The gasoline in my tank only did what gasoline does, which is to ignite when introduced to sparks. When flames engulfed my body, my body started to burn according to the laws of thermodynamics and biology. There is no deeper meaning.
I understand that some people find God after misfortune, although this seems to me even more ridiculous than finding Him in good times. “God smote me. He
In the spirit of full disclosure, however, I should reveal something that many theists will insist
Because I have murdered someone.
There’s a gentle sigh which descends like billowing silk upon the soul that accepts its coming death. It’s a gentle pocket of air in the turbulence of everyday life. The silk of this feeling flutters-no, “flutters” is too active a word-the silk settles around you as if it has been drifting towards the earth forever and has finally found its target. The flag of defeat has been mercifully dropped and, in this action, the loss is not so bad. Defeat itself is defeated by the embrace of defeat, and death is swallowed up in victory.
The hiss of the snake fades away and death touches lovingly, possessively: it’s a master who pets the head of the dog, or a parent who consoles the crying child. The hours begin to roll and the days scarcely separate themselves from the nights. Darkness swells like a beautiful, hushed tsunami, and the body craves calming lullabies and final psalms.
I can state this with authority: nothing compares with deciding to die. I had an excellent plan and it made me smile. It made me drift more lightly on my air flotation bed.
I was an unbeloved monster. No one would mourn my loss; for all intents and purposes, I was already gone. Who would miss me-the doctors who pretended to care? Nan did her best to say all the right things and showed a hopeful face, but she was kind enough not to lie. I lied to her, though, when I pretended that I wanted to heal. I was perfecting my plan, working on it as the nurses tended to my grossness, their tender hands skittering around my body like the most graceful of insects landing upon feces.
A suicide is not something you want to screw up. Especially if, like me, you’re already facing the prospect of spending your entire life looking like last week’s dim sum. The only way to make it worse would be to wind up brain dead or quadriplegic, which can happen if you miscalculate. So, let me repeat: a suicide is not something you want to screw up.
My plan would begin immediately upon release from the hospital, because in the burn ward they watched me too carefully. At the halfway house, there would be no locks or security guards. Why would there be? Those places are designed to put people back into society, not to secure them from it.
I still had a few thousand dollars stashed away in a bank account under a false name; this would be more than enough. I’d leave the halfway house, hobble down the street, find a bank and get this money. At a clothing shop, I’d buy a hooded coat so that I could move about undetected in the land of mortals. And then a most interesting scavenger hunt would commence.
Buying a shotgun would be easy. I’d already decided to approach Tod “Trash” White, a small-time fence who would gladly sell his grandmother for a buck. Moving a shotgun at a handsome profit would put a shit-eating grin on his pockmarked face, and he’d probably even throw in a few extra cartridges for good measure.
The other items would be even easier. Razor blades are available at any convenience store. Rope is found at the corner hardware depot. Sleeping pills at the local pharmacy. Scotch at the liquor mart.
After procuring my supplies, I’d check into a hotel. Once alone in my room, I’d take a few antihistamine tablets, although not for hay fever. I’d settle in to watch a few adult movies on the hotel’s blue channel, just for old times’ sake. Who knows, I might even see myself in a farewell performance.
While watching the movies, I’d crack open the hinge of the shotgun to insert a couple of cartridges. Next I’d fashion a noose, paying particular attention to the knot. The object is not to strangle, but to break the neck: a large, strong knot facilitates a clean break. Having constructed a splendid loop, I’d turn the noose over in my hands a few times to admire my work and pull at it proudly, because you know how men love to yank their knots.
I’d wander out onto the balcony with my gun and my noose. Sunset. I’d breathe in the evening air. Throw out my arms to embrace the city. Bring my fists back in and thump my chest twice. Feeling strong and manly, I’d fasten the rope securely to the balcony railing. I’d drop the noose over the side, making sure there was ample length for a nice little fall before a sharp, satisfying jerk. Then I’d reel the rope back in, wishing that I could do the same thing to the damn bitchsnake living in my spine.
I’d spin the lid off the pill container and remove five sleeping tablets, sailing them down my throat with a glass of Scotch. This cocktail would be followed with a few more of the same. It’s always nice to enjoy a drink while watching the sun go down. While ingesting these refreshing beverages, I’d remove a razor blade from its package and cut partway through the rope. This operation would involve a certain amount of educated guesswork, to cut the rope in a way that it would not immediately break with the jerk of my fall. I wanted it to hold me, at least for a while, when I reached the end of the line.
I’d have another glass of Scotch and another five sleeping pills. Now, here’s the reason that I took the antihistamine: sleeping pills can cause vomiting when taken in excess and antihistamine counteracts that effect, making sure the sleepy stuff stays down. Pretty smart, huh? Next, I’d take the weekly supply of morphine given to combat the painsnake and inject it in a single satisfying plunge of the syringe. To complete my toxic cocktail, I’d wash down the remainder of my sleeping pills with a final shot of Scotch. By now, you can see how my plan is coming together.
I’d put the noose around my neck, working quickly because I’d be getting dizzy, Miss Frizzy. I’d take another shiny new razor blade out of its package. See how it sparkles in the light, like the wink of an imaginary God! With a single deft stroke I’d slash my right wrist, deep and clean, and then I’d slash my left wrist in the same manner. This is important: I’d cut along the length of the veins instead of across them. People who cut across the wrists either don’t really want to die, or are too stupid to pull it off.
I’d sit on the edge of the balcony. With bloody hands, I’d lift the loaded shotgun and place the muzzle into my mouth. I’d carefully angle the barrel so that the blast would travel through the roof of my mouth and into the meaty gumbo of my brain. The advantage of a shotgun, as compared to a handgun, is that your aim doesn’t really matter. The hundred pellets will immediately spread out to rip your damn head right apart. This is a beautiful thing.
My body would be positioned, back to the city, so that the blast would send me over the edge of the balcony’s railing. As my brain was shredded, I’d fall, but this fall would be brought to an abrupt halt by the noose snapping my neck. For a while, I’d just hang there, feet bobbing. Actually, perhaps I’d jerk around spasmodically; it’s hard to say. My wrists would be flowing red and my skull would be a gooey gray-matter mess, something like Picasso’s very worst painting. What was left of my brain would start to starve for oxygen. My stomach would be brimming with Scotch and sleeping pills. My veins would run the happily morphined blood right out of the gashes of my wrists. Now, if I’d cut the rope just right, it would begin to unravel. The braided strands would spin away from each other and, in a few minutes, let go entirely. My body would fall twenty floors to the sidewalk below. Beautiful. Completion. Now
Anyway, that was my plan. Never has a man looked forward to his death more than I.
III.
Let me begin with a description of her hair-because, really, it would be impossible to start with anything else. Her hair was like Tartarean vines that grow in the night, reaching up from a place so dark
