The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 13 — The End

The end for Bob has come. A chronic suicidal, who has come full circle. In this last test by the mysterious stranger with the red-gloved right hand, Bob will finally have his end. Find out #WhatHappensToBob

Bob looked at the strange man, “Alright, I’ll do it.”

The man smiled, “I knew you would see reason, Bob. Trust me that you are making the right choice.”

Bob nodded, looking down on the ground, catching a brief hint of a pile of robes on the floor near where the bathroom was. The two shook hands and began to depart to the outside world.

The world roared with city life. People were yelling, cars honking, it was a home he was becoming accustomed to.

“Now, you will be impervious to any injuries. Mind you; this will go away once your task is finished,” said the strange man with the red right hand.

Bob eyed the man, “How do you know I won’t use that against you?”

“Because I know you, friend. You want to see your family and I am by no means, innocent” the man replied with a grin.

“I have a specific target for you—change of the rules, I know. However, I felt it would be better for you to have an idea versus going into the unknown,” the man said with assurance. “You are to go to the Artemis Medical Building on Tuesday. Go to the roof at 12:01 PM. You will then kill the individual with your “special” knife. And then that will be the end of that.”

Bob nodded and took in a deep breath.

The man with the red right hand patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, Bob. This is what you want. Remember that. Think of what’s in it in the end for you!”

Bob had made his way to the Artemis Medical building. It was 11:32 AM Tuesday morning. He looked up to the roof of the building that stretched high. He had been here before.

He walked in unnoticed and meandered through the halls and stairwells like he knew the place very well.

11:45 AM

He got to the roof and waited behind an air duct, giving him oversight of the door.

11:50 AM

He waited and waited for that door to open up.

11:59 AM

He remembered then, just like it was yesterday. He opened up his wallet and took out the note from his wife and read it once more.

12:01 PM

The door opened and out walked a man in a white dress shirt, red tie, black slacks, and shoes. He walked over to the ledge of the roof. Bob caught sounds of sniffling and brief bouts of sobbing.

The stranger with the red right hand’s voice echoed in Bob’s head, “Go, now. Get him before he notices you are there. Stab him and push him off the roof. Go back to your time. Go back to your family!”

Bob sighed and cautiously walked over to the man. He hears the man light up a cigarette. “Hey, what’s wrong, buddy?”

The man wiped his brow, continuing to look out over the city. “I have troubles. I hate it here. I am worthless. I hate my job. I hate my boss. I hate…I just hate my life. All I have are my wife and kids…but even I think they hate me.”

Bob nodded. “I know what you mean, friend. I used to think I was worthless, that I had no reason to be alive. I wanted to kill myself. I wanted to leave behind my family and this life. That, they would be better off without me in their lives. That I was so hateful, and that life hated me just as much. That I was dealt such a shitty hand, and the universe was constantly laughing in my face—no, spitting in it, pissing on me, lighting me on fire and leaving me to burn.”

The man nodded to Bob, taking in a big breath of smoke from the cigarette. “It seems like you and I are a lot alike.”

Bob walked up to the man and put a hand on his shoulder. “Then I lost my wife and kids. I stopped caring and stopped lovin’ myself…others. I wanted to die truly. Then a funny thing happened, just when I was at my darkest, just when I thought I couldn’t get any lower…I was given the opportunity to fix it all, all of it. Bob looked to the world below and around. “I realize that I was wrong. I was wrong to believe that I could get it all back while takin’ it all away from another. What—who gave me that right?” He gave the man a pat on the back. “It’ll get better, but only if you work at it. I suggest you take this.” Bob then tucked a piece of paper in the man’s shirt pocket and walked away.

The man turned around to see who his “friend” was on the rooftop with him but only found nothing. He opened up the piece of paper and began to read it. He stepped off the ledge, sobbing. The man took out his mobile phone and called his wife.

“Jill, I—I,” the man struggled with his words.

