Such technological advances were little consolation to a man once admired for his ability to maintain an erection for ungodly periods of time. How the mighty are fallen.
I would simply get well enough to be released and, within twenty-four hours of leaving the hospital, I would be dead. This was my promise to myself, and it was the only thing that kept me going.
♦ ♦ ♦
I am an atheist.
I do not believe there is a God who will punish me for self-slaughter.
Because I lack religious belief, I have never considered my accident to be divine retribution for my “immoral” activities. I know exactly why my accident occurred. Because I was high, I had a hallucination of arrows coming at me. To avoid the imaginary arrows, I drove my car over the side of a real cliff. The gasoline in my tank only did what gasoline does, which is to ignite when introduced to sparks. When flames engulfed my body, my body started to burn according to the laws of thermodynamics and biology. There is no deeper meaning.
I understand that some people find God after misfortune, although this seems to me even more ridiculous than finding Him in good times. “God smote me. He must love me.” It’s like not wanting a romantic relationship until a member of the opposite sex punches you in the face. My “miraculous survival” will not change my opinion that Heaven is an idea constructed by man to help him cope with the fact that life on earth is both brutally short and, paradoxically, far too long.
In the spirit of full disclosure, however, I should reveal something that many theists will insist must inform my disbelief in God. They will argue that I forgo the idea of Heaven because if I accepted it, I would have to admit that I am destined for Hell.
Because I have murdered someone.
♦ ♦ ♦
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 feces.
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 bitch-snake living in my spine.
I’d spin the lid off the pill container and remove five sleeping tablets, sailing them down my throat with a glass of Scotch. This cocktail would be followed with a few more of the same. It’s always nice to enjoy a drink while watching the sun go down. While ingesting these refreshing beverages, I’d remove a razor blade from its package and cut partway through the rope. This operation would involve a certain amount of educated guesswork, to cut the rope in a way that it would not immediately break with the jerk of my fall. I wanted it to hold me, at least for a while, when I reached the end of the line.
I’d have another glass of Scotch and another five sleeping pills. Now, here’s the reason that I took the antihistamine: sleeping pills can cause vomiting when taken in excess and antihistamine counteracts that effect, making sure the sleepy stuff stays down. Pretty smart, huh? Next, I’d take the weekly supply of morphine given to combat the painsnake and inject it in a single satisfying plunge of the syringe. To complete my toxic cocktail, I’d wash down the remainder of my sleeping pills with a final shot of Scotch. By now, you can see how my plan is coming together.
I’d put the noose around my neck, working quickly because I’d be getting dizzy, Miss Frizzy. I’d take another shiny new razor blade out of its package. See how it sparkles in the light, like the wink of an imaginary God! With a single deft stroke I’d slash my right wrist, deep and clean, and then I’d slash my left wrist in the same manner. This is important: I’d cut along the length of the veins instead of across them. People who cut across the wrists either don’t