Pepsi/Coke Suicide

Trigger Warning--suicidal content and stuff. This is a story of confusion and conclusion. I hope I did it justice. Named for Elvis Depressedly's song Pepsi/Coke Suicide

You sit on the bed amongst the crumpled white sheets in a room high up above this unfamiliar city. A box on your left. A smoky berretta on your right. Even from this height, the commotion of the city at gloaming manages to reach you--a strange combination of car engines and melodic voices. Rain washes the hotel windows, pixelating a hundred million breathing lights outside. Turning everything into a two-dimensional blur. A stunning cityscape.

Art. You miss art. And music. You thought about listening music while you did it, some jazz, perhaps., but the more you thought about it the sicker your mind felt until the mere hint of music made you want to scream. So, you decided against it.

You fumble a bit with opening the small box, even more so with the smooth bullets inside. Bullets are tricky, you see. They glide through your hand like a feather or a strand of a girl’s hair and then they bounce across the unreasonably ugly hotel carpet to hide and never be seen again.

Clip loaded. Slam. Wham-chunk. Round in the chamber.

And suddenly the room falls into sharp focus: the bubbly lamp stand that tries to offset the rest of the horribly vintage room with its contemporaneity. The brown carpet that’s become knotted with time. The small film pictures framed by white and silver. The slightly sagging ceiling. The monotonous sound of the ineffective A/C. A room thrown together and partially transformed from its original state by those that didn’t have the resources to fully convert it. Much like yourself.

Gun in your mouth. A bitter taste fills your nose and covers your tongue. Your throat complains a bit, but mostly keeps quiet.

Safety off. Awkward grip. Readjust. Finger grazing trigger.

The soft touch reminds you of something you never felt. Instead, you only got harsh words and nervous people and condescending looks and someone who was too confused to care or love.

Your wrist hurts. You should just do it.

Finger frozen. Tongue pushing up against barrel of gun. You take the berretta out of your mouth. You look from it sitting there in your pale hand (a hand always stupidly cold for lack of someone to hold it) to the note written in ballpoint pen. Always ballpoint pen. Nothing else. The curling edges of the word-covered page reminds you of the notes you used to take in class before your mind stopped letting you go to school.

Your stomach lurches. You bolt to the bathroom and lock the door unnecessarily, then empty your gut into the toilet, the berretta clattering to the floor. You stand up and grab the gun again, ready to do it.

And then you make the mistake of catching your image in the mirror. Dead eyes, dark circles, pale face, sharp cheekbones, all hiding in a wreath inexplicably shocking blonde hair. Back curved so your face is reflected back at you. Scrawny chest body everything. Hiding muscles. Cold and tired life. Malnourished from not eating enough in years. Not out of the want of certain looks, but out of your love of the feeling of being on the fringe. The fringe of danger. Gun in hand. Clatters to floor. Again.

Hands on cold counter, head ducked, tears falling, can’t breathe, can’t cry. Can’t think. Can’t do it.

Your teeth ache, like you’ve been chewing on aluminum foil.

You wait until the person comes. You wait right there on the cold tile with the filthy grit in the grooves and the gun sitting next to you. Who knows what will become of you.

Author's Note

is the writing clear enough?