“Bob? Honey? What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to tell you that I love you, and—and that I need help,” Bob began to sob hard, putting his head down in his hands.

***

The one and only, the original Bob watched from a distance, smiling. The man with the red right hand appeared beside him. “Why did you not kill him?”

Bob sighed heavily. “I was wrong. I was wrong to believe that killing someone could change things; to bring back my family, solidify my timeline—so you say. That it would make everything better or make the pain go away.”

The man smiled and gave Bob a pat on the back. “You have killed yourself countless times. Each time you believed that by killing yourself, you would make life better for your wife and your kids and that your life; absent of all things, better. Now, now you finally understand yourself.”

Bob looked at the man. “What? What do you mean?”

“Come, it’s time to go home, Robert.”

“What—where am I going?”

The man ushered Bob through a portal that led to darkness. There was no light, no sound, nothing. He felt familiarity about him, though. Soon, sight and sound began to return to him. He soon awoke in his bed. He quickly checked his person of any scars and impressions and found that there were none. Bob caught a glimpse of the man in the mirror by the window. He turned around and saw him give a wink and wave goodbye as he disappeared, “Don’t throw away your second chance, Bob.”

Bob went over and got back in his bed and rested his head on his pillow. His wife came into the bedroom and started to undress. “Were you talking to someone?” she asked.

“No, just talkin’ to myself,” he replied.

***

Just as he was about to fall asleep, the mysterious stranger’s voice echoed in his head as he and his wife laid side by side. “One day, I may call on you for your help. I thought it would be better to let you remember what transpired. Enjoy your life and your family, Bob.”

***

Well, there you have it, folks. Now, I have all of these memories of who I was…what I was…what I had become. Now, I am just a man. Given the opportunity to make things right; with myself and my family. I think I’ll start by enjoyin’ this Thanksgiving dinner.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that the stranger will be back one day. That’s alright because right now, I’ve got all the time in the world.

THE END


For Episode 11 — Red Right Hand Click here.

For Episode 12 — I Had My Chace Click here.


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

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 12 — I Had My Chance

Bob is forced with a decision that could change everything for him.

Bob studied the man, trying to remember the familiarity. “I know you. I’ve heard you before…” he only had the voice to go on, and his steps, “when I was in the hospital? Wasn’t it?”

The pale man in black adjusted his red glove and smiled. “Ah, you are quite the remarkable at remembering, aren’t you?” the man said grinning. The man paced around Bob before settling down next to him on the pew. “Yes, I was there. I saw how you cried, the pain you felt, the sadness that welled up within you. Your tormented soul cried for a long, long time, Robert.”

“I haven’t gone by that in a long time, friend, nor do I intend to now,” Bob interjected sharply.

The man put his hands up, “My sincerest apologies…Bob. I meant no disrespect.” The man took in a deep breath and exhaled. “You know, what you’ve done, what kind of atrocities you’ve committed; ordinary folks view that sort of thing as something only a monster would do. Not to mention, the religious zealots, if they were to know that a man is transcending death by killing their parallel universe selves? Do you know what they would do to the likes of you?”

Bob shook his head, “no, nor do I care.” He dropped his head in his hands, “I don’t care anymore. The priest has given me a bit of closure. If I were to become somethin’ more than just a man…”

“My friend, man, cannot become an angel; nor can they become a harbinger of justice. You’re simply a vigilante. No better and no worse than comic superheroes—minus the cape and cowl, of course,” said the man with the red right hand. “However, I can point you in the direction you so desperately are seeking deep down.”

Bob picked his head up and looked at the man. “What do you mean?”

Standing up, the man with the red right hand paced in front of him. “What if I told you, you could get your family back, make all of this go away? Live your life once again? No consequences.”

“I’d think that you are lyin’ and call bullshit,” replied Bob.

The man smiled at him. “Well, I can tell you for certain, I am not bullshitting you…Bob.”

“OK, so, then what would I have to do?”

“First things first, let me show you something,” said the man with the red right hand.

