Maybe I should die.
Buy some cheap rope and loop it around my neck, the rough twine biting into my skin as I jump off a stool. A quick, jerking tension, then a creaking rope in a still room.
I don't necessarily want to die.
Place a gun to my head and squeeze real hard, like trying to grasp a phantom. I wonder if it's better to place the muzzle to the temple or into the mouth. What if I just shoot my nose off? Now that would be embarrassing. Pretty painful, too. Perhaps a large revolver would look classy, like the ones in those nice bandit yarns. A pool of blood slowly expanding to touch the shiny metallic finish. Yeah, I can picture that real nice.
I have many friends who wouldn't want me dead. Family. A girl.
Slide a razor across my veins and wait for enough fire to escape the ragged wounds. I could never do a clean cut. My hands would shake and I would wail out. It wouldn't be the blood. Probably not the pain, either. It would be the horribly wrong feeling, like you're mutilating yourself, making yourself into something you're not. I'd feel ashamed. Both for crying out and for the act of mutilation.
I enjoy life. There's much I want to accomplish, much I'll probably accomplish in just a few more years. A master's degree in engineering. A steady relationship.
Pop open a bottle of pills, pick out the tasty looking ones and start gulping them down. Better make sure they aren't laxatives. Dying from explosive diarrhoea would be singularly unpleasant. I would imagine it would make a right mess. Pills might be the easiest, but I've never liked them. They look too... impersonal, I guess. You've got too much time to think, as well, while they slumber in your belly, mixing and mashing.
I've been thinking enough. I've been thinking it wouldn't be that bad to die.
I've read the news. I've glanced over some magazines. I've heard the talk. Seen the headlines.
Sexual Offender Assaulted by Police Officers!
”The mislead individual was not even resisting … never quite right in the head, his relatives confided … succumbed to his injuries ... Is this what our police force has turned into? Please, God, lessen his sentence … just tip the scales a little on his behalf.”
An ex-boxer of relative stature, now a gun-toting drug addict with at least four severe beatings on his record. Seven hospitalised. One in a coma. He OD'd a couple of months back. Life-time magazines took it upon themselves to relate his unfortunate story to the world.
”The sad tale of a confused young man … rose to fall once more … didn't give up and kept on living the way he wanted to … made a couple of mistakes, mostly due to hasty decisions. He was only human … misjudged his boundaries, and took in too much substance … passed away earlier this day … He will be in our prayers. The world needs more strong souls like him.”
Maybe I should die.
Me, I'm clean as an angel's cheek, never an offence in my life. I lived quietly with mommy and daddy, got great grades, met an amazing girl, got a well-paying job. I hardly even swear. Just imagine what they'd say of me if I died. I'd be a hero, a priest, a victim of modern oppression.
Heck, I'd be a minor deity. They'd erect temples in my name, great products of sweat and toil like the pyramids of old.
Come to think of it, hemp rope is cheap as dirt. And we have just the stool at our place.
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EDIT: A/N: This is not just a story about suicide. It is a satire aimed at questioning the manner in which media commercialises death and likes to paint heroes out of anyone who dies in a questionable manner.
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