The Suicidalist Who Whittles a Little: Bob’s Good at Carving. . .His Face.

A suicidalist, named Bob, practices chronic suicide. Stuck in Limbo or Hell, he chronicles his methods of suicide & the dark effects the experience has on him and those around.

So, here we are again.

It’s the weekly conclusion of our revisiting of The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal. We’ve driven into walls, jumped out of trees, fallen down stairs, gorged ourselves to death, and more. The ride is not quite halfway over. . .

Today we explore where Bob goes on about self-mutilation. As some may know, a lot of suicidal folks will inflict pain on themselves, leaving scars behind to remind or to punish. Sometimes people will say that they are seeking attention or being an “attention whore.”

That is not the case at all. A lot of the time this is something that they do to keep themselves grounded, to feel real, to feel the pain to keep them alive. Others, it is a reminder that this is their failure. The individuals’ difference is in interpretation.

We get in to Politics a bit, Mankind, and explore some urges. . .or itches as Bob calls them. This time, he takes his life in front of a crowd after simply putting his fist through a window. Just like that.

The point was. . .it is. . .that suicidal tendencies can happen (and do) at any given moment in time. They can happen to anyone. Even animals.

Next week, we will explore the deeper, darker depths of the story and what becomes of Bob.

Until next time.

RJM


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 6 – Self-Mutilation is My Specialty

Another day, another dollar. Well, at least that’s what it was to me. I hate what corporate America has become. Of course, I hated it so much that I eventually took my life. The American Dream is no longer what it once used to be. It’s gone astray. it’s been warped. it’s now a disease that infests deep within us and causes us to walk aimlessly and live paycheck to paycheck.

I used to get so worked up about it; I used to cut myself. The important thing about it was that I had to make sure I kept it in hidden places: from my wife, my kids, and of course, other people. I couldn’t afford bein’ tossed into the loony bin. I couldn’t deal with the idea of my wife leavin’ me and takin’ my kids away. . .or havin’ folks come in and say that I was unfit to be a father and say they were goin’ to place them into a foster home or some shit.

So, I’d cut myself on my thighs, a good portion below the waistline, armpits, between my toes, and a few other places. Eventually, as times got harder to cope, and I was further makin’ preparations of my demise, I didn’t care too much where I’d cut myself. So I started cuttin’ my forearms, doin’ elaborate designs, figured hell why not.

After killin’ myself, and how I found myself havin’ itches, I came to cuttin’ once again. Only this time, a lot of the scars of when I died. . .did not heal. Either it was a reminder or a joke. . .somethin’ I wasn’t gonna let it stop me from doin’ what I was doin’ best here.

A few times I was at the old hardware store in town. Ya know the small mom and pop kind of deal. I had needed somethin’ to fix the sink. Well, I walked in and saw a pretty little thing, thought some bad thoughts, cracked a grin to myself and wandered on. I had some guy help me with my selection of what the hell I could use to either fix the situation permanently or temporarily. I chose the temporary route because let’s face it and I’ll be the first to admit it. I ain’t no handyman. I hate that idea of gettin’ all dirty and tryin’ to fix somethin’ that isn’t my forte and then fuckin’ it up further. Of course, money doesn’t grow on trees, so meh, alternatives gotta be made.

Anyway, I was lookin’ at all the shiny merchandise and happened to find the hammers, saws, etc. Well, I ended up gettin’ an itch. So, there I was down aisle five, takin’ a hammer to my fingers. You could hear the loud thuds of a hammer comin’ down on somethin’ hard. You could also see the blood that was pourin’ all over me. . .and the floor. I had a guy try to stop me. Hell, even that pretty little thing up at the register I saw when I walked in cried out too. I decided to go the maniacal route and “attack” them, only to further injure myself. Eventually, they tried to overpower me, and I figured if the hammer is gonna fall. . .it’s gonna be by my hand. So I brought the claw down on my skull a few times until I dropped to the ground and watched the lights slowly dim with a grin on my face. I am certain the headline of the local newspaper would be great. Just great.

Funny how it is, though bein’ in control of a situation and you know the outcome. I couldn’t help but think of that teapot song. Instead of a teapot, though, I thought “here is my hammer and here is my skull. When I bring it down and smash about, watch all my blood and brains spill out.”

Part Two – I’m All Cut Up

Whenever I’d get to cuttin’, I sometimes noticed that there would be another feelin’ lingerin’ deep within. I couldn’t ever quite put my finger on it. It seemed like an impulse. . .another kind of urge. Some kind of thirst I couldn’t quite sate. Times were gettin’ pretty bad for dear old Bob.

###

He reached for a jagged piece of glass and proceeded to start making slits in his face. Blood poured through the precise cuts and dripped onto the concrete. People stared on, bewildered, shocked, in awe of the man who had moments ago put his fist and head through the shop front window, and was now carving his own face.

The man, known as Bob looked around. Wildly grinning through his blood soaked gaze at the busy street that came to a standstill. He hadn’t quite had a feeling like this. . .ever. It gave him a rush. There was something else, though. Something deep within told him to turn that glass shard on the people. He had always been at war with himself, but this time—this time, it was worse than anything he could remember.

A blue-uniformed police officer ran up to the crowd, with his weapon drawn. “Sir, I need you to put down the weapon!”

Bob began laughing at the officer hysterically. He then proceeded to cut off the rest of his face and held it up before the crowd. The officer began to start advancing more towards the man, as did others, hoping to be heroes in another’s eye. Hastily, the man slit his wrists and his throat; attempting to chew and swallow the broken shards of glass.

There the man laid on the sidewalk, decrepit, bloody, and broken. The urge to kill others had passed. Sated only by taking his own life.

###

After that, I woke up in my bed. However, the scars were still visible. . .to me anyway. I had started to become worried about what was happenin’—to me. What was I becomin’?

THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS A WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

Author: Sincados

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

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