With a flick of his right hand, there opened a portal to another plane. Here Bob viewed the world he was familiar with: his home. He saw his wife and kids, happy, alive, living—without him. He could still see the faux mask his wife held, and the quiet moments she would frequent to cry alone or to fall asleep. A vacant beside. A broken heart. He laid down on the bed next to her and tried to caress her face, only to pass through. Tears streamed down his face.

“In this life, this is where you formerly existed,” said the man with the red right hand. Another reality appeared, where Bob saw the slaying of his wife and kids, sending him to roar in anger on the streets. “And this life…is where you lived and they died. Do you see the consequences of your actions yet, Bob?”

Bob reached out to touch the bodies of his wife and children, only to watch them slowly disappear from his sight—the sands of their being dispersing, sifting through his hands. Tears flowed relentlessly down his cheeks, corralled by the growing number of scars down his cheeks.

“How, how can I save them?” Bob sobbed with anger in his words.

“What would you do for your family, Bob? What would you do for those whom you love so much?” asked the man.

Bob gritted his teeth and snarled “Anything.”

The man grinned, “Then it’s quite simple, really,” he said, “you have to kill an innocent.”

Bob’s eyes widened with shock, “Wha—what?”

“Take the life of an innocent person: woman, child, man, there is no preference. If you do this, you will wake up, in your timeline, with your wife by your side, and your kids are sleeping soundly in their beds. You will have no recollection that any of this ever transpired. You will simply…live.”

Bob juggled the idea of breaking free of the pain and the torment that was increasing within. He debated with himself harshly, for taking the lives of those that were so deserving, in his eyes, had it coming and needed to be purged from the world, that he was justice incarnate. However, an innocent person, he would be no better than those he had slain or dispensed punishment upon.

In the end, he had reached a conclusion. He would do it.


For Episode 11 — Red Right Hand Click here.


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

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 11 — Red Right Hand

Bob has a sit down with a priest. After some words of wisdom, Bob is approached by a stranger with a red right….glove.

Bob sauntered to the front row pew. There was one person in the whole church besides him—a priest or someone with the religious ordained. Candles flickered in the darkened expanse, though, Bob wasn’t sure if the feeling he got was that it was foreboding or soothing. He took a seat on the pew and dropped his head in his hands.

“What troubles you, my son?” asked a man’s voice.

He looked up to see an old priest that was blind stand before him with a smile.

“You…can see me?” Bob replied.

“Sight isn’t needed to see a troubled soul or feel the anguish that one experiences,’ said the priest. “Tell me, what cripples you?”

Bob sighed. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you, father.”

The priest smiled, “My child, it is not my place to judge you; for that is decided upon by our Heavenly Father.” The man sat next to Bob and put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell your tale, my son. My ears are yours.”

Bob nodded in agreement and began to tell his tale slowly.

Emotions came and went as he recanted each suicide, each life that was taken. Each battle won…lost. The lives that were stolen and forever lost.

“Your anguish is fascinating, I must say. I have never heard a tale of one quite like yours, even in the scriptures,” the priest said. “However, it is not to be said that you have learned from your mistakes, yes? That, if given the circumstances you would change what path you have taken?”

Bob thought on this for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, I would have sought out help and done more; not just for myself but for my family.”

The priest nodded. “As they often say, hindsight is 20/20. You don’t need eyes to see or know that. The choices we make, though, are what helps shape us into the beings we are. Most often think that Heaven is a paradise and that Hell is an eternal prison for the damned. They sometimes forget about Purgatory, depending on the denomination of Christianity. Reflect on a Blacksmith. How they forge their weapons. Hell, people associate with fire because it is written as so in the testaments. Fire purifies. It gets out the impurities. Water helps soothe and cleanse; restoring us. The air calms us, and further soothes us. The mallet helps us; shape us, help define us. The mallet is life, and we, we are the weapon. When we rest on the rack, we get along; peaceful, tranquilalbeit getting dusty. That is with age. However, war, war drives us to clash and bring about the scratches, dents, and disfigurements; shattering some, breaking others. In the end, we are all gathered up, melted down, reforged and made anew.”

