The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Have you had those moments where you are sitting there [or hell, driving. . .] and you’re just thinking, “man, I could totally kill myself right now.” Or maybe [and work with me here] you’re sitting at the dinner table with your family; you know, your spouse, maybe your parents, kids, or siblings, whatever. Then the moment you are served dinner or you break bread you’re just like “fuck it,” slam your palms [or fists, or do a table flip, I don’t fucking know] down and you grab that steak knife and then, SLIT! You know? Slit your own throat? However that stupid saying goes? Yes? No? Wait—wait. . .wrong use. In this case, literal, literally slitting your own damn throat. Right there. At the dinner table. You got blood spraying, gushing out, dripping down your clothes. . .all over the furniture, the walls, the fine china, the mashed potatoes, on your folks, in your kid’s eye. . .but hey! That steak was at least cooked medium.

Well, if you’d ever had moments like these where you are just impulsed to do the unthinkable. . .you’re not alone. Hell, I do it all the time, except that I die. . .and well, history repeats itself. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Bob, and I am a chronic suicidal.

Christ, that sounds like I am at some AA meeting, confessional, or something. Yeah, well, I’m not. Truth is. . .I dunno where I am. I mean, I do, I just don’t know where exactly I am. I guess I could be dead, dreaming, in a coma—something! I just don’t fuckin’ know. I tried askin’ others: my wife, my kids, my folks, my friends. . .hell, even my dog! No one has a goddamn clue what the hell is goin’ on, and what I do know is this: every time I commit suicide, I am put right back in bed, safe and cozy.

I guess I should put that loosely. . .the safe and cozy bit, because I did slit my writs in bed, and then I also did slit my throat too—ah, ah, I am sorry. I do apologize, I am ramblin’ on here. I guess I could start by tellin’ you about when I first had the impulse, and why I did what I did.

Now, lemme tell ya, I had no regrets. Not even a letter. I loved my family, an’ hell, I still do. It wasn’t their fault that I wanted to just end it. I was just done, just done. . .with life. I couldn’t handle the stress of doin’ a transfer out-of-state, meeting people who are culturally different, and honestly, not knowin’ a single goddamn person. I mean sure, the pay was good, yeah, but what good is the pay, when you bust your balls and you ask all the boys at the cooler, “hey, Pete, Bill, Shaun. . .guys. . . Let’s go get a drink after work, eh?” Not a single goddamn word. They give you this look like: who the fuck are you? Oh, OH, OH, it’s the new guy! Or think you’re fuckin’ invisible or whatever. Bah, fuck ’em. Oh, and the new boss? Yeah, and fuck him too. I’ll tell you what, those sons of bitches who say that they’re there “if you need help,” or some “reasonable accommodation,” or “my door is always open,” they’re lying sons of bitches. They don’t care about you. They don’t are about no one else, except their own goddamn selves and their fat fuckin’ wallets. I do apologize, I seemed to have run off there. . .where was I? Oh. Right.

So here’s the deal: job transfer out-of-state, I’m a desk jockey at a firm here that deals the stock market, been married for 13 years, four kids, nice house, decent pay, fucked up neighbors, even more fucked up neighbors now, got a car, dog, and some cats. What’s there to be wrong? Probably absolutely nothing, and I get that. Well, what happened was pretty simple. I jumped. I jumped right off the roof of the office building right smack onto the cars and curb below. I say ‘and curb’ because I think. . .I am pretty sure at least. . .that my feet snapped on it, and were shattered. I dunno. I can’t say I remember anything other than a giant forceful knockout that, well, knocked the shit out of me.

You might be asking, “what were your final thoughts?” Well. . .for starters it was: oh shit, oh shit, bad idea, bad idea. Followed by I am flying! Then there was holy shit the ground is coming up fast. Next, why I am I doin’ this? Who’s going to take care of the kids, and my wife? What the hell am I doing? Then there was some guilt, anger, sadness, love, happiness, and then finally, nothing. Pow! Lights out.

Now, hindsight bein’ 20/20, yeah, it was pretty fuckin’ stupid. Do I regret it? Yes. . .and no. Yes, because I was dumb in the aspect of leavin’ my family alone in this fucked up world, and then there’s no, because well. . .I can’t die. OK, I can die, but I can’t die. I’m like Bill fuckin’ Murray in an extreme uncensored version of Groundhog Day, but it’s been going on now for. . .fuck if I know. Either way, nothin’s working, and truth be told, I’ve started to actually enjoy it.  I guess if this is what I get to spend the rest of my days as, so be it. I get to see my wife, my kids, that’s good enough for me. Still, I can’t shake the thought of there being more to this, but for now, I guess I’ll just get dressed and do whatever for the day.

Yeah, by the way, if you haven’t figured it out yet. I just killed myself recently at the dinner table.

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal was an ongoing writing project by Robert J. S. T. McCartney, here at A.B.Normal Publishing.
This story is a work of fiction.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

2 thoughts on “The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal”

  1. Reblogged this on Robert J. S. T. McCartney and commented:

    A story I wrote on a whim, and on the idea during a dark bout with myself.

    This story revolves around death, suicide, and everything in-between.

    It’s something I enjoyed writing, honestly, contrary to its dark tone and incessant, senseless killing.

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