Chronology of Death
8pm: Why didn’t you call? You never call. The phone sits silently. I stare at it for a minute. No one ever calls.
My eye twitches as I converge into tears.
9pm: Stay… or go? I debate that persistent voice that only I can hear. It doesn’t matter. In the end, nothing ever really matters.
Voice (death): No one cares. Go. Have fun. He hasn’t called; he doesn’t care.
Me: Should I really? He’s just busy. He’ll call. He cares. (I always tell myself that.)
Voice (death): Don’t be a pussy. Have some balls for once. Have fun tonight and do what makes you feel good.
I leave in reckless abandonment all that I know to be right as I enter the dimly lit kitchen.
10pm: You are always here for me. I mix a concoction of juice and liquor. No matter what, I can always count on you. I listen to each tick. I await the signal of the clock to indicate the time has arrived for me to go. Death is imminent, although I don’t quite feel it yet.
10 15pm: I’ve half finished my god awful drink and hesitantly light a cigarette. This is not the first cigarette I’ve smoked since I quit. Why don’t you ever call me? If you would ever show me you care then I wouldn’t need such vices in my life. I always qualified my behavior. In that way, it isn’t my fault. It never is my fault. Addiction knows no rationality. I put the cigarette out after only being half smoked. It’s ok to smoke if you only smoke half of it. I live my life basing it on contradictions such as these.
10 30pm: Shit. I nearly lose my balance as I lean on the back two legs of my chair. My glass is still half empty. I had filled it to the top a few minutes earlier. If I never drink a full glass then I’m not really drinking that much. I take a sip.
11pm: Call me, damn it. I just want to hear your voice is all. I just want to know you’re thinking of me. Call me, damn it. The alcohol is clearly having it’s affect on me. I’m going. You don’t give a damn about me so I’ll show you.
I stagger out the door.
Midnight: Fucking asshole. I yell at the bus as it races past me without hesitation. I stand here, alone and helpless, thinking the world has forgotten me. He still hasn’t called. I still miss him terribly. Why do I go on living in a world as uncaring as this? I speak to the pigeons as if they care to hear my troubles. Deep down I desire death, when death is not around. Deep down I desire death, when death is no where to be found. I can still wait half an hour longer. You’ll keep me company, right? The pigeons coo in unison.
1am: $5? Sure. I would have spent any amount to gain entry into this den of decadence and iniquity. The lights are strobing; the music is pounding. People sway together as they are all lumped into a sea perpetual rhythm. Death is imminent, although I don’t quite feel it yet.
Are you sleeping? I text him this one and only time, partly to ease my conscience and partly out of loneliness. He doesn’t respond. My mind becomes set in thinking he hates me. My mind becomes set in thinking I’m alone. I walk from the front of the bar to the back. I smile at some, wink at others. Stupid faggots… why don’t they notice me? I convince myself that I just need another drink. I need to free myself from the shackles of shyness.
2am: Gin and tonic, please. The bartender stares at me for a minute. I can tell he knows I’ve had one too many drinks yet still he pours. I glance down at my phone. Asshole. No… no, not you. It’s… my boyfr-…oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter. He walks away. I stumble backwards.
4am: I venture out into uncharted waters this lonely god-forsaken night, jumping over water puddles, letting the curls of my hair mop up the drops of rainwater hitting my blushed face, all without the protection of the thin fabric of that small umbrella. It’s liberating. I’m free. And most importantly of all, it’s fun. At this moment, nothing else matters. At this moment, it is pure fun.
9 am: I awake with a headache, nauseas, and confused. What the fuck did I do? Lying there beside the bed, just as it had the night before and the night before that is a small dresser with a shiny brass handle. My eyes are still sleepy. “Do you want some juice?” He was in the other room when he asked. He only asked to be polite. And I imagine he doesn’t even have any juice.
I glance down at the dresser again. No thanks, I’m not thirsty. I could still taste the remnants of the half juice half gin from the night before. Again, I glance down. There on that shiny brass handle I can see my name inscribed, the contents of which I know without even opening.
I reach for door two or door three… or four… or five, as if playing a 70s game show. I groggily realize the full implications of my actions. There is no other door, there is no alternative, no choice. My final destination has been chosen already, chosen by me and that always half empty concoction of mistakes. I slowly pull open that dresser drawer of death. My fingers crawl there way to that small white bottle. My lips form the letters of the word that will forever define the life sentence placed upon me. Oh God, why me?
Oh fuck,
oh FUCK,
OH FUCK.
I scream aloud yet no one hears. I clutch that big overstuffed pillow as if it is a life preserver, as if it is my small white bottle.
On second thought, I think I will have that glass of juice. I speak to him calmly. I speak to him as if the sky were the bluest of blue, as if songbirds perpetually sing, as if the grass is always green, and the streets are lined with pearls. I stand there, my skin a façade, my heart a racehorse, my stomach a punching bag. Juice… you asked me if I wanted a glass of juice earlier… may I have some?
