Love and Assassins – Chapter Two – Part Three

Love and Assassins
Chapter Two – Part Three

I hobbled over to the refrigerator, opening the freezer door and peering inside. My neck was cramping bad and the little man with the head-hammer was back. Inside the freezer a tray of ice sat, half full of cubes, probably from the tenant before me. I broke out several pieces, found an old t-shirt and wrapped them up in it.

Placing the makeshift ice pack on my shoulder I stared around the room, my gaze finally falling on the toaster.

A million thoughts ran through my mind then, all the countless ways I could fuck that one up, cause myself excruciating pain, and somehow, somehow… Still not die. No. Electrocution was out.

I laid down on the couch, closing my eyes and vaguely wondering why I hadn’t used the couch to stand on. Oh well. I stretched out across the cushions, thinking. I was doing something wrong here. I had to be, how else could I not be dead yet?

I grabbed the note pad, pulling my knees up and looking it over with a critical eye. I had the purpose. I had the ways. I had the tools. But… And then I saw it. I hadn’t worked out how a suicidee would be. I mean what kind of attitude would they have? I hadn’t even written a note! They all wrote notes, right?

I tapped the pencil on my lips, thinking. Okay. I scribbled out, “attitude of a suicidee:” and then below this: “depressed.”

Yeah. And… “Despondent,” and, “angry at the world.” Huh. Do suicidees like anyone? Probably not or they would just go be with that person. Okay, “no friends.” And… Yeah. I had it now. I got up and went to the mirror, looking at myself.

Well, I already looked like shit. My face was paler than before and a nice bump was busy swelling on my forehead. But no, I needed the attitude of a suicidee.

Okay. Despondent. I relaxed all the muscles in my face. Good. Zombie-like, but good. And depressed. I lowered the edges of my mouth. Good. Angry at the world. But wait, no, it would be angry at the world but not showing it. I lifted my upper lip the slightest bit. Yeah, that was it. I looked horrible. And kind of weird. God, this was depressing.

I went back to my couch, sitting down. This wasn’t working. Hmm. There was one other way though I didn’t know if I had the nerve to try it. Maybe if I got really drunk. Yeah. But I’d have to be up there already or I’d probably forget what I was doing.

I wrapped my robe around me and tied it. Grabbing the remaining five beers I left my apartment. The building was nine stories tall. There would be no way I would make it through this alive.

I climbed the stairs trying to get myself worked up into a good rage against the world, thinking of all the horrible things anyone had ever done to me, the lies and betrayals, failures. Life was rotten.

By the time I reached the top I was out of breath but I was ready. I hated everyone. They all sucked. No one had ever been nice to me in my whole life. And if they had I was trying not to remember it as much as I could.

I pushed open the rusty metal door at the top of the stairs and stepped out into a chilly wind. It was early evening now and the sun was already down. Below me I could hear the sounds of rush hour traffic, something that would continue for another couple of hours.

I stepped to the side and looked over.

Oh God, can’t do that again, I thought, quickly pulling myself back.

I took a deep breath. Okay. I can do this. But I can’t do it there. Too many people around to gawk at the crazy man in the bathrobe. Other side. There was an alley there, no one would see. Probably wouldn’t find me till next week.

I walked across the gravel strewn roof to the other side, careful not to look over. Okay, this was it. I climbed up onto the edge using the ladder to the fire escape to brace myself. Very slowly I sat down, my legs dangling over the side, and kicked my slippers off, watching them fall and bounce on the pavement below.


I opened the first beer, chugging it down and dropping the can over side, hearing a dull clang a moment later as it hit the side of a dumpster. Yeah, sue me for that.

I opened the next beer. Drank it. Next. Drank it. Next. By the time I was half way through the fifth one I needed to pee so badly I could barely hold it. I fumbled for the ladder beside me, pulling myself up and nearly falling several times before getting my footing. Yeah, I was drunk enough. Now I just needed to pee and then I could get it over with.

I fumbled at my bathrobe, trying to get it out of the way and hold onto the ladder at the same time. A chill wind swept up, blowing the flaps of my bathrobe up and to the side. I clutched onto the ladder, staggering, trying to hold it in. Then I slipped sideways, losing my grip on the fire escape ladder. I was falling.

