I rarely venture here. For reasons my post will probally show. Other than the spelling and grammar which i know is bad, and will over time, address, i am interested in any level of feedback- i know this is not great, thats not the point of me posting it, i am just expereminting and would like to know what you think of the result.
The title will also change, and hopefully when it feels right the ending too will change.
many thanks It was not the way he’d intended to go. Sure, he was depressed but highly motivated all the same, but motivation does not guarantee success, just occasional comfort which quite often grows cold.
He had wanted to die for some time, quite when he could not be sure. He could, at a push, nail the first of his “thoughts” to some time between his 14th and 15th year, it was cold and the trees were bare. The streets narrow, houses close.
Two kids, whose faces he’d long forget, sat on a wall, or maybe a fence. He remembers the air was sweet.
The
thought entered him like a seasoned lover, sly and gentle, yet penetratingly deep.
A voiceless voice, not male, not female, stern or pleasant. it felt to have come from a place near the back of his skull, somewhere deep and unconsidered, and as one might suddenly be taken by a desire to eat chocolate or drink an ice cold Pepsi, he felt to throw himself before the churning rubber of the approaching car, both legs twitching for they were stuck to a hip that didn’t comply.
Following that, each day presented itself, whether morning or night, with a further
thought“
chomp a fistful of glass, gurgle a bottle of bleach, Silvia Plath the oven, wade into the moonlit waves, shove ten apples up the arse”Yet each night he curled himself beneath the sheets and slept like a corpse and each day once awake he’d part the curtains and shower himself with light. Downstairs he'd play piano on the kitchen cabinet whilst waiting for the kettle to boil - no closer to death than summer is too snow.
Then last year as he cycled home from work, tailing a grit lorry, considering how swift death would come if he were to finger the lampshade socket shortly after stepping out from the bath,
he was broken from his “thought” , with the squeak of giving metal, and with a raised head was pelted with eighteen tons of asphalt.
He did not die and was rescued bloody but with breath.
The Doctor broke the news two weeks later. “Paralysed from head to toe”- and with the briefest of apologies, and a brushing of his starch white gown, he clapped his shoes out of the room.
Unable to instruct his bowels or raise his dick. incapable of lifting a bottle of bleach or leap from the roof top garden of his ex wife’s flat, he spends his days observing the intricate design of a spider web that expands each day above his bed.
At night he cries and occasionally is allowed to bury his face into the breasts of the red haired nurse, and it is then whilst buried in their plump cuddle he considers the worth of life.
