What is a Suicidalist’s Purpose in Life? Bob Finds Out.

A suicidalist, named Bob, practices chronic suicide.

We get some answers and finds out what happens when the suicidalist carelessly throws away his life.

We’ve reached halfway through our revisit of The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal.

Once the revisit of the story concludes, there will be another mention of it being made available on Amazon Kindle, and soon thereafter, in print formats. More details will follow with that.

So, Bob has killed someone, despite his best method of self-control, which resulted usually in his own death. Believe it or not, but things are going to turn darker for our suicidal vigilante.

He goes looking for answers regarding the knife that has come into his possession, let alone what the hell is happening. As luck (or chance) would have it, he finds someone who willingly gives him answers. Then everything that can go wrong does. He finds out some truths that come at a heavy price, and him having to pay and play the game of chance of waking up once more.

This is the point where it’s much more on the basis of suicide. Bob finding out what has happened and the consequences of his actions, it leads to the questioning of carelessly throwing your life away, making poor decisions, or thinking you’re nothing.

What happens next? Does Bob get a purpose? Does he get sucked into the void?

There are a few more entries left. . .

Until next time,

RJM


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 7 – From Hell’s Heart I Stab at Thee [Part Three]

So, I’ve had this knife now for a little while. I dunno what it’s deal is or what. . .but it seems to be constantly callin’ out to me. Whenever I am near it, I get the itch to take a life and takin’ my own isn’t satisfyin’ its thirst. I thought I could be a decent kind of a guy, ya know. However, I don’t know how long I can hold out if I am now doomed with this.

I can’t get rid of it. It always keeps appearin’ in my hands or my pocket. It’s just there. Maybe it’s an extension of me? The darkness and hunger that has always been there? Somethin’. What I do know is that this is my burden, and I have to carry it forever.
Another thing I have to deal with is the scars. People can see me clear as day and they see a fuck ugly guy with scars on his face, neck, hands and arms—it’s so disugustin’. . .even I can’t stomach it. I wagered that I could maybe take a trip. I figured I may as well try somethin’ new. So I went on over to the museum. I mean, if there’s somethin’ there that could give me an idea on what this knife may be, shoot, I am all for it.

***

Bob wandered the busy city streets to the museum in downtown. He figured he’d probably have questions about the knife at the metal detector but apparently, it never showed up and wasn’t noticeable to the cops. He found it to be perhaps chance that maybe this was indeed the path he was to take; to investigate and find the truth he was seeking.

He approached a woman at a counter that had a prominent sign that hung and read “Information.” She was young, quite attractive and had a voice that helped put him at ease.

“How may I help you,” she asked.

Bob adjusted himself, took in a breath and unleashed his strange query. “Well, ya see I have an artifact that I’d like to have looked at. I was wonderin’ if you could point me in the direction of havin’ someone look at it by chance?”

A peculiar look was in her eye. He could note something supernatural was at work, but he couldn’t quite make it out. It was a look he was starting to see in some people. Folks that had a dark secret or made a bargain with. . .something or someone.

“Ah, why yes. I can page the curator, and they will have someone meet with you in the back room down the hall on the left.” The woman was calm, ridiculously calm about a stranger inquiring about a random item.

Bob smiled and gave a slight nod to the woman. He had turned his back and started the other way when he heard her say, “Have a nice day. . .Bob.” He turned around and saw that the woman was gone. His heart sank. Was this some kind of game? Someone’s twisted manipulation of reality? Was he going to wake up being jacked into a machine? Was he dead and he’s just in some kind of Hell? Questions flooded the poor sap’s head, and he had no one to give him any of the answers except for the one possible at the end of the hall on the left in the back room.

[Part Four]

As Bob wandered around the museum to meet with the curator to find answers as to what the origins of the knife were, he wondered about the woman back at the desk. Not many knew he existed, let alone the tone of her voice seemed so. . .cycnical, that they had been expecting him.

At last, he found the room where the curator was. The man was terribly old, with almost as many wrinkles as Father Time. Dressed in black, Bob almost mistook him for Death instead. He had a broad chin; with a bright white bushy beard that had grown down to mid-chest. Short white hair hid under his black professor hat. Behind his small spectacles, his eyes were bright with the blue of an ever clear sky. Though he appeared frail, he stepped light and with assurance and had a hell of a handshake.

The two men shook hands. The man spoke with such a soothing voice. It seemed to possess something that Bob hadn’t felt in a long time—comfort. “Ah, good day, sir. I trust you are here to discuss this relic you’re possessing.”

“Yeah, I have this knife. . .” Bob retrieved the normal appearing blade from his pocket. “I can’t quite say how I came into its possession. It. . .I. . .well we kinda found each other.”

The curator examined the blade. “Ah, interesting.” He looked up at Bob then back at the blade. “Well, it’s not quite often that I am gifted with such a find.”

Bob’s interest piqued. “What do you mean? What is it?”