Everything slowed down then, the chill wind becoming a gentle breeze, the sounds of traffic dying away to a faint background hum. This was it. This was really it.

A thousand thoughts flashes through my mind, memories good and bad, dreams, goals. And through it all was the feeling of the soft breeze and the weightlessness. I’d never felt so free in my entire life.

A moment later I landed on the fire escape one floor down. On the bright side I didn’t need to go pee anymore.

This is continued in: Love and Assassins, Chapter Three

Love and Assassins – Chapter Two – Part Two

Love and Assassins
Chapter Two – Part Two

I made some more coffee by reusing the same grounds as before and sat back down in front of my notes, picking up the can of beer and finishing it off.

“Okay. Wrist slashing is for massochists.” I crossed it off the list. Then as an afterthought I put a little check in the square beside it. At least I could feel like I was making some progress.

“Okay. Next: hanging.”

I looked about the room. In the center of the ceiling a small fan hung, slowly turning on its axis. That would do. They always used those in the movies.

I grabbed the twine, unreeling it on the floor and tying a noose at the end of it. Or at least a loop with a knot in it big enough to fit my head through.

Wait, that won’t work, what if I slip out? It needed to be tight around my neck, no accidents, this was going to be the one.

I started to undo the knot and ended up breaking my finger nail half off. Fuck. Where are those scissors?

A few minutes later I was tying another loop, this one around my neck. Fumbling with the knot I finally got it tight enough, very tight. I looked down at the long thread dangling from my neck, smiling proudly at my creation. This was going to work.

Now I needed something to stand on. I looked around. I owned no chairs, those were all back at the house where Jack was probably getting a blow job sitting on one.

I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. The time for anger was past. This was the time for effective action. And deep breaths.

Okay. Look around. What can I use?

My eyes fell on the many boxes littering the floor.

“Right,” I said to myself, rubbing my hands together, “let’s do this.”

I dragged the box containing my weights under the fan and stepped onto it, reaching up to the fan. Too short, okay…

Beside me another box sat, one side torn to the bottom and open, housing a stack of old records without cases, hand me downs from my mother.

“Mom, I’ll see you soon,” I said, smiling at the stack. Then I paused, thinking. “Oh no. No, wait, I won’t, that’s – wrong place. Never mind that mom,” I called. “If you were listening.”

I picked up the box and put it on the first. It was stable. Good. Climbing up I nearly slipped as one of the records moved under my foot, but I caught myself! This was it. This was it. Nothing was stopping me this time.

I reached up, tying a new loop around the top of the fan. If only it would stop turning.

A minute later I had it. I was so excited. I stood there on my tiptoes tying one last knot around the fan axis, just to make sure it would hold, when suddenly the record began to slide out from under my feet.

No, no, no, no, no… Fuck!

I fell, my legs swinging out as the loop caught me under the jaw, carving into the soft skin of my throat.

Fuck that hurts! That fucking hurts!

I screamed but nothing came out.

Legs swinging below me I grasped the loop around my neck with one hand, reaching for the top knot with the other.

Come on, baby, come on!

I could feel the blood rushing to my head. My lungs were burning already and it had only been a minute.

Fuck this hurts!

I tried to stand but the records kept slipping out from under my toes, flying off like frisbees on speed. Finally, kicking out with my feet in panic, the whole box fell away leaving me to dangle in empty space.

Well, this was it, I thought as the edges of my vision blurred into darkness. I was going to die now. Maybe not as calmly or as quickly or as painlessly as I’d originally wanted, but it was happening.

My head felt like it was going to explode, my chest was on fire. Everything was going dark, fading out, until all I saw was a thin tunnel of light stretching out before me like a path, so bright and beautiful. I could almost see a beautiful woman on the other side dressed all in white, smiling compassionately, her arms held out to me, beckoning. This was it. Goodbye world.


The fan came out of the ceiling part way, jolting me and powdering my face with dry wall dust which stung my eyes.

I swung my legs, impulsively, kicking out in protest of my eyes being raped, when suddenly the incomplete knot around the fan began to loosen, the twine slipping through the loop in quick, short bursts.

No. Please, fucking damn it!

