Thirty: A Suicide follows a man coping with the mistakes he’s committed. After a failed attempt at ending his life, he turns to his journal for a solution.
Dear reader,
2:52am.
4 hours since I was upstairs atop my apartment building, failing to kiss the cement below. I’ve been awake for 29 hours now and not even the slightest droop of my fucking eyelids. I hate moments like these where I’m unable to lie in bed, allow my brain to cease function and enter an altered state of perverse illusions influenced by the last interaction I’ve been blessed to experience. I’ve convinced myself I’m incapable of falling asleep until I’ve strained out all my thoughts, my rants, my lustful desires, thoughts on how to slit my wrist without leaving another faded blotch of red wine on my white bed sheets to clean later; and my anxiety. Of course as I write all this, my heart beats quicker. It’s an uneven tempo, like an ill-prepared drummer boy braving through another Santa Claus parade- a gloveless boy with more support from his Facebook profile than his debilitating immune system. I thought hearts were supposed to be consistent. Stop it. Let me sleep. At the very least, let me close my eyes. It is 2:57am… 2:58. I should have finished the job.
Dear reader,
4:14am.
I heard a siren. It’s the only calming noise that lulls me to sleep. The pattern of its wailings piercing my ears telling me two things: To get out of the way, and somebody might die. Would it be ironic to step in front of a speeding ambulance? Which would I read first? The license place, or the vehicle’s name backwards? I’ll try to go back to sleep. 4:17.
Dear reader,
6:03am
Birds are waking up. People are going to work. Kids are avoiding school. Dogs are being walked.
The fog is heavy today. Nobody will see me jump, right? I’ve done enough damage already.
Dear reader,
6:19am
I’m wearing my favourite shirt, the one Tabitha bought me. I loved her. Always will. She was a great wife and a greater sex addict. It got the best of her in the end- fucking bitch.
Bitch.
You know, love is particularly fucked up. One moment your throat is so full of it you don’t know what to say or how to express it, and the next moment you’re so empty from it you hurt. You hurt and you cry for something missing in your throat.
I cried. I cried when I searched what was missing from my throat. I thought maybe it was in her throat. Maybe after what she did to me, that fucking bitch, that maybe she stored it in her throat. My cum mixed with his. Fuck.
I found out later she had nothing there. Nothing in her throat. Not even her throat. 6:24.
Dear Tabitha,
6:31am
I fucked up. I’m sorry for everything that happened between us. I loved you, and I fucked it up. Sometimes knives are too conveniently placed in the kitchen. And sometimes anger is too convenient of an emotion I carry.
Dear Tabitha,
6:56am
I’m going back upstairs. I’ll see you in a bit. Tell everybody we kissed at 7:00 sharp.