Bob thought about the priest’s words and comparison and chuckled. “Forgive me, father, I just have never met quite such an open person of the cloth.”

The man smiled. “My son, we are not perfect. The ideologies that we inflict upon others and the suggestions that there must truly be one supreme being is just fiction. Faith is the test and testament of what one wants to believe. It is a life-long courage that will bring comfort and solace to those who face mortality and the grave. If you can ease their pain when their dark hour comes, that is enough. At least, in my opinion.”

“Perhaps you should have gone into politics, father,” Bob chuckled.

“Ah, now there is a subject sensitive to me, my son. I gave up on that long ago, before my eyes gave out; perhaps that was where they did.” The man grinned as he thought on the recollection. “Forgive me, for I must take a moment of leave.”

Bob nodded and watched as the priest left, leaving him alone in the church hall. He had felt better since discussing with the priest. However, he had a nagging feeling in his gut that he couldn’t quite explain.

A familiar foreboding voice came from behind him. “Old people. They’re such amusing creatures, are they not?”

Bob turned around in the pew and saw a man dressed in all black with a red glove on his right hand.


For Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 1] Click here.

For Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 2] Click here.

For Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 3] Click here.


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

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 3]

Bob has become the protector of the people. He has become the harbinger of justice on the streets of the city. He is wanted for murder and dispensing vigilante justice. His path has evolved and is set to come full circle. However, like how time changes…so do people.

What will become of Bob?

Bob continued wandering the city, slaying any that he found caught doing some of the more heinous acts humanity could do. The bodies were piling up, and he was now a wanted man. The thing was, that even though he would get caught in the act of dispensing justice, he would slip away unscathed. Leaving the law enforcement officers scratching their heads. The general populous reveled him as a hero. Bob wasn’t the man they deserved or needed, nor was he correct in the assumption that he was the bringer of justice, he took that upon himself.

It had been a few days since Bob last saw the wraiths and was told they had “reached an understanding.” He didn’t eat; he didn’t sleep. He only wandered, alone. He was always cold. The only warmth he could experience was when he’d bring justice to those who did wrong. He felt split; fractured, torn. He was lost. He assumed this was his purpose. However, deep down, Bob knew that this was perhaps the blade telling him to do these things. That instead of making him a vicious murder, he was a vigilante for justice cleaning up the streets, sort of a modern superhero, some kind of miracle man.

Bob sat perched up top on a church roof, overlooking the streets below. No cape or cowl, no gadgets, no flight capabilities. Just a man with a bloodthirst and grand illusion…or was it perhaps a delusion? Whatever it was, he knew that eventually, time would catch up with him, along with death…and the wraiths. That day, however, would not be today.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the city. “sniffing” the air, sensing for those that would be “evil doers.” A great urge sent him reeling over the roof and falling. He flailed about and watched on as the pavement of the sidewalk grew closer every millisecond.

Why? He thought. What could have given him such an urge to jump? Then it hit him…hard. The sidewalk broke his fall, surely, along with the fire hydrant. Water gushed into the air and overflowed onto the street. People all over stopped and looked at the man. He stood up, still looking like he had been through Hell and back. His scars were no longer superficial and only visible to him. Everyone saw him. He had lived—he had survived the fall, like an angel that was misunderstood and cast out of Heaven. Bob felt sick. His stomach turned as he looked at the people of the city. All the stares of disgust and judgment, those he wanted to protect. To help bring justice to…they all turned their back on him.

One by one, they threw stones and debris at Bob. He covered his face and pleaded with them to stop.

“Monster!” they cried.

“Fiend!” they shouted.

Bob felt warm tears stream down his cheeks. He never asked for this, any of it. Bob had tried to make light of a bad situation, and now it had begun to backfire on him. He felt the anger swell up, all the hatred. Everything he had once felt before returned.

