The Plan

Jimmy begins a campaign of self-improvement, whilst simultaneously beginning to dig his own grave.

My name is Jimmy and this is not a poem, because I am not a f*****g poet. I am a piece of s**t and this is a suicide note. 

Earlier today I walked deep into the woods behind my house. I found a patch of earth, solid earth, not swamp, not interrupted by tree roots or dilapidated fences. I marked the spot with a series of white stones I had been gathering as I walked. This will be where I dig my grave. I will dig after dark, every night, until it is finished or I no longer need it. I will make one last attempt to patch my broken life, but if I do not succeed I will shed this life as soon as my resting place is complete. 

Tomorrow I will wake up, shave, put on some clothes without holes in them and drive into town to look for work. 

I hate looking for work. People look through me, say things like “we’ll give you a call if anything comes up,” but I’m not even an option. My work history is sparse, I am uneducated, I am not young and eager, and there are precious few jobs out here. 

Nevertheless I collect a pile of applications. I fill them out neatly in black pen. 

When the sun goes down I take a lantern out into the woods and find the spot marked with the white stones. I sit on the corpse of a rotting tree and close my eyes, take a moment to feel the weight of everything. I produce nothing, I bring joy to no one. I  have less use in this world than this tree I am sitting on. When I open them again I dig for a half hour, without stopping, until I’m exhausted and my hands are threatening to tear open. I drag the shovel back to the house and drop into bed with my clothes on. I shut my eyes again and imagine the cool, moist walls of the hole against my arms, the feeling of ultimacy and peace washing over me as I drift off to sleep. 

In the morning I wash off the stench and the dirt, return a few applications. When I get home I watch porn. I nuke a bowl of ramen at five thirty and eat it over stale memories on my second hand sofa. 

Remember Katie? God, her smile was gorgeous. Live for that memory. If nothing else, live for that. 

There’s a sadistic little voice in the back of my head that has claimed this as its mantra and hasn’t let it go. But it’s just a memory. I can’t eat memories. Katie was smart. Katie left: Moved to California where a pretty face like that fits in. And I’m alone, and there will never be another Katie. All these years later, I still remember. She had green eyes and milk chocolate brown hair that was soft, but not shiny. I guess she was the love of my life, because my heart still aches from the day she walked out of my life four years ago. I never drank over Tasha, just the parts of her that reminded me of Katie. But no amount of alcohol could drown those memories. 

After dinner I walk out to my grave in the woods and resume digging, my vision clouded by tears. I double the depth, then dig a little more, before I am satisfied and return to the house. I lay in bed and dream about the tremendous crack of a bullet shattering my skull. I picture the birds flying, startled, out of the treetops far above my lifeless body. That would be the proper declaration of freedom. But I don’t own a gun, so I consider a few alternatives before I fall asleep: a morbid process of elimination. I will not be hacking my arms up; the failure rate is too high. I started my project regrettably far from any tall buildings, bridges, overpasses or trains I could leap in front of, so these options are eliminated swiftly, along with hanging and drowning, in spite of the inherent exhilaration they promise. Overdose is almost certainly the only option left and I am content to rest on the idea of drowning my organs with poison.

I wake up at ten and lay in bed until noon. When I finally get up I take a shower, eat a little, and get dressed. I drop off the last of my applications. 

At the garage where my uncle used to work the manager talks to me for a while. He says it’s refreshing to meet someone who actually knows a little something about cars. A lot of sixteen year old kids apply there, I guess, and often he’s forced to dig through their inexperienced applications and pick the least objectionable candidate and try to mold them into some kind of grease monkey extraordinaire.

“Why did you quit your last job? Differences with the management?”

I scratch the back of my neck, “Not really, I just felt like I couldn’t be around alcohol anymore.” It would be easier to tell people that I’m a recovering alcoholic if I actually felt like I was over it, or if I had received some kind of treatment. Like I said though, I’m not a rockstar, and having problems is expensive. 

“Oh. Well at least you’re honest.” He clears his throat, “We’ll, uh, give you a call if something opens up.”

I forget to eat that night and spend an hour digging to the rhythm of the crickets chirping in the bushes; my heartbeat throbbing in my temples reminds me of the heat, my empty stomach. When I get back to the house, I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I lay awake in my bed counting my heartbeats, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. 

At six o’clock in the morning I fall asleep. I wake up at one in the afternoon and drive to Fenton to pick up more applications. The sun is low in the sky when I get back and I eat a bowl of cheerios and fall asleep in front of the television. 

The next day I fill out my Fenton applications and do some research. After some searching online I settle on aspirin as my method of release. I stare out the window and wonder briefly if I should leave a note, but I decide against it. I don’t have s**t to say to these people. When the sun goes down I walk out to the woods and dig for a while. Afterwards I lay in the bathtub, eyes shut, breathing slowly as the tub fills, feeling the water level creep up over my ears, over my mouth, over my eyes, until a single breath fills my lungs with water, then I sit up, coughing. Breathing stings for a while after that. 

In the morning I get dressed and take applications back to Fenton. While I’m there I buy a big bottle of aspirin and the girl behind the counter tells me to have a nice day. 

Today I am out of places to apply. I have turned in an application at every place of business with an unskilled position available in a thirty mile radius, even that restaurant in Hurdland that only hires teenage girls. Now all I can do is dig.

Reviews

[Jake Donald Stephens]

I didn't try aspirin overdose. Didn't even think of it.
I hope Jimmy finds peace, one way or another.

[Elle Thompson]

I googled it, naturally
i don't remember what search terms I used but it came highly recommended

[Jake Donald Stephens]

Wow. I don't know if that's neat, or not.

[Elle Thompson]

I know, I mean I've had to do so much research for this damn story, so I was pretty relieved

[Jake Donald Stephens]

I mean, the fact that there were "highly recommended" suicide methods on Google. I guess you really can find anything on the net.

[Elle Thompson]

yea, i mean not to make myself sound like a total creep, but there are dead bodies on pintrest. i was like holy s**t, wtf this website is supposed to be like knitting and cupcake recipes

[snowe.daye]

This is another good chapter! I feel like it helped shape Jimmy's personality more, and also show that he has truly hit 'rock bottom'. And like the previous chapter, the subtle sarcasm interwoven in his true suffering makes this read that much more realistic. Thanks for sharing!

[Elle Thompson]

thank you, that is good to hear. I was really concerned about justifying Jimmy's pain, because he is the protagonist and I was worried he was coming off as whiny.

[RainDancer1997]

I think this is a good chapter:) It has so much pain and feeling and the way you describe it is perfect:)! Great job:)

[Elle Thompson]

thanks, I really appreciate it ^^