Paradise

ONE

I think I forgot how to die.

You'd think it'd be simple; swallow way too many pills, get a gun, find a knife. I mean, I guess the methods are simple. Textbook simple, really. But I think there's one instruction that's always left out of every how-to.

You actually have to have the balls to do it.

I had everything planned to the T from the gun in my hand to the time the sun dipped so low that it kissed the ground. I chose the perfect day; Mondays when the Leo Carrillo beach was completely deserted in the evening and the city felt like a ghost town of souls waiting for the weekend. I'd waited patiently for the Wolf to grumble and drunkenly roll over on the couch, leaving his favorite pistol laying on the kitchen counter. As creepy as it may sound, I'd been planning to die for weeks and now it was finally the big night.

But my hand was shaking on the trigger and as much as I tried to fight them, my eyes were rich with tears.

I should have expected this. I suck at sticking to anything; sports, jobs, people, even TV shows.

Now I wanted to bail on my own death.

I had been sure of what I wanted when the idea struck me like the Aha moment I'd been waiting for. It had seemed like the best idea I'd ever conjured and made the days easier and the sun brighter. I had still been just as sure when I'd walked five miles to the beach, buried myself in the sand and attempted to smoke one of the Wolf's yucky cigarettes, and finally pulled out the pistol.

I think doubt came down like the rain that was due when I actually looked at the gun in all it's glory. It was small but sleek black, the Wolf's initials emblazoned on the butt. It was light, so light that I tried flipping it in my hand like the cowboys in the old action movies. I don't think I realized the doubt until it was time for the main event.

It's odd thinking about what your last moments would be like and even odder when your last moments are staring you right in the face. It dawned on me, with the gun to my temple, that my last memory would be pulling the trigger...and it wasn't settling well.

I'd never thought you could be so consumed by your mind but now, all I could focus on was memories; the ones that hurt and the few that didn't.

And the few, shining memories looked like a tangible tiny glimmer of light in the ocean, promising to grow brighter if I just...put down the gun.

I keep trying to pull the trigger but the light still glimmers and while I know it's a liar, it's almost comforting. Call me crazy but I could swear up and down that the light is real. I could see it shining in the airy dark. 

I try to rack my mind to remember how to die. A week ago, during one of those sour nights in the Wolf's den, I was pretty sure I'd died then. But now I'd never felt more alive.

How do you do it? How do you pull the trigger? How does one look at the light and say 'fuck it'?

I'm convinced I'm not sure how so I give up and lower the gun.

I coddle the hard metal and look out towards the ocean, searching for the light.

But the light isn't there. It was hope and a sham. I'm starting to think it was just some illusion I conjured in my head, a mental way out.

I decide I don't want a way out.

I remember how to die.

----------------

"What are you doing?"

I was supposed to be squeezing the trigger but the gun falls in to the sand. I waited for it to go off and shoot my foot but it nearly washes away with the ocean rushing up to my Converse shoes again like purple poison. I clumsily reach for the gun, toppling over into the watery sand.