Dark waters
They found him in the river. The river kills a few handfuls of people each year, what fraction by their own hand, I don't know. I don't know if he took his own life either, but I have my suspicions. Young male, seemingly happy, his last trip a bike ride late at night to hang out near a music festival he didn't have tickets for, his last words a text message to his girlfriend. Good luck with your midterm. I have my suspicions.
My suicidal fantasies typically revolved around firearms. Handguns, usually. Point blank, to the side of the head, elaborate visualization of the effects of muzzle blast, the striking contrast of crimson blood and tissues on the flat gray winter snows. A rather gruesome way to go, I guess, particularly for the poor suckers who have to clean up after you, but you wouldn't care anymore, you'd be dead after all, and suicide is so painfully selfish anyway the details don't matter. I don't own any firearms, avoid contact with them, wouldn't know how to start if I wanted to. It'd scare me to want to. I'm not that stupid.
I've thought about the river, too. It'd be easy, accessible. Find a nice spot on a high bridge and jump. Masculine enough -- male suicides succeed more often than female, because of the methods selected. I once knew the classification system of attempts, read the back of the Merck manual, but not anymore. The only time I scared myself (in recent years anyway) was with the river. Thinking about jumping is one thing. Thinking about which bridge, though, which spot, which side. Don't go there. I stopped that train of thought, I don't want to die yet.
When I was young, late in high school I'd go for long walks late at night. Parents don't worry about boys, I guess. Or maybe they do, but let them wander anyway. We lived near the beach, sometimes I'd go look at the ocean. Walk in the park above the pier. Mostly I was alone with my thoughts. Rarely I'd get approached, offered things. Need some bud? Want a ride in my van? No thanks. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.
I'd walk on the sand, look out at the waves. Dark, softly crashing, white caps glowing in the moon. Wondering how far I'd get, if I just started swimming.
My suicidal fantasies typically revolved around firearms. Handguns, usually. Point blank, to the side of the head, elaborate visualization of the effects of muzzle blast, the striking contrast of crimson blood and tissues on the flat gray winter snows. A rather gruesome way to go, I guess, particularly for the poor suckers who have to clean up after you, but you wouldn't care anymore, you'd be dead after all, and suicide is so painfully selfish anyway the details don't matter. I don't own any firearms, avoid contact with them, wouldn't know how to start if I wanted to. It'd scare me to want to. I'm not that stupid.
I've thought about the river, too. It'd be easy, accessible. Find a nice spot on a high bridge and jump. Masculine enough -- male suicides succeed more often than female, because of the methods selected. I once knew the classification system of attempts, read the back of the Merck manual, but not anymore. The only time I scared myself (in recent years anyway) was with the river. Thinking about jumping is one thing. Thinking about which bridge, though, which spot, which side. Don't go there. I stopped that train of thought, I don't want to die yet.
When I was young, late in high school I'd go for long walks late at night. Parents don't worry about boys, I guess. Or maybe they do, but let them wander anyway. We lived near the beach, sometimes I'd go look at the ocean. Walk in the park above the pier. Mostly I was alone with my thoughts. Rarely I'd get approached, offered things. Need some bud? Want a ride in my van? No thanks. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.
I'd walk on the sand, look out at the waves. Dark, softly crashing, white caps glowing in the moon. Wondering how far I'd get, if I just started swimming.
posted by TFox at
10:43 AM