“This is the Kris of Judas. Also known as the Knife of the Betrayer. Contrary to its name, it actually has no affiliation with Judas or the betrayal of Christ. The scholars that had first discovered it dubbed it so. In a sense, it has existed for countless lifetimes; its appearance is constantly changing to the wielder.”

Bob rubbed his brow. “Wait, so it’s some ancient knife that no one quite really knows, has no association with Judas and all that. . .and it changes appearance?”

The curator nodded. “Indeed. It’s quite puzzling, isn’t it? That’s what makes it so fascinating, though!”

Bob stared at the knife and then the curator. “Well, I just want to get rid of it. If you want it for your museum, you can have it.”

“You’re too kind, sir. However, that would be against the rules. You see, this is not my burden to bear. It is yours,” said the curator as he cleaned his small spectacles with a small white cloth.

“What? What are you talkin’ about? What do you mean rules and burden?” Bob began to get hysterical. “I just wanna go back—I wanna go back and live my life. Be free.”

“Ah, you thought that this was all a charade, didn’t you? Perhaps a dream within a dream. . .some intricate sort of inception?” The man’s voice hinted at something darker. “You’re new to it—here that is. I can understand your lack of comprehension. Though, I suppose, it has been quite a long, long time since I’ve been here. Alas, as you can see, I’ve adapted and become an instrument in. . .educating and calculating events. A sort of chronicler if you will.”

Bob stared at the man, shocked, dumbfounded. “Who. . .what are you? W—where am I?”

The old man smiled. “You exist in reality. Jumping from universe to universe where you exist. Your mind, the present you, keeps assimilating your parallel’s body. And since you believe you are in limbo, well, you can see.”

Bob’s eyes dropped to the ground following his heart. “So, I really am dead?

“Where you initially, existed?” The curator held back a grin and paused for a moment. “Yes, you are. . .but here. . .well, you are alive.”

Bob wanted more answers. “What about the ‘itches’ I get? What about the sudden impulses of me wantin’ to kill people?”

“Those are hardwired impulses. We’re all capable of things, Bob. Sometimes we can ignore them, the urges, or as you call them itches. Other times, well, that’s how we get murderers, rapists, criminals, etc. Now, I am not saying it’s hard coded in your DNA, it’s just that you’re animals. You’re beasts, cursed beings of flesh that have needs and wants; you lust after looks, salivate over the temptation of what could be instead of cherishing what you have now—even if it is deemed bad or good. You claim selflessness, when in fact, your kind is so selfish, that you can laugh at a dying person; mocking them as they take their final breath. Your religion zealotry against one another is quite astounding as well.” The old man laughed. “Ah, I could ramble on and on with what I see is wrong with your race, Bob. I suppose I could say that it’s not entirely your fault. . .but in some aspects it is. Every choice, every action has a consequence. This. . .what you are experiencing. . .is your consequence.”

Bob stood in awe.

The old man asked Bob, “how does it feel to be a remnant of a memory? Of a life, someone else lived?”

“I. . .I don’t know what to think,” replied Bob.

“Give it time. You seem to be on the right path. . .minus having killed yourself in countless universes so far. You keep that up, and you won’t wake up one day,” said the curator.

“What happens then?” asked Bob.

The old man made elaborate hand gestures, “welcome to the void!” He then laughed. “Now, I suggest you take your relic and keep searching. . .not for answers, but for yourself.”

“What do you mean keep searchin’ for myself,” asked Bob, confused.

“You’ve answered enough questions, Chronicler. Your task is done,” said a deep voice from within the room.

The knife then found itself buried deep in the chest of the old man.

“What—What the hell!?” Bob panicked, looking over the old man that was now dead with his knife in the man’s chest.

“We will get you, Bob. You will not escape us. Not for long,” said the voice again.

The voice shook Bob to his core. He never felt so much fear and dread in his life. Not ever. He took the knife out and ran out of the room. He saw several dark figures that almost seemed mist-like, with fiery red eyes fixated on him.

Down each path, there stood the wraiths impeding his path. The people were oblivious of them and Bob.

“There is nowhere to go. Give up. Surrender yourself to the darkness,” said the voice again.

Bob thought of what to do. He couldn’t possibly fight against that much, let alone likely wound them. He thought of a few of the curator’s words.

Find yourself. Parallel universe.

He readied to kill himself, but the knife was stolen from his hands by an unseen force.

“It’s not going to be so easy for you, Bobby,” said a wraith.

Bob stared at his surroundings and caught the eye of an instrument of death. “Then I guess I’ll have to improvise.”

He dashed over to the guillotine and wrangled the rope. Too late, they were coming here already. He scrambled to his feet and went to the gallows. No use. He went to the iron maiden and climbed in, and pulled it shut. The wraith reached out, missing him. His life slowly left him. The apparition stared on at him.

“It’s only a matter of time. We will find you and when we do. . .you will become one. . .” the voice began to drown out, “with. . .the. . .dark. . .ness.”


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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