I couldn’t see anything, my vision gone. But I could hear it all, every little hitch of movement right up to the end as with one final hitch it came undone sending me crashing down on my back, my head connecting painfully with the box of weights, the beautiful woman at the end of the tunnel gone.

I lay there for several minutes, gasping for air as my lungs screamed, looking up at the treasonous fan where it hung, held only by its wires.

Fucking assholes! I mean what company makes a ceiling fan that won’t hold a person’s weight? What if kids were swinging on it?

I closed my eyes. Mental note: If I live through my suicide, find out who makes those fans and fucking sue them. Freakin safety hazards.

A knock at the door brought me to and I stood up, dazed, nearly tripping on one of the records before finally making it to my feet. Cringing at the pain in my neck and throbbing head I walked over to the door and opened it.

A woman stood there holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket. She had blonde hair, pulled back in a braid and big blue eyes to match her sunny smile. She couldn’t have been more than thirty at the most.

“Hi! I’m so sorry to disturb you, but no one else is home now and I heard you banging around over here. Tee-hee! My name’s Cristin, my husband and I just moved in over here down the hall from you. Thirteen B!” She squealed with excitement, her smile broadening as she shook back and forth. “Yes sir,” she nodded to herself, “came all the way from Georgia to the big city. Got our own home now. He’s out working, first day at the new job.

“Anyways, my baby is hungry and I just found I’m out of milk and was wondering if…” Her sentence trailed off as she took in the scene, her eyes flashing to the ceiling fan behind me, to the mess of boxes, to the twine around my neck and finally to my bandaged wrist.

“You know it looks like I’ve caught you at a bad time. I’ll just check with someone else.” She scrunched her face into a smile and turned, hurrying back down the hallway. A moment later I heard a door being slammed and bolted.

“Mmm…” I groaned, closing and bolting my own door again.

Next up is: Love and Assassins – Chapter Two – Part Three

Love and Assassins – Chapter Two – Part One

Love and Assassins
Chapter Two – Part One

I finished the coffee and stood up, eyeing my room from a strategical view. If I was going to be a suicidee then I needed to start thinking like one. I needed… to make notes. That always helped in school. So I was told.

I grabbed a pad of lined paper from a box and sat down, pencil in hand. After balancing accounts for so many years this was something I should be good at.

“How do suicidee’s go about their business?” I wrote in neat cursive on the pad, underlining it twice.

I looked up at the ceiling, eyes half closed in thought as visions swam through my head. “Right.” A moment later I scribbled, “slashing wrists, hanging, electrocution,” in downward order.

I sat back, nodding. “Yeah,” now I was getting somewhere.

Okay, next. “What do I have?” I scribbled under the list.

I looked around the room at the train wreck that was the physical representation of my life. “Okay… Time to get to work.” If was going to do this I was going to do it as a professional to professional standards. No half-way for me.

I went through everything, opening drawers, pulling up boxes and spilling their contents about the room. I even opened a can of split pea soup just so I could see if the lid was sharp enough. It was, but too jagged. I could imagine it slicing and then getting caught, slice, get caught. I didn’t think I had the stomach to persevere through that. “Next.”

Fifteen minutes later I stood staring at the kitchen counter. Three things lay upon its dusty surface, three instruments of immediate, irreversible death: a pair of scissors, a roll of twine and a toaster. I noted them all down on my pad, making little squares beside each so I could check them off when done.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Here we go.”

I grabbed the pair of scissors, heading for the bathroom. This was it.

Standing in front of the sink I stared into the mirror at my pale reflection, noticing for the first time how dark the skin beneath my eyes was, how pale my face. Oh well. Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes, scissors open, edge to my wrist.

This is it. This… Is… It.

I bit down on my lip, sucking in a deep breath of air.

Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it!

I did it! Yes!

“Ow! Fuck! That fucking hurts!”

I stared down at the red line across my wrist, feeling more like a very thin rug burn than a slice of doom. There wasn’t even any blood!

I shook my head. I had to do this right. No fucking around or pussying out. Unwavering dedication was what was needed here, nothin less would do.

“Okay.” I put the edge of the scissors to my wrist again.

And close eyes…

And inhale…


“Fucking hell that hurts!”

I threw the scissors to the ground, grabbing my wounded wrist with my other hand, a light stream of blood slowly dribbling between my fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I was shaking my arm, still holding it.

