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 faeces.
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.
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