“I could kill you all where you stand. After all, I have done, you thank me with this? To Hell with you!” he shouted as he turned and walked away, into the church.

Bob was no longer the protector of the people. He was no longer the harbinger of justice. He was simply a man. A broken man.


For Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 1] Click here.

For Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 2] Click here.


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

The Diary of the Wasteland Bear God: Season Finale Premiering…Soon! And an Update

Rob drops a line, addressing that the “season” of “The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God” will be ending soon. More details inside!

Hey folks,

Rob here dropping a line about the series The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God which is coming to its season finale. No, not series finale—SEASON…SEASON finale. Did I stress that enough there? OK.

So what does that mean exactly for The Bear God and his friends (and enemies)? Glad you asked (even though you didn’t). Well, that means that there will be season two, and season one will be compiled, compressed, edited, archived, and turned into a handy-dandy book of great justice! Of course, I have to contact some people, but I will be looking to get it illustrated and then some.

The process of describing the highs, the lows, the whos, the whats, and what the fuckery has begun. This time will also pave the way for some other projects to be touched (giggity-giggity goo!) and be pushed for release. It’s also the holidays. I have a thing for Thanksgiving and another for Christmas that will be done, BG style, of course.

Meanwhile, as the season ends for The Bear God, the series for Bob (our beloved chronic suicidal) will be coming to a close very, very soon. I suggest you find out #WhatHappensToBob in the coming weeks.

Johnny Nightwalker isn’t ending anytime soon. However, that isn’t exactly a series (so to speak) it’s just a story that I am telling that is decently long. Honestly, though, it pales in comparison (as far as size; “that’s what she said”) to the post-apocalyptic novel that is 600+ pages and then some. It’s been a work in progress for awhile, and I am looking to have it completed next year or 2018 (for release).

So, kiddies, young and old, hold onto your pants (or don’t, who cares) because we’re shifting gears! Oh, did I forget to mention the prequel to Lilah’s Guide to Hoyle? Ho ho hoo… That’s a different post. 😉

Until next time!

RJM

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 2]

“There is a man who lives in NYC. He kills for you and for me…”

Bob the Chronic Suicidal returns this week with him exacting justice on those wicked.

Bob drove around the city for a while, thinking. His mobile phone had constantly been ringing since he left the house. No doubt it was the last few relatives trying to reach him. Probably hoping he had finally killed himself and they would be left with the remaining inheritance and payouts. Vultures he thought.

Bob came to his new hang out spot, since most of the guys at work never bothered with him, nor did some of his friends. It was his place of solitude, his gateway to forgetfulness and he needed it now more than ever. This particular bar had come to help him battle against his depression, which was contradictory in the fact that his alcoholism wasn’t from depression, it was just how his family was. “Luck of the Irish” he had supposed.

He pulled up a chair at the rail and sank his heavy head.

“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender.

She was cute, the kind you could get to know. The kind you could do a lot of dirty things to. That was the last thing on his mind, but still, he gave a smile in reply. “Two shots of house vodka, please.”

Two shot glasses appeared and in an instant, they were gone. Bob signaled for two more.

“Rough day?” she asked.

“You could say that,” he replied.

“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can help you with, hon.” The bartender said, giving him two more shots of vodka. Then like the wind, she was gone, walking away to help other patrons.

Out of hardwired habit, he checked out her ass and gave a smirk and shook his head.

In the corners of his eyes, he saw a few unsavory folks that sat around the joint. Some he knew well enough by their conversations they’d have with some other guys that they would meet. He’d never intentionally listen in, but when it got to talking about raping women, molesting kids, and luring unsuspecting folks. He came to give a damn. He had given anonymous tips to the police, but he figured that some of them had connections. Considering when they’d all meet at this time of the month, there were quite a few dressed in flashy suits and then some. It was like the Rapists of the Round Table. The only thing that was missing was some poor sap being bound and gagged in the middle and them gangbanging whoever.