Who fucking does this shit? It’s so painful!

After a minute I opened my hand to look at the wound, a small gash bubbling slightly. Hmm, maybe it would be enough… I held my arm up above my chest.

Crap, no, that’s to stop the bleeding! “Okay.” I bent over, my arm dangling as low as I could reach as I watched the tiny drips come, one by one, so slowly.

Several minutes later the wound was already congealing. I shook my head in disgust. “Seriously?” I asked the scissors where the lay on the floor? “I’ve gotten better cuts from falling on my knees as a kid.” I kicked the scissors with my toe, immediately regretting it with another series of cuss words.

Sighing, I grabbed the small first aid kit from my bathroom mirror, taking out the hydrogen peroxide and sterile pads. I carefully swabbed the wound with the peroxide and wrapped it up, putting the small kit away neatly. Can’t have any infections. Wiping off the sink I walked out.

Back to the note pad.

Love and Assassins – Chapter One – Part Three

Love and Assassins
Chapter One – Part Three

A few minutes later, bag in hand, I mounted the stairs of my apartment building. I found as long as I concentrated on what needed to be done I was actually kind of happy, in a strangely giddy sort of way.

Passing a landing I saw a man and a woman making out against the wall outside their apartment, number 15b. The man’s neck was covered in tattoos rising nearly to his chin and traveling down below the collar of his frayed t-shirt to reappear once more on his arms. His head had maybe two days stubble on it from a shave job.

“Get a hotel room,” I said.

The man’s dark eyes found me, narrowing. However his tongue was still locked in the woman’s mouth and she didn’t seem to have any thought about giving it up just yet.

I stood there staring at them. Old bathrobe. No shower. Drug store grocery bag in hand. “It won’t work out.”

The man exited the woman’s mouth, wiping his lips on his sleeve and pushing her face away. “What?” He asked, stretching his multi-muscled arms back. Like a Swiss Army knife muscles rose and fell from all sorts of concealed slots as he advance toward me, never taking his eyes off me.

“Nothing,” I said, still standing there. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”

He stood there glaring at me as I resumed my slow march up the stairs, my path to destiny clear before me.

I arrived at my door a minute later, unlocking it and looking back down the stairwell. “She’s probably blowing your best friend,” I called down.

“You mother fu-”

I slipped into my apartment, slamming the door closed and bolting it behind me as I chuckled to myself.

I walked over to the kitchenette, pulling the cream and chips out of the bag. The coffee was already done so I poured some into a cup and sat down on the sofa, lighting a cigarette and popping open a can of beer.

I laid back listening to the loud banging which had begun on the door and the threats being made against me for talking bad about the man’s bitch, as he put it. I smiled, taking slow drags from my cigarette. Strangely, when I feel down – very down, I mean – making other people feel bad just… Makes me happy.

I took a drag of my cigarette, exhaling slowly and watching as it rose up to join the small cloud forming.

“Those are going to kill you,” I heard the old man saying in my mind.

I pulled the cigarette out of my mouth, staring at it thoughtfully. “Maybe…”

Five minutes later I was siting in bed, the cup of coffee half empty beside me and five lit cigarettes strategically positioned between my lips.

“Oh, hold on.” I pulled the cigarettes out and grabbed my untouched beer. Can’t let a good thing go to waste. I gulped half of it and set it down on a box near me. Then I turned to the five lit cigarettes in my other hand, puffing lightly on each one until they were all burning brightly again and placing them back in my lips.

Okay. One, two, three…

I inhaled as deeply as I could, filling my lungs to the max with the deadly smoke as five cherries glowed bright red in the starkness of my dingy little room.

Go, go, go, go, go!

I was getting lightheaded but still I persevered, opening whole new realms in my lungs, delving into new dimensions, letting the smoke boldly go where no smoke had gone before. And…

A moment later I was hacking my lungs out, critical thoughts racing through my mind about the inventors, makers and purveyors of all cigarettes and their immediate families.

Oh my God, I think I’m dying. I’ve never hacked so hard in my life. This is fucking painful, why do they sell these fucking things?

I stamped the cigarettes out on the carpet with my slipper, making a large black mark and eyeing the pack evilly.

