The Writers' Collective

ok so i am so busy with school! to think about anything besides school! so my apologies about the lack of blog but you know, school! lucky for you i know lots of cool peeps who write good so while i am busy with school! you can get a break from me and read these other guys… and now if you’ll excuse me i must get back to school!

please welcome local writer Tyler Audet (insert applause sound here) who wrote this wonderful yarn and was nice enough to let me post it. cheers to you tyler!!

Last Thoughts

Does it hurt? Dying I mean.
If you take a fist full of Zanex, with an anti-nauseate, do you think you can feel it rampage through your body?
How do you think it would feel to slowly bleed out? Gashes made by the kitchen knife you’ve cooked dinner with for years. Do you think you’d let your family in when they cried at the door? Do you think you’d cry at the sight of your blood, slowly changing the bathwater pink?
I’ve worked as a suicide councilor for years. Every day I get asked these questions; lately I’ve stopped knowing the answers.
I remember a man in my office. He took a nose-dive off of a three story balcony. Poor bastard lived to tell the tale. Surviving a suicide attempt is so much more painful then dying.
I remember how he sat there crying, broken and beaten. I asked him a single question during our time together. I asked, “What were you thinking on the way down?”
He paused. He sat, twiddling his thumbs, until finally he cleared his throat and looked me in the eyes. “I remember craving pizza.” As simple as that. In the face of death, the most menial things start to matter.
So we sat through the rest of our one hour interview, staring at our feet, waiting for the other to say something that would make everything better. Neither of us did.
I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but sometimes I push them. Sometimes I like to fool around with their heads. ‘Kill yourself. Do it.’ The look on their faces when you say: ‘you coward. Just do it.’
It feels so good to condemn a man.
Lately however, I’ve started to wonder. I’ve begun to count my chips, if you know what I mean.
So now I drive the old dirt road south of town. The radio is off, my radio is always off. I never liked the idea of having my emotions chosen by the lyrics in a song.
It’s a nice day out. Not like those dramatic movie scenes. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and it definitely isn’t raining.
The smell of dirt fills the air. It’s mid-summer and the smell of dirt bring me back to other times. Not to better times, just others.
I can imagine what they’re going to say when they find my torso tied in knots around the steering wheel. I’m sure they’ll as why. “Why did he do it?” They’ll talk about how much I had to live for, but inside, deep down inside of them. They won’t care.
Truth be told, I have no reason to do it. I’m not sad or anything, trust me. When you deal with suicide patients for so long, you just start to wonder.
And now I can see the drop-off.
I’m not sad, but I do realize how sad my life is. Every girlfriend I’ve ever had has hated me. All of them, honestly.
I’m really not sad, but I can see why I should be. Every pet I have ever owned has ran away. Even animals hate me.
I swear to god I am not sad, but nobody in my family will even talk to me anymore. My mother is ashamed of me, and my father is too drunk to care.
Now I can see my fall. I can see my fate.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe I’m a psychopath, but how do you ever really know. Maybe I’m just curious, or maybe I just need answers. I wish I knew why I was doing this, but it just needs to be done. I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry, dad. Not like they care.
The ground is visible far underneath. As my tires leave the ground, as my nose shoots into the air and I come face to face with my own mortality.
I can’t help but wonder to myself: ‘what is going to happen to all of my furniture?’

Katherena Vermette