P.8 the Red Letters

       I met Shawn on an online matching site I had used on and off over the years for some form of social interaction. Though he lived somewhere on the other side of the country, so we’d never technically met. Like 99% of the countless people I had spent varying amounts of time talking to, there was no romantic inclination, but we seemed to enjoy harassing eachother. Our friendship eventually consisted of the occasional handwritten fuck you letter or some other Russian or Japanese profanity; we hadn’t talked in some months but I knew that he was a “good Mormon” as I always teased, and would actually say a prayer for me. Though I wasn’t sure what there really was left to even pray.

      I remained in that spot for an exceedingly long time. I couldn’t even think where I could fasten the damn rope if I were to work up the guts. I almost laughed; of course I was terrified of the process of dying, but even more so I was afraid that God would condemn my already tormented soul to an eternity of the hell I already carried pieces of inside. I know they say how could a loving God send anyone to hell- but I think we send ourselves; most often paved with good intentions. The dreams never failed to remind me what hell was like, and I had seen things, so it made it easy for me to believe that there is such a place.

I had taken plenty of time doing extensive research on the statistics; success rate, cleanup, risks of failure, and pain level. How the fuck you could really have information on how much it hurts to die of a shot to the head ot number of other things, I wondered. But I had always considered the high probability suicide attempts carried of just fucking myself up and ending up worse off. I had already tried stopping my heart with excessive stimulants, and had more than once starved myself into multiple organ failure; surprisingly, I ate even less now. but I always seemed to elude the odds as well as the Laws of Thermodynamics ; cheating death so many times and in such circumstances that most would attribute it solely to the hand of God saying I needed to stay for some reason.                                                      He would never tell me why.              I didn’t believe He had any “plans” for me anymore , like everyone has always told me. Still don’t.  I believed it for a long time; but counting the years and now in my heart I only believed that my life had been closing for a while. I knew God was real, there was no debate as to that. I’d seen too much, been given too much proof when I laid out my fleece time and time again; and we had talked for long enough in these ways that I could never question His existence. We simply disagreed on most things I guess. 

     I considered maybe I should try something less traumatic for whoever found the body. Or if I should just do it far out in the mountains, where I liked to be. I was barred from purchasing a firearm, so I had been thinking of overdose or preferably a fatal drug interaction. I was a small person and I had already been mixing all kinds of drugs for some time now, as well as taking benzodiazapenes with alcohol every night after I learned Thomas Kinkade died that way. “The Painter of Light” he was called; My parents had a Kinkade in practically every room of the house. The irony.

I hoped that I would leave something behind as well; because I think the only thing worse than leaving or being left, is being forgotten.


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