Taking a sip of my coffee I laid back, waiting for the little hammer-wielding man in my head to get bored and stop beating my brain to bits.

Thirty minutes later I lit another cigarette, taking a drag and letting it out, the smoke idly drifting upwards to join the hovering cloud.

“I need a plan.”

Love and Assassins – Chapter One – Part Two

Love and Assassins
Chapter One – Part two

I pulled the covers off and stood up, reaching for my pack of cigarettes. Tilting it upside down, a fine dusting of tobacco shreds powdered my feet, but no cigarettes came out. I sighed, looking around. A dirty bathrobe, unwashed since I moved in lay on the floor beside me. A mirror hung from the door and I stood there for a moment staring at my reflection, crystal clear in the fifteen dollar frame.

I was fat. No, that’s not the right word, no paunch or anything, but… flabby. That was it. Sagging pecs and small inner tube around the waste. If I flexed my arms I’d probably make a u-bend. The cream of high school athletics was long gone.

“Whatever,” I said to myself. A man can walk naked in his own house no matter what he looks like.

I opened the door and walked into my living room. Boxes littered the floor, my only possessions after six years of marriage. And of what? Old CDs I hadn’t played since I was a kid, a year book full of forgotten faces. It was pathetic.

“Pathetic, you hear me?” I said to the box nearest me. “Pathetic.” I kicked it, the pain that suddenly stabbed through my foot reminding me that this was the box with my old weights from when I used to work out after school.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Grimacing, I hobbled over to the little kitchenette and opened the fridge, pulling out a very weightless bag of coffee and looking inside. I took a deep breath and let it out. There was only enough for half a cup.

Putting it in the little coffee maker I pressed the “ON” button and went back to the fridge to get the cream.

No cream.

I looked around my apartment in despair. No cream. No cigarettes. Barely any coffee and my fucking foot hurts!

I was on the verge of a mental breakdown and I didn’t have any support in the matter. I rummaged through my things, pulling up boxes and dirty clothes, finally finding another pack of cigarettes.

Empty. I almost cried.

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. No. I had a job to do. I grabbed my bathrobe, wrapping it around my naked body, and found my sandals under a heap of dirty clothes in the bedroom. “I’ll be back,” I told the refuse littering my floor. “I mean it.” Then I left.

I made my way down the stairs of my apartment building, my sandals flopping loudly against the floor on each step. Five flights of filth and unpainted walls passed me by as societal rejects, outcasts from the “good life”, roamed freely in their natural habitat.

Outside the sounds of morning traffic assaulted my ears, once again reminding me how much I hated this world. I made my way down the street, avoiding bums looking for handouts and the occasional psycho cabby.

Ten minutes later I was in line at the drug store, cream in hand, Doritos on the counter along with a six pack of cheap beer. A kid half my age sat behind the register reading a magazine and intermittently sucking loudly from a slurpee. Tattoos covered his arms and a faded black t-shirt proclaimed, “The end is near… Just up the block and to your left.”

I placed the cream on the counter. “Can I get some cigarettes, too?” I asked pointing to a pack behind him.

He picked up the pack I was pointing at without looking and put it on the counter.
“Ten seventy nine,” he said, still reading his magazine.

I put eleven bucks on the counter and turned to go.

“You know those are going to kill you.”

I turned around to see an old man in a hat and sunglasses staring up at me, the lines of his face a study in map making.

I nodded gravely. “I only wish it didn’t take so long.”

He gave me a queer look and I walked out. All about me was the noise of traffic and passersby gossiping about pathetic things in their pathetic, little lives.

Why did they even bother? Probably low IQ. They just hadn’t noticed yet how meaningless they were along with everything else.

Ahead of me a little girl was drawing a flower on the sidewalk with colored chalk. Bright orange petals sprung from a green stalk.

I stopped beside her, looking down at her creation. “It’s gonna fade.”

“What?” She asked, shading her eyes against the sun as she looked up at me.

“It’s gonna fade. No matter how much you try. People are gonna walk on it, Rain’s gonna come, Gum. It’ll be gone.”

I stopped talking. The little girl had started to cry.

“Hey, look, I was just saying-”

“You bastard!”

