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Suicide 100 Stories Away, so what’s for dinner.
by Steven Craig
Suicide 100 Stories Away, so what’s for dinner.
I sit here still and quiet, composed, more senseless than anything else. I see where I am, and more I see what is around me.
The moments come I want to just scream. I want to scream until I am sore and unable to breathe.
I want to cry, I want to cry so bad in hope that something will happen, something will be taken care of.
I want to run away, far away, traveling only by night in the dark with the lights out at a reckless speed.
I want to breathe again and not feel pain.
I want to live again and not be imprisoned in place I never sought.
OK, so I have kidney failure. 100% stage 5000 kidney failure with no answers but to tie myself to the bow mast of that machine every other day, with repetitive stupidity and complete resignation.
OK, so my wife is always in pain from her accidents just enough to make her recoil from being near me because it hurts so much.
OK, so my daughter is in serious deep depression, living the dual white stripe blacktop of bi-polar responses. Miss Jeckle, Miss Hyde. Perhaps I had one daughter too many. Or was it actually two.
So ok, I did not sign up for any of this. I lived that clean life – no drinking, no drugs, no smoking, no gambling, no crime, no violence.
And here I am, like so many others, falling 100 stories. Perhaps life is to be sweeter in those moments. Perhaps as the bottom is hit as in any depression, it changes your life.
Or takes it.
I am shaking, actually shaking. Trembling. It is a need I know, and have always kept suppressed and out of my daily life.
Thus I was able to go out and kill, and destroy, and shed blood of so many and see their guts yanked out and fed upon by starving dogs.
And thought nothing of it as I would sit there and have my lunch before moving on.
On the face the smile, but all the rest so cold, so frozen, so unable to let go of bitterness and truculent moments that coursed into my life.
Still, for so many years, it was all held in check, safe in its confinements scattered though the secret places of my body, evil beyond speakable words, so dark and violent that I know still I would feel nothing from their unfocused release upon the unsuspecting world.
Hate, rage, pinpointed anger held still by slipping hands, weakening mind, characterized by one sudden moment beyond the touch of any humankind.
There is something in me besides the adrenalin in my blood, something that if it had its freedom, would be the true end of me.
But what would I become then, any less than a nuclear blossom blown on the winds of fire and revenge that remember even if I do not.
That I had been here before. Right here. Before. On that place I cared not about the danger of the edge.
I have been here before, and I still wonder even now at the shear gaul that I had even bothered to come this way at all.
Perhaps this is the one last game of dice that I must play.
02/28/2017 Posted on 02/28/2017
Copyright © 2024 Steven Craig
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