I'm going to Hell, aren't I?

A series of stories about people who are realizing their flaws.

I’m going to Hell, Aren’t I?

I guess there’s really not much more to say. You shot someone, big deal. They say you never know if you’re capable of killing another human being until you’re physically put in that situation.

So she’s dead. She won’t be bitching and moaning about the trash anymore.

But didn’t I love her? I married her; I took care of and protected her. I just didn’t know what to do anymore. I was so scared; the feeling was slipping between my fingers like her soft, silky hair during sex.

Now I miss her, and my heart is skipping beats as if I’ve just OD’d on crack. My heart feels like it is chapped, like lips. Bleeding and cracked�"the skin hard and taut. I’ve harbored too much hate in there and never fixed it all. It hurts like a b***h when I move.

I can’t even look at her face, man…if it’s even there anymore. It’s probably splattered on the bathroom mirror, running in sad, crimson streams and trickles down into the sink. Chunks of her are probably sticking together in clumps on the striped shower curtain. I didn’t think I could do it. It only hurts when you think about it. It was so mechanical. I was shaving my beard two seconds ago. Then she walked in, all bitching about how I get shaving cream everywhere, so BAM. There went her head. I still remember the sound her body made when she hit the ground: what a sickening thud.

I still really don’t feel a thing at all. It was over in 2.5 seconds. I look down at my bare feet, glistening with velvet redness, clinging to the hair on my legs.

I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?

--Gage Troy Anderson, 2011

These aren’t my eyes. I look into the glass in the elevator, scrutinizing my face and body; nappy black hair plastered down on one side with grease. My a*s is hanging out the bottom of my dress, barely a piece of clothing at all.

DING.

Wow this headache sucks…I’m just waiting to taste that sweet powder, feel the burn in my nostrils. I can’t wait to feel my cheeks and ears burn red, my heartbeat race back and forth beneath my pale, dry skin.

The key slides into the lock smoothly and I’m almost in…the door opens, I feel that rush of stale air and that bittersweet smell I’ve missed so much…

Jake is still out cold on my couch. I brush my fingers along his lips, then lean in to lick the powder off his nose. He’s cold as ice… No pulse. And he left the goodies out on the table.

His muscular back is pale and sickly. He’s dead, on my couch. Probably another OD.

I take a seat on his back; it’s hard as a table. I’m half out of it anyways.

Now I lean in, burying my nose deep into a large ziplock bag, taking the largest inhalation possible.

I feel the crystals tinkling down into my lungs, exhilarating�"they travel up, my nose is burning, on fire. My body grows cold, and then bursts into flames, beads of sweat dripping off the end of my nose. My hair stands on end with the changes in temperature, and my body is lax and calm.

I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?