Occiditur

Seasons in the Sun

I pulled myself up and stumbled into the house. I used the doorways and walls to brace myself from falling. I made it to the bedroom and grabbed a box from under the bed. I brought it with me as I took several beers from the fridge. I opened one and brought the things I had collected to the living room. I sat myself on the floor beside the coffee table that held up my phone. I quickly guzzled down my first drink and opened a second one. I drank halfway through it and began to feel fuzzy. I then opened the box and took out its contents. A family portrait; me, my sister, my mother, and my father. I apologized, silently, to them. They hadn't raise me to treat my wife like this. I stared at it for a long, long time.

The next item came with the next beer. A family photo with Sam, Ami and I. I set it to the side and took out the next picture. Sam was standing in front of me with a well-rounded stomach. I had my ear to her pregnant belly, listening for the baby inside. I set this one to my right as well. I took a long swig and extracted another photo. Sam and I at our wedding. The priest behind us dedicating our love to God. I ripped this photo in halves and threw it to my left. So much for those vows. 'Till death do us part?'

I took another long drink. With every sip I became more sublime and fuzzy. I couldn't focus much on the task at hand. However I continued to take out the items the box had to offer. The next item was a bead bracelet Ami had made for me while I was in the hospital. I fumbled as I tried to fasten it onto my wrist. I drank and attempted to tie the small strings. After many frustrating tries I succeeded. I took out a sixth item; a bundle of hand written letters from Sam. I took each letter out and attempted to read each and every one. As I finished or gave up on reading the letter in hand, I ripped it up and threw it to my left. All fifty-two of them. After I ripped them I would take a swig of the beer. On letter fort-seven I tipped the bottle and noticed it was empty. So I opened the fourth one. I could barely handle the bottle opener, but I succeeded in my attempts. My mind was swimming in the alcohol.

I was at the bottom of the box. Only one item remained. I did not take it out though. I reached up and pulled down the rotary phone. I put the receiver to my ear and fumbled to dial the numbers. I waited for someone to pick up. I hadn't the slightest clue who I had called. I had a number in mind and that is the one I dialed.

"Hello?" A familiar voice echoed into my ear. It took me a few moments to realize that the voice was Mike's.

"Hey man..." I slurred.

"Micky? Is that you?"

I looked around the room. "Yeah. Mike-Mike! Don't...don't tell anyone." I drawled.

"Don't tell anyone what?"

I started to laugh. I snorted and giggled and then cackled and wailed.

"Micky, are you drunk?" Mike asked.

I scoffed. "Pfft! No!" I said and burst into laughter.

"I beg to differ." Mike laughed.

"Mike, promise me."

"Promise you what."

I sat there a moment before answering. "... I forgot..."

"Micky I'm gonna come over there, okay?"

"Actually that's not okay. And I remember what it was I was going to say." I became serious. "It's in the record case."

Mike was silent a moment. "What...what's in the record case? Which record case?"

"I don't know." I said with absolutely no clue as to what I was talking about.

"Okay..." Mike sighed.

"Anyways, I was just calling to say goodbye. So this is where it's at. Goodbye old chum, old buddy, old pal!" I laughed.

"Goodbye?" Mike asked alarmed. "Where are you going?" Mike asked.

"Nowhere. Where are you going?" I asked.

Mike sighed again. "Nowhere."

"Tell the other's I said goodbye." I directed him.

"Okay. Well goodbye to you too." He said hesitantly.

"Thank you." I laughed.

"Oh and Micky, get some slee-." I heard Mike say just before I hung up the receiver and pulled out the last object from the box. I flipped it over and over in my hand. Examining it. Becoming its friend. I could give a detailed description of it, but that would spoil the surprise. I studied every nook and cranny of the item and compared it to others of its kind. There was none like it in the world. Only this one would be used on myself.

When I was confident that I knew every secret the object had to offer I closed my eyes. I said a silent prayer and stuck the object in my mouth. I didn't allow myself time to second guess my decision. I pulled the guns trigger and with a bang it was over.

The torcher. The pain. The heartbreak. All of it was left behind. No emotion had occurred. No regret. No sadness. Inside there had been only a calm assurance that it was all at an end. My lifeless shell of a body crumpled to the floor. I fell over the pictures I had kept. Guarding them till death.

The scene was a bloody one. And from my pale, lifeless complexion of that time you would have wondered if all of it had been mine. Or had I bled the blood of thousands whose life was filled with sorrow and pain?

The wall behind me never was restored to its yellow coloring. Even after four coats of paint the crimson sin still shown through. As if it was trying to tell its masker of what occurred there. As if it was trying to tell them never to forget the awful deed that had been done there. Never to forget the life of the person that laid there under its watch. If this was indeed its purpose, then it served it well.

The floor below me was stained a deeper red than the wall. They had to rip up the wood and replace it. The pictures of my family had been drowned in the pool of congealed blood. There subjects only recognizable to those who had seen or been in them.

It is rumored too that the bullet lodged into the wall behind me. But yet was never found.

All these terrible things you have read thus far are but the beginning of a bitter sweet ballad of friendship. If you are too discouraged to continue, then by all means, exit this story at this very moment. But if you wish to see this much-to-be-pitied life restored, then please remain.

I can no longer narrate this tale. I have told you all I know. I must turn you to my friend, Michael Nesmith. Allow him to guide you through the last half of this story. I invite you to laugh when he laughs; cry when he cries; and delve into the penitence he and our fellow Monkees will experience.

So long and farewell for now. I hope these poorly described chapters of hurt have helped you. I pray they have showed you, and will continue showing you, that death does not solve your troubles, nor is the world any better in your absence. I plead with you! If your thoughts are as mine, please seek help. Do not burry it down as I did. Do not dwell on your thoughts. Give them away and receive help from any human hand who is willing to reach down and pull you from the edge of the pit. For this pit has a name. The Pit of Death.