Today is a special day: A short
Today is a special day. A day he has prepared for, for a very long time. The man sits at his writing desk lost in thought, as a cool breeze comes in from the double paned window on his right. His study is filled with books. It is an impressive personal collection of mixed genres with everything from mystery to Horror and Marketing to Finance. Most people would say he has done well for himself. He is a published author and marketing officer at a well known bank, his two children are exemplary students at an expensive private school and his wife loves him dearly. Yet, he sits at his desk today with his computer open, a small blade to his right and a handgun in his lap. He has decided to type his final work and leave a final goodbye for those that cared. With calm dedicated key strokes he begins to type his story.
I tried today, I really did. I tried to be better than yesterday or the day before. I tried being better than I have been. I tried not being me. Although, I know this testament is lost in the wind because I failed, but don't we all? I wonder, quite often in fact, do I even care. I have seen year upon year of my life seep into a well of lost ideas and untried dreams, listless and bottled up, while others in my life tried to enjoy themselves. No, I don't envy them because it just seems like so much unnecessary work. What I can tell you is that the rage inside me is so fierce now and it leaves me bewildered, but how can I make anyone understand the release that is required? They say a creative mind wasted is a death in waiting, wait, or is that me that thinks that? Whatever the case, I find myself digging deeper to find the creativity that once flowed like waterfalls in mid-summer. Really, it's that I have this hardness inside me, one that clogs it, my creativity. I can live with it playing drone, business casual, manning phones and stiffening intellectualism, if not for the vapid, self-serving and belittling circus trainers, sometimes called managers. Enough of that, they are fleeting nuances that just get in the way and are meaningless in the scheme of things.
So, onward, because I find myself in a perplexing situation. What is worth living for? Easy, right? There are a myriad of things I can fire off at will, as I am sure you can as well. Yet, if I speak these things am I being forthright and completely true with myself? I think not. I tell myself I am a kind man but I have a deep hate and displeasure for so many things, that it makes being kind a struggle in and of itself. They say God is the way and if only you allow yourself to accept that, you will be free, yet am I not already free? I am free to deny this fairy tale and call the bluff of any preacher that scams his or her flock. I am free to spit in the face of manmade authority, one created by those who are no different than I, those who shit, eat, drink and defile themselves in depravity. I am free to say that I accept the need for society and the order it is supposed to bring. But even if I do these things, I am not accepting fate nor the will of those who think higher of themselves. I hold them in contempt and argue that they are the ones who are trapped and caged. The only thing I am not free of is the possible consequences imposed by my acceptance of society's necessity, which leads me to the inevitable conclusion that I am not free of myself.
I have thought for a very long time on how to cure my madness and now realize that the only thing that holds me from true freedom is the flesh that I currently reside in. Battling for so long with the world about me, I have never found a place to solidify happiness. Yes, there are many things that have given me joy, love and companionship but the world has never been home to me. The darkness this world holds is so immense that the good within it is but a pin drop within it and even more so when pitted against the universe. If I am to ease the pain, to wash the unclean, I must walk into the end on my own terms. I know even after I have said this and left it behind, that I will still not be understood and that is okay, I don't expect anyone to understand if I couldn't even understand myself. I just wish the world was better. I just wish I wasn't broken.
After writing the final lines, he leans back in his brown leather executive chair, takes hold of the knife in his right hand and begins to dig at the underside of his left arm. Making sure to avoid any deep veins, he carefully cuts a three inch long strip. He watches the cut open slowly; it reminds him of how a raw steak splits apart when it's only cut part way through. His body tingles in anticipation, as the blood wells up and drools over the ends of loose skin and muscle, and then slides to the base of his elbow. A smile of relief touches his face as he switches arms and repeats the process. Setting the blade down, he looks in satisfaction at his work. He picks up the Smith & Wesson, Governor model handgun, places it in his mouth and pulls the trigger. A tear falls from his left eye as his body slumps lifeless in the brown leather executive chair. His final thought was a simple "I'm sorry" and then he was gone.
© 2014 Warren Curtis Daniels Jr
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