So Does The Suicidalist Swing. . .

Chronic suicidal:

Chron·ic su·i·cid·al
/ˈkränik ˌso͞oəˈsīdl/

Adjective

1) A suicidal individual who kills themselves repetitively due to the want or need or “itch.”
2) An impulsive and compulsive individual with the desire to kill themselves regularly.
3) A person who suffers from chronic suicidal ideation and carries out suicide.
4) Bob, the Chronic Suicidal.

Bob searches for a purpose to stay alive after losing all that mattered the most to him.

When I wrote this “episode” I was listening to Monsters of Folk. I largely write while listening to music, in fact, I always do. Right now, I am listening to Morphine — Cure for Pain, which is about to wrap up. . .and go into The Misfits — Teenagers From Mars. A dramatic change really, but I love music.

I borrowed the title in reference because of a few reasons—mostly personal, but I don’t mind sharing them. It’s a beautiful song for starters, and I like the group. Mostly, though, because of the melancholy feel of the song. The dramatic ups and downs; relationship, love, loss, such as life. When you are searching for a reason, anything, any reason at all. Why do we exist? What purpose do I serve?

“Why?” seems to be a repetitive question in the sense of it all. Why do we die? Why death? Why all the pain? Why, why, why? It’s not just in the detrimental and sorrow some aspects. It also pertains to the joyous ones. It’s all interconnected and entwined; us—eachother.

Thus, having experienced loss, life, death, and having his own predicament now, Bob is searching for answers.

This was probably one of my more personable entries, something I don’t mind in sharing. The letter is true, in an extent, some words exchanged and borrowed from my wife’s letter to me that I keep near and dear. In addition, it’s also some general sense that couples, I would imagine, share in some sort of context.

Temazcal is a three-part entry, as such, will lead into next week as we draw near to the conclusion of Bob’s story and misadventure.

I wish you all a happy and safe holiday (whether you celebrate it or not).

Until next time,

RJM


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 10 – Temazcal

[Part One]

Bob awoke atop a building that was being built. He looked around, startled, wrapping his legs tight around the steel beam. “How the fuck did I get up here?”

As he looked around, he noticed there was a rope that had been tied around the beam, the other end of it a noose, which was around his neck. Apparently, his parallel self had wanted to make a grand gesture. The city sprawled out its magnificence that stretched for miles upon miles. He looked toward the direction where his home laid nestled beneath the trees, past the river.

Then he remembered. The visions of his family: dead, cold and lifeless. He brought his hand up, feeling the noose and some of the scars that were still manifesting, slowly. What reason did he have to exist anymore? If his family was gone, and he had exacted vengeance. Why stay in the world? He thought of perhaps letting the wraiths come and get him. Giving up. Calling it quits.

What reason did he have to exist anymore? If his family was gone, and he had exacted vengeance. Why stay in the world? He thought of perhaps letting the wraiths come and get him. Giving up. Calling it quits.

The thoughts then shifted to his family and friends. His old life. Good times. Better times. It was all behind him now. Slowly, he shifted his weight to the side and slid off the beam. He started to fall fast before the entire rope reached maximum tension, and his neck snapped like a twig. It would probably be one of his quickest deaths he had experienced. One of the smoothest. As he left this world—this universe, he watched his body sway in the wind, like a pendulum with no direction, no purpose. For there was no time that remained for him to tell.

***

Bob awoke again, this time at home, in his bed. He laid on his back and stared at the ceiling. Depression sat in, hurling him deeper into the abyss. He eventually sat up and planted his feet on the floor, and buried his head in his hands. He wept for a while and then autopilot just switched on. He wandered around the home that was nearly absent of life, save for him. The laughter of children, his children, and the sound of his wife calling out for everyone that it was dinner time. The sun peered through the kitchen, illuminating where they would all sit for their meals.

Absence.

Lifeless.

The emptiness within him grew even more.

Bob noticed a piece of paper sticking out of his wallet on the kitchen island. He reached for it and opened it up. Bob began reading it slowly. He sat on the floor, absorbing the words left by his late wife and wept.

***

After a while, Bob reached his feet and tucked the paper in his wallet and took it, with the keys. He went to the garage and took a rag, and stuck it in the gas cans and lit them. Bob backed the car out and sat in the street, watching the flames consume the garage, then the rest of the house. He closed his eyes and then set off for anywhere but here.

As Bob drove away, the house continued to burn. Flames took on the silhouettes of his wife and kids, seemingly waving goodbye and then vanished.


Honey,

I want you to know that if I ever go before you, that if anything happens to me. . .I want you to know that I love you. I always have and no matter what, I always will. I will be with you, by your side. There is no person I could ever see myself with. I feel like we’ve always been together, and well, I think that even when it is our time, we will be together in death. At least, that’s a hope I’d like to have.

Whenever I look at our kids, I see us. I see the good of times, the worst of times, I see all that we’ve strived for, to be, what we are capable of. I know you have your good days and your bad days. I know you struggle with your emotions and are afraid to speak of them. To talk to me about the all the pain you go through. I know it’s difficult for you to open up, that you feel you must take on the burden of everyone’s weight, to be the hero.

Society warps our minds, programs us to be people we aren’t. That’s a shame. The stigma that one is weak to handle such burden, it cannot be done by yourself. You need not carry the weight alone. When we married, it was “in sickness and health,” through the good and the bad. You’re not alone, sweetheart.

I want you to know that I know things will be hard. You have to be strong, though. Not just for the kids, but for yourself, too. So don’t let the dark days take over. Remember that I love you as do the kids. And I guess your friends too, I suppose they can count.

I love you, always and forever.

Jill


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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