Wednesday, March 14, 2012


The driver’s side door of the green Ford Explorer slammed shut.  She knew I was furious. As I started the engine and gazed over to her, I began my rant. This was old hat to her; she knew what I was about and what I needed.  Tonight, she didn’t fight back. She listened. It was both peaceful and therapeutic. I felt like now was the only opportunity I’ll ever have to lay it all on the line.

So I did.

I told her of the sleepless nights, the pain that it brought me to know that I was losing her emotionally. She said nothing. She just continued to be fixated on the open road ahead of us. I chuckled to myself; I should’ve known that she couldn’t respond to the truth I was speaking. She never did. She’d just try to change the subject, hoping to throw my thought process off of her trail.

Not this time.

Nothing would come between me and what I had to say tonight. I refuse for that to happen. I continued on, letting her into my mind little by little. I explained why I feel the way I do. No response. My blood began to boil, she knew it pissed me off to blatantly ignore me, but what could I do? I lit a cigarette and the smoke cloud channeled across the interior.

I inhaled deeply.

Rage overcame me and I pounded on the steering wheel.  No reaction from the passenger.  Tears trickled down my face. If this didn’t work nothing would. I expressed what she meant to me, how a good portion of my life was in dedication to her. As we drove down the highway, I was swept away by the beauty of the trees surrounding us. I pulled over and removed the key from the ignition. I turned to her, and admired her in her silence.

So very beautiful.

Her shoulder length golden hair would prove to infect my thoughts for the foreseeable future. It didn’t have to come to this. I tossed my cigarette out of the window that was slightly cracked open. Watching the butt burn away, I knew that I had to say this.

I loved you.

Why did you make me do this? I didn’t want to. Now we both have to suffer the consequences. Actually, that’s not entirely true. You see, I have to live with this. Yours, on the other hand, is over with. There’s nothing I could say or do to make you speak to me. I’m an afterthought, but at least I was your last.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out of the vehicle. Walking over to her, I pulled the door open and kissed her forehead. I carried her 2 miles inward to the woods but had to venture back to get the cinder blocks that I planned to use to send her to final resting place.

She deserved better.

Desperate times call for desperate measures as they say, and this was one of the times that the cliché rang true.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

This Fine City

The water from the faucet drained onto my toothbrush as my day began. I looked at myself in the mirror and could barely stand what I had become. It wasn’t always this way. I rationalize my actions by telling myself that it’s the way of the world that we live in these days. With a bad economy and the climate of the employment landscape proving to be fruitless, I did what had to be done.

Here I go again.

I’ve never taken it all and never would. I only skim a little off of the top, nobody will ever notice.  Five years ago I was a community leader, people looked up to me. In some sense they still do, but I do not feel as high on myself as I once did. It could be because I run a charity scheme that is meant to help widows of victims of the September 11th attacks.


I’ve done this for many years, but to actually verbalize it, hear myself say it, admit it to myself, really struck a chord deep within me.  I never rip them off completely, they never walk away empty handed.

My phone gyrated on the sink where I left it. It was a text message from my assistant, Allison. It was a reminder that I had a speaking arrangement at 2 PM. I can’t even recall how I got to be this way. It’s all a blur. This was never my intention, I would much rather be a regular Joe, cooking at a diner somewhere instead of being expected to be responsible one, the leader of my people.

Life never goes the way that you plan it to. The most successful people in the world have done unspeakable acts to get to where they are now, me included. It’s a fair trade. You give up your morality and compassion to be somebody of importance. The ends justify the means to me.

I run the water and wash my face before stepping out of the bathroom, grabbing my phone in the process.  As I made my way through my lavish living quarters, I made my way to the refrigerator and took a sip of orange juice out of the container before placing it back inside.

People would literally kill to be in my position. Although I may be morally bankrupt, I have the final say as to what in your life is acceptable. As long as you’re under my rule, you will accept my decisions with a smile.

I stepped outside and took in the day. Not a cloud in the sky, despite the weather experts calling for scattered thunderstorms. There was a slight breeze that pressed against my face. This place is mine, and I have done what is necessary to claim it. My finger squeezed the remote to unlock the doors of my Prius.

Yes, a Prius. I hated being seen in the fucking thing, but it was imperative to keep up appearances. I pulled out of my driveway and was on my way to my obligation. There was no other route to where I was expected than to head through the ghetto.        

Seeing the poverty stricken used to affect me deeply, but I’ve since gotten over it. Some would say that I’ve forgotten my roots, I look at it as I have made it out of this situation and it’s not my responsibility to help you get out of yours. It’s a fair system. Work hard and things will work out for you. I’m living proof.

At a red light I peered over to see an elderly woman pushing a grocery cart down the sidewalk. I wondered what it would be like to be her, to have lived her life. This was supposed to be golden years of her life, yet she was as poor as poor can be. Maybe more than that. The thought crossed my mind to give her a 50 out of my wallet, but the light changed to green.