I turned to see a bowling ball sized purse flying at my head and, out of focus behind it, the face of an angry hyena woman. I assume she was the one directing it.

A couple minutes later I picked myself up off the sidewalk, my head feeling slightly worse than before. Beside me an old man the color and consistency of over baked chicken was spitting something in my general direction.

Wearing tattered jeans and a t-shirt which hadn’t seen a washer in at least a year he was squatted against the side of a sandwich shop letting the world know how I’d just made a little girl cry and asking, with many guttural outbursts, what kind of person would want to make a cute, little, innocent girl cry.

I picked up my things, which had fallen out of my bag, and looked around. The girl was gone now. So was the chalk drawing. In its place were the scribbled words, “fuck you a-hole.”

Yeah, cute, little girl.

Love and Assassins – Chapter One – Part One

Love and Assassins
Chapter One – Part One

My life wasn’t always this bad. I don’t think. I mean at no point would I have called it incredible but… suicide? No. Never would have crossed my mind.

So I guess it’s not that life is horrible from the beginning. It’s more that they lead you down this beautiful little path – full of pitfalls and fallen trees and jaguars with long claws, yes.

But, but… every now and then you see a flower. Maybe not a breathtaking one, not the prettiest in its class – but a flower all the same, living, breathing and staring at the sun. And you think, “It’s gonna be alright. It’s gonna get better. I mean, it can’t all be this bad, right?”


And in the end the worst part isn’t even that it’s so horrible. It’s that you think there’s going to be a happy ending, a pat on the back, just – just… some kind recompense for having walked through shit for so long! I mean that’s what they tell you, the movies and books and stuff.

And that’s a lie.

Take me, just – random example, okay? I got out of high school seven years ago. What did I want to do? Become a writer. What did I do? I became an accountant.

See, there was this girl named Jenna. And she was pretty and blonde and slim and rich. She was my girlfriend for most of high school. Well, except for those two weeks when she left me for Jack… My best friend… And maybe had already done so once or twice before that…

But hey, mistakes happen. She was my girl and we were back together. We were in love. Right? So when high school ended it seemed the logical thing to do to get married. I mean that’s what you’re supposed to do. It’s what’s right.

Man. It was beautiful – Hawaii, flowers everywhere, cliff top overlooking the ocean. She had arranged it, her father paid for everything. All the right people came. I was happy then, wasn’t I? I was doing what I was supposed to do, right?

In any case I was fine. I had some money from my parents death, her father was well off, I could write. The perfect life.

Six years later I’m working late every night, an accountant at her father’s firm. Jenna’s daddykins didn’t like the idea of a deadbeat writer for his little girl. Jenna’s husband needed to be a man. Someone who could support her, who would be there to take care of her when he was gone. Someone tame.

So, I never became a writer. I toyed with it, wrote a few things, even finished a novel. But I never told her, never sent it out to the agent who’d read part of it and said they wanted it. That wasn’t how life worked.

See, you don’t take chances. You don’t take risks and emotional leaps.


You stay at home or at work and leave the fairy tales where they belong, in books about a life that doesn’t actually exist.

So, six years passed. Or was it seven? I don’t know.

Then one day something happened. I couldn’t tell you what, I still don’t know. I was in my office, staring at balance sheets and mid term reports, trying to make sense of a series of bonuses paid to the executives of the firm.

Maybe it was that I hadn’t eaten lunch. Or maybe that I hadn’t seen Jenna that morning and I missed her. She was asleep when I woke up, as usual. Just as she had been out the night before when I finally went to sleep. As usual. So maybe it wasn’t that.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why I did it. I just did. I got up, grabbed my briefcase, and left. Didn’t even tell anyone. Just suddenly had to get out, to get away.

I remember walking through the streets, staring at things, people going about their day. It just didn’t seem right anymore, it seemed off, unreal, like I was surrounded by manikins in a department store.

Something was wrong. I didn’t know what but I knew it was there, a hole in my life, glitch in the matrix – call it what you will – I was missing something big and I knew that if I didn’t find out what now then it would be gone and I would never find it again and I would turn into a manikin and disappear into the crowd, lost forever in oblivion.

I took the train out of the city, staring out at the harbor and the people walking about. The Statue of Liberty stood tall surrounded by dark waters, her face a blurred image of an emotion I’ve never seen in real life.

