I can boldly say I planned my death three times that afternoon. I’m not really sure how people go, but my departure was to be jubilated by my favorite gospel song as my demons frenzied in a standing ovation. The dense aroma of coffee was to be the last of the world to flood my lungs, even though I would have preferred the hostilely suffocating miasma of a Perro Loco cigar. I had no last words, unmitigated silence rooted itself between my consciousness and the soft music. I was somewhat drawn to the idea that it would be an instant, far less painful than my squalor. My attraction to demise routinely drags me by the leg through long nights only to hand me to the foreboding arms of reality. I was at the mercy of chance, if I would survive, regardless of the door I chose, instantaneous or rather a slow painful tour towards the gates of the afterlife. The kitchen window was slightly open, smiling in a beam of light towards the door, locked out of submission to my grave mind. Time was being dissected into small fractions such that it ran slowly towards an unknown mark. I stood in the midst of the chaos, grabbing at any form of reason I may still want to live. My mother, sweet Lord, mother! I was torn to the aftermath of my selfishness, how passing the pain seemed diabolic yet stood logical. Being a hellbender, I allowed the rush of my decision to make its way all over my body before I could open hell’s gate. I was complete and simultaneously empty. It was a deep downing feeling that only added weight to my not so much moral dilemma. I feel like I knew I was going to do it regardless of any universal influence. The force which was cajoling me erupted from within. I could almost hear the different voices hidden within the trill of the rising confusion inside my head. Trepidation struck me out of my indecision and questioned my bravery.
The bearings of time are usually truths we immense ourselves in out of our own will or those that hit us like a bus and before we know it, we are victims of circumstance. I cannot say I’m very religious, but I have lived long enough to believe in the existence of miracles. Funny how events weave themselves in a pattern that later proves not to be a coincidence. It’s like the universe is casting lots in your favour. I did see a miracle, because before the flash came slow gasps for air, the other world must have been celebrating my arrival. I could hear a familiar voice of my childhood with such clarity that I can swear that I owned time for a brief moment. It rested in my hands, weighed on chest and ran between my feet. It was my own individual construct, based on what I encountered, the past being solid memories, the present as I was dying and that which I expected, future is the term. I let it all unfold, the pandemonic cluster of my thoughts as I embraced death. It’s sad to marvel at the patience that overwhelmed me because I realize how I was so lost in my own desire to kick the bucket. I could feel the bile taste of the poison as it foamed in my mouth. Yes, I’d found a way. I already had a way. It was guts I lacked. My eyes rolled back and came forward again. They had a shade of magnolia before they resorted to being bloodshot. I panted as I grasped for the leg of the kitchen table. I knew death and death knew me, but we chose not to be friends, the universe didn’t permit. So, as my arms gave up and my limbs went numb, I was tasked with being my own guardian angel, my own savior if there was a chance. Being the person that I am, I …
I can boldly say I attempted to take my life three times that afternoon, but these are just lies I normally tell on Sundays around my drunk friends. I may carry the thoughts on my back but they have never weighed in as reality. All are figments of my imagination, a form of escapism for the timid.
Time has proved me to be a serial liar, but only I can know that. It feels heavy to unpack my suitcase of “things that never happened” to my girlfriend as emotional blackmail, anything for her forgiveness though. I can justify my reasons, if only I had a girlfriend in the first place. Even worse is the repeatability of my falsehood, but I prefer to call it fictional recurrence. I can boldly say I planned my death three times that afternoon, yet it may have been evening, two times may just be the number. Maybe you’ll never know what happened, and maybe I will never know if it happened. Maybe this is a twist of fate, maybe this is the last confession of a sinner, maybe I’m riding my last words towards the bright light. Isn’t it ironic how we’ll all never know? Either way, you live to lead this narration.
Sincerely
Craig
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