Tough luck. 

I pressed on the gas and was minutes away from my destination. I turned the radio on and played with the tuning dial. Horse shit, per usual.

I pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the vehicle. From afar I could see a man being restrained by a handful of guards. I ventured over to the area and seen what the commotion was about. Upon seeing my face, the man fought harder to break away. He shouted that I’m the reason why the we’re in such a shit storm.

A guard came to me and whispered that this man had every intention of killing me on this day and that they had confiscated the weapon. It was a Colt .45.

Jesus, this guy wanted me dead, twice.

I applauded his great work and told him I must go, people were waiting for me. He nodded his head and I turned my back to him while stepping towards the door. I swung the glass double doors open and was greeted by a group of people who had heard the news. Hugs and support were being given. I accepted, but eventually shoed them away.

I glanced at my phone to see that the time was 1:53 PM. They knew it was time for business. I thanked them and said I’d see them in the crowd.

Here I was, alone again to face this inevitable experience on my lonesome. Standing behind a curtain, I waited to be announced. The voice told the people that I was moments away from stepping out. I pushed through the veil and stood at the podium that was set up for me.

“As mayor of this fine city…”

Monday, March 12, 2012


Here I sit. Pen in my hand, blank page lying in front of me. This feeling has overcome me, a euphoric rush that I can’t exactly describe. It hits me like a wave as I peer around the room that would prove to be the last I’ll ever know. The smooth mahogany desk has been home to many of my works. I do not believe in the use of electronic devices when it comes to my work. Everything I have ever written has been done so with the stroke of a hand. Some friends and colleagues have called me crazy for this practice, but I’ve always felt that it meant more coming directly from the writer’s hand.  The curtains allowed for a special shade of sunlight to be let into the room.

I sat back and took it all in, the simple beauty of it all. I’ve been racking my brain for over two hours, struggling to find the words to couple with this sheet of paper but to no avail. I don’t think people really understand the finality of death. I am not one of those people. A great life was not something I’ve lead, but an interesting one was for sure something I could stake claim to. I placed my hands on my head and leaned my head forward onto the desk in a drunken stupor, almost cursing myself for not being capable of doing this the right way.

There is just too much to say, too many people to acknowledge. Could you imagine being left out of a suicide note? That would probably be more damaging for the loved one that the act itself. Regardless, this wasn’t the issue. A writer’s suicide note would have to be like no other. You’d be expected to speak on the evils of life and death both. It’s just too much to ask for at this point in time.

To express my love to you, the one I’ve never met. The ones that I have met, the people that make my life worth living are the same that made it worth ending. You do not deserve what I bring into your life. Most of the people that love me actually love a fabricated version of me. One that sincerely hopes all is well, but doesn’t want it to be, without me around. Is it wrong to take what you’ve asked for? To go to extreme lengths to prove a point? To take my life just to prove that I mattered, even if I’m not around to see it?


This is who I am, this is what I do. All I’ve ever wanted was to be respected by all and loved by you. What I have given has proven to fall on blind eyes and deaf ears. There is nothing else I can do. I made a promise to never give up on you, and so it shall be. To have given up on myself before I have thought of letting go of you.

What does this say?

I’m not entirely sure. In death I’ll be cemented as your personal legend, the one who never expected too much, the one who was always there in your time of need, the one who believed in you when nobody else would.

In life, I was the one you took for granted. I could never bring myself to willingly remove myself from your life, which would be far too hurtful for us both. Instead of taking myself out of our equation, I will remove myself from the grand scheme instead.

I reach into the drawer and pull out my half empty bottle of Jameson and pour myself a shot in the glass that sat mere inches from the letter.  I tilted my head back and thoroughly enjoyed the golden substance swishing around, burning my cheeks as I held it in. I can only imagine what this shit does to my liver.

I rose out of the chair and walked to the kitchen once swallowing the whiskey. Progress was made. I was happy with the outcome of this letter. I grabbed a chair that was stationed around the kitchen table and dragged it across the floor into my study. Removing the belt from my blue jeans, I tied it to the pull up bar that spent its days in the closet. The previous owner of the home must have been into exercise and staying in shape. Unfortunately, the current occupant was a mad writer.

Opening the closet door, I realized that this was not the ideal place for this to happen. I gazed up and seen the ceiling fan. Perhaps this would do.

I climbed onto the chair and wrapped the belt around the main piece of the furniture and gave it a tight pull to ensure its security. Once I knew that it would in fact hold me, I placed the belt around my throat and kicked the chair away. I flailed for half a minute. It was over. The note remained in my hand, I clenched it with every ounce of my being.

I remember two things.

The first being that the very last thing that I seen with my very own eyes was the note. As I glanced down for one final look, a smile came over me. I did the right thing. The page was empty. And my last thought was of you.