I got off the train a few blocks from our house, a moderately large victorian place an hour out of the city. Striding down the sidewalk I stole a few roses from a neighbors yard, carefully preening them of thorns.

Suddenly everything made sense somehow. It was like someone was pointing something out to me and I was finally seeing, finally getting a glimpse of the “mystery”.

I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to walk up to the house, Jenna would be there watering the flowers or reading a book on the porch, maybe singing – she had a beautiful voice.

And I would come hopping up the little path to the porch, whistling maybe. And she would see me, her eyes lighting up, a beautiful smile blooming across her face. And I was going to pick her up, kiss her and say, “lets get out of here.”

And she would smile and say, “where to?”
And I would say, “anywhere.” And we would leave that afternoon, destination: unknown, adventure: to be determined.

A few minutes later I was walking down the block to my house. Trees were turning gold and red in the autumn sun, bees buzzing about, birds chirping. I was happy. I had it all figured out.

I walked up onto our large white porch, flowers hanging in pots, wood slat chairs stretched in the shade of the awning. No Jenna, but that was fine, she would be inside, it was a hot day.

I opened the door, a smile as large as Texas crossing my face. And there was Jenna… my beautiful wife… my loving wife… naked and kneeling, head down in my best friend’s open lap, his flabby little butt pressed deep into the perfect little pillows of my perfect white sofa.

Fast forward to six weeks later and here I am in a shabby little apartment, living off Fruit Loops and Cap’n Crunch, lying in bed, staring at the wall, ready to end it all.

Love and Assassins – Prologue

Love and Assassins

My life sucks.

No, seriously, it does. Hell, life in general sucks. I mean who would create something like life, where you’re born – painful; you grow up, go to school – wasn’t that so much fun; and then they kick you out as soon as it’s starting to come together and tell you to get a job, get a wife, buy a house, have kids, get credit cards, build up debt, pay taxes, follow the law, and never, never, never even think the words… “Is this what I want?”

I mean it’s sadistic, really. Seriously.

And now guess what?
You’re stuck.
All your dreams?
Gone. Never gonna happen.
Pipe dreams. Forget’m.

And why?

Because you got involved in a little thing called living. You said, “yep, ship me down, I’m gonna do it.” And then when you’re half way out of your mother you take one look around and think, “crap. Where’s the manual?” And that’s when you cry. Really, I think that’s the real reason babies are always crying during birth.
And the few who don’t cry? Probably too stupid to notice there’s no manual. They cry later.

Anyways, evil, pure evil. Look at me. I’m laying here in my bed, alone, sheets halfway off me because I started to get up, decided not to, and then was too lazy to even pull them back on.

That thing on the bed stand beside me? It’s an alarm clock. It’s been going off for almost half an hour now, telling me to get up, take a shower, go to work. Hey, when I’m off maybe I can go get some beers with Jack and forget about everything until tomorrow morning when my alarm and headache wake me again.

Oh, wait, can’t do that. Because Ole Jacky is staying somewhere else now. At my house, with my wife. Yep. Fuck him.

So where does that leave me? Laying in bed in a little apartment I just moved into, staring at the wall as my alarm continues to ring, now telling me that not only am I late to get up, but in five minutes I’ll be late for work.

And since I didn’t show up the last two days, because, you know, why bother? I’ll probably be fired. Yep. My life sucks. And there’s this stupid light shining in through the window beside me and it hurts my eyes. Probably just all part of the plan.

But why am I still laying here? I mean, yeah, it’s bad. All of it. But even if I don’t go to work why am I still lying in bed, slowly taking drags of my fifth cigarette so far today, in need of a shower, not even any coffee yet?
It’s because I’m thinking. I’m thinking of one thing as I lay here, cigarette in hand, swirls of smoke lazily rising up to join the cloud above my head, the thing I woke up thinking.

End it.

Yeah. Suicide. The old hell sender, damned forever thing.

I’ve been staring at the wall, the same wall, for forty minutes now as that stupid alarm rings its fucking head off, trying to make the decision. It’s not been an easy one to make.
Well… now I have.

I’m gonna do it.

I’m gonna get up, make some coffee, and kill myself.