past of suicide and being the unfortunate one in a child gangbang rape. She had a sunnier past, with simple problems patched up by a caring family. Her family still sends a letter in the mail, despite her passing away 2 years ago. She would also say to them how much I meant to her, while I would say it to my part-time friends who quickly drifted away after the funeral. Cruel truck. Cruel, cruel, cruel. Take my Rosalyn away from me. Take my unborn son as well. He would have been called Nick. I was going to treat him better than my dad ever did. I wasn’t going to take him into the back room of the Chapel, where the red-eyed priests waited. Good god. Ow. No. No. Such pain. No.

Jesus fuck! The reality! Suck cock! Such pain! No! Away, away!

I clambered on hands and knees through the puddle, trying to get out of the rising blood. The tears were falling hard and fast, so much that I coughed and spluttered from the emotional heartbreak. There wasn’t much left. In fact, nothing was left. Hard times hit me hard. So sudden, too soon. Or too late. 2 years, and then the dam burst. I had sunk into obscurity and isolation. My job as a chef was long gone, any support disabled. Family’s a joke, Rosalyn’s family is far removed from the lowly town of Bundaberg. Sad place. Stupid place. Stupider people. The few smart people left here, they plan to get out. Such plans, so easy to achieve. Just place the stuff in the car, and get away from it.

You’d think, after everything I’ve been through, that I’d get away. But I couldn’t. I tried, but I always failed. Can’t escape the past, they always say. This town seems to be my past. My house is slowly being filled with blood; the streets outside aren’t much the same. Just last week, a gang beat up, raped, murdered a gay man, then proceeded to do the same thing to his corpse again. Jesus Christ. Didn’t even here it in the newspaper. Kept hush-hush; the police don’t care. Heard it through the usual filthy gossipers, who squealed with glee at the prospect of one less gay guy to steal their men. Such disgusting women. Their time to drown in mannequin blood will come soon.

I was madly splashing around in the kitchen, trying to get a footing. I needed a huge fuck-off knife. Gotta end this absurd night. Give the bastards what they want. Unite my blood with the tide that’s submerging the oven. I grabbed the big fucker in my hand, I have no time for official titles. It was big, and screaming at me with all hell’s fury to plunge it into my heart. The screams were echoing around the house, and I began to float on this sea of blood. Sooner or later, the place would be an aquarium of gore. Mannequin heads, still with their hideous faces, bobbed beside me. No other choice, I thought to myself. I took a deep breath, just as the sea hit the ceiling. I thrust the blade. Fuck. My stomach. Gotta try again. Fuck.

The knife spiralled down, and I tried to grab it. But the current dragged me away, and I had no choice but to accept a slow death. Slowly, I sunk. My blood joined its distant cousins, and then became unremarkable. The darkness ate away at me, and I continued to sink. Shouldn’t I have hit the floor by now? As soon as I thought that- thud. Silence. Nothing to make of it. Just darkness and silence. And all you can do, when you’ve proved to yourself that God doesn’t exist, is stop thinking. And that’s what I did. thud.