Bob had about enough of all the kiddie talk they were having. Of course, nowadays he didn’t give a rat’s ass if they noticed him or not. He had a new way of life. A new way to discipline folks. Justice to serve to those deemed wicked. He would be the voice of those hurt and those silent. Soon he thought, soon the world is goin’ to be a whole lot brighter without you, sick fucks.

He signaled the bartender for a few more rounds. While he waited for his drinks, he went over to the jukebox that was in the corner, just near where all the pedophiles and rapists sat. They cheered, toasted, and were having a grand old time recanting their latest tales of despicable acts. He cringed as he stood there making his musical selection. A few took note of him and looked him over. He felt as if he was either being killed visually, groped, or fucked in one of their minds. His stomach turned in disgust, or maybe it was the vodka on an empty stomach?

One by one, he chose a few songs; setting his mood, setting the atmosphere. The prelude to murder. He went back to his seat at the bar. He slammed two shots, then three. He was getting dizzy and fast. He signaled the bartender one last time and ordered a beer.

“Are you sure, hon? You look like you’re about to pass out.” She said.

“Don’t worry about me, sugar.” He smiled.

She came back and gave him his drink.

“Thanks, darling.” He raised the mug to her. He pulled out all the cash he had in his wallet and left it for her. He called her over, “Here you are, sweetheart. You’ve been great.”

She smiled, “Aw, well thanks! I hope your day gets better, hon.”

Bob shook his head, “Nah, it’s not. There’s work to be done.”

Then The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” began to start playing. “I suggest, though, you get somewhere safe. Things are about to get ugly.”

Her eyes turned to horror and terror, and she started to flee for the backroom when she saw Bob take his knife out and head for that round table full of sickos.

“Who the fuck are you? We’re busy here!” cried one of the bastards, shooing Bob away.

“You’ve done enough raping women and kids. Now you’re all about to get fucked by death!” Bob said.

Their eyes all widened with terror as they saw the first man, a rather large round one, get his throat slit open. Blood sprayed their faces, their clothes, their food. He was the first. They tried to scramble a retaliatory effort, but Bob quashed it quick. He overpowered them, stabbing them in the gut, in the groin, in the ass. He did to them what they had done unto others in the span of four minutes’ time.

Some people had stayed to watch, and some filmed it. Bob cleaned the blade using the tie of one of the wealthier ones. He had noted a lot of them had wedding rings. His anger raised even more.

Bob walked back over to his seat at the bar, staring at the mirror on the wall in front of him where he saw a bloody demon of a man. He raised his glass of vodka up and drank it.

Behind him, police officers had already come in and swarmed the place. “I waited long enough,” he said.

He could feel the wraiths coming for him. “Not today…not tomorrow. I am a slave to no one.” Bob raised his knife.

“WEAPON!” an officer shouted. Others shouted orders for him to “drop the weapon.”

The wraiths came through the walls, one by one. They all stared at Bob inquisitively. Then, a strange thing happened. They gathered up the souls of the pedophiles, molesters, and rapists, dragging them away; they kicked and screamed. There remained one wraith.

“Are you waiting for me?” Bob asked.

“It seems we’ve reached an understanding.” It said.

Bob couldn’t tell if the being was grinning or what. He had sensed it in the way it spoke and offered one in correspondence.

Slowly Bob lowered the knife back into its sheath. “Sorry boys, I guess I am needed after all.” At that moment, he slowed down time and walked out of the bar into the night. The last song that finished playing was “Pace is the Trick.”


For Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 1] Click here.


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

The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 1]

Bob wakes up where his parallel self was about to kill himself. Having nothing to live for, Bob kills himself. Then he wakes up to memories…

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.

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


For Episode 9 — Nothing to Lose [Part 1] Click here.

For Episode 9 — Nothing to Lose [Part 2] Click here.

For Episode 9 — Nothing to Lose [Part 3] Click here.


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