Not Existing

It would be his most intimate achievement. Something greater than he has ever given to anyone. To many, including her, it was at the very least meaningless; at most, a vile vendetta. The later was probably closer to the truth. Although he didn’t wish to hurt her, it was inevitable. Even the best of us find it difficult to maintain composure with blood and brain matter spraying across our face. He believed that this ultimate act of devotion would finally make her understand…it didn’t. But none of it mattered to him anymore. After all, he was dead. This insignificance was only rivaled by the effort put forth, by him, towards its execution. He would have to secure a firearm. This would be easy–he had no prior criminal record and resided in a red state. But no ordinary gun would do. No, for such a task it would need to be special. He had always wished to own and shoot a Luger Parabellum semi-automatic with an eight round magazine capacity. He would only need one round to finish the job. He waited for the gun to come in after placing an order. Fortunately, he was used to waiting…waiting for things that never came, but not this time. The package arrived and his local gun shop phoned to have him pick it up. What a beautiful piece, he thought. Almost a shame that it will probably never see the light of day again, locked away in an evidence locker. He rang her, she answered unenthusiastically, but politely “hi, how are you?” For the first time in a long while he said “I’m great.” He knew that she would never agree to meet if he used the old cliche of “we need to talk,” so instead, he told her he had found one of her diamond earrings. One of which he knew she had lost. When he finally saw her, his heart stopped.

What do you say to someone you haven’t seen in ten years? Thats how long it was. Neither then nor now was the right place, or the right time, but despite this they were finally going to see one another. She approached the bar counter, wondering whether she would even recognize him. He hadn’t yet arrived. A moment of doubt stuck her as she was waiting. The thought “should I even be here” was forming, but before it could materialize she was interrupted: “Hello.” “Hi, how are you?” she replied. “I’m still the same, just a little different.”

She ran her hand through his greasy, slick hair, pomaded back, straight from the 50s. “Motor oil,” was his answer to a question that she hadn’t asked. “Mineral spirits,” he said, while simultaneously handing her a container. The powerful aroma drifted as she opened the bottle, poured some on her hand, and scrubbed away. “You know that stuff causes cancer, don’t you?” a voice echoed. “So does living,” he said

That annoying fucking song was ringing throughout the neighborhood. He couldn’t escape it. That distinctive thumping beat, those same two lines repeated over and over again. At once he was subjected to it as he walked down the street. He looked around but couldn’t place the sound. It was steadily getting louder, getting closer, no matter which direction he ran. “I want to be an alcoholic, I want to be a shopaholic, I want to be an alcoholic, I want to shop around and frolic,” drowned out his screams. “I want to…I want to….I want to choke myself!” He passed out and the music finally died down.

There was a man who wished to feel no pain. His wish was granted, but if you have ever read the old man and the sea you would know that there were consequences to getting what you wished for. Was he happy? He felt no pain–-not when he was cut, not when he bled, and not even the time that his heart was broken. That is, not until upon his deathbed, when all the accumulated pain in his life conspired to finally kill him. Yes, he was a happy man.