Wow. That's pretty scary. There have been times in my life where I've felt very down. A depression for almost no reason. I sometimes feel a sort of doubt to myself. But this detailed description of the moments before death by your own hand. People can see how unbearable it must be for this person. To willingly go through with this despite what lays in store for them. Some people execute their own demise because of that doubt. Because of that emotion.
It takes even more strength to put down the gun then to throw your life away and call it quits. In the end, putting that gun down feels better. You can now move on.
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Flying White Furballs and Walnut Grips
Mr. Exell gets up close and personal with a .45 and his feline friend
Andy Exell
The gun on my desk is a semi-automatic Smith and Wesson .45-caliber handgun, the weapon that Hunter S Thompson used to end his life. The sound of the finely carved walnut grip sliding against the cheap ply board of my generic flat pack desk, fills the otherwise silent room as I spin it by the trigger guard in small circles with my index finger. The engaged safety catch ensures I do not inadvertently discharge high caliber rounds into my plasterboard walls.
For a fleeting second I am lost in the rhythmic bass-like tone of the grinding, its effect is hypnotic and I feel the urge to break the trance. Suddenly I grasp the finely crafted weapon firmly by its grip and press the cold steel up to my temple. Hunter S Thompson went out this way, as Hemmingway did before him, that fateful day when the searing ice cold fact that life no longer held any meaning became just too much to ignore. And after writing one single line upon his trusty old school typewriter, one single sad and infinitely poignant line, he pulled the trigger; and finally kept the promise he'd made to himself decades earlier. With sweat forming around the end of the barrel pressed neatly into my temple I wrap my finger around and the trigger and pull hard.
Attentive readers will note that I had not yet disengaged the safety catch. The barrel of the gun still pressed neatly against my temple I ask myself "have I peaked?" at twenty five years old, with a receding and thinning hairline, a worn and haggard face devoid of all the youthful handsomeness I once had, a job where my ideas and dreams are routinely stomped upon for no discernible reason, two failed love affairs that have left me a jaded husk incapable of feeling anything but the most primitive of emotions, have I at twenty five, reached my peak? Is there anything left? Anything but to flog a horse that not only died but in fact was cremated and scattered to the winds of fate some considerable time ago?
Again the sweat builds up, this time at my fingertip gripping the trigger of the weapon that once took my hero. Still staring blankly at the computer screen displaying the solitary word I had managed to write, I slide up my thumb and disengage the safety catch.
A high pitched but throaty whine slices through the silence of the moment and I hesitate, tracing the flat but pleasantly beveled shape of the trigger with my finger, I am sweating so much that it glides over the hard metal surface like a glass bead set upon a field of ice. The high pitched whine is immediately followed up by the muted sound of padded feet scrambling across wafer thin carpet and 60's era floorboards, the brief moment of silence caused by said feet leaving the floor is shattered by the impact of a fur covered medicine ball landing squarely in my lower abdomen. This causes my head to lurch; accommodating the new weight by curling forward I now receive a softened but firm blow to my right cheek from a silky smooth and fur-coated skull. The low hum of purring fills my vacant ear and I instinctively swivel the pistol upwards into a prone position removing my finger from the trigger in the process, lest I should accidentally shoot my cat. The nudging continues and I cave in, using my free hand to stroke the soft white fur of the Siamese cat at my neck, he climbs down into my lap and the sudden pin pricks of claws let me know he is settling in after being ignored for the unacceptable period of five minutes.
Distracted by my furry friend I stare again at my computer and catch the email notification window flashing unapologetically at the top right of the screen. It's Mr Hillsdon again and this time he appears to be in an even more ignorant and bad tempered mood than usual, proving to me that it is indeed possible. I am told in mistake laden words that an email he sent an hour ago has not arrived where it should and if it does not he will have my ass on a golden plate where it so belongs. I look at the pistol still clasped in a prone position in my free hand and consider resuming where I left off.
Epiphanies always come at the most awkward of times. I lay the handgun down on the desk and, still stroking the White Furball, I call up the remote connection to Mr Hillsdon's mail server with my free hand and navigate to his account and then hit "suspend" For a second I have a change of heart and hit "delete" instead. Let's see you complain now I think, if his mood hasn't improved by morning, I'll erase the backup too.
I close the laptop screen and nothing but the sound of contended purring fills the room. Picking up the .45 again I re-engage the safety catch, open the desk drawer and place it neatly back in its rightful place, as I slide the drawer closed I think to myself "Reached my peak?? Hah ! I haven't even Goddamn started!"
Andy Exell is an I.T consultant and freelance artist, illustrator, designer and writer based in London. He lives with his computer and his cacti collection.
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27 Jul 2007, 19:49
03 Sep 2007, 19:55
Pretty damn good! Equal parts philosophical and emotional. The descriptive ability displayed here blows me away... but I personally feel that it is a tad bit overdone. However, the style used makes it fit rather well. I positively love the ending, as well. All in all, very well done, in my honest personal opinion.