Paradise

TWO

I've realized it doesn't take a bullet to die. Nor a shitload of pills, a shitload of drugs, or a shitload of...whatever else kills you with a shitload. Sometimes living just kills you, which is pretty ironic since living meant you certainly weren't dead.

Living is more slower than a bullet or a pill but when it finally destroys your system, you don't really notice. Which means half the people around you are walking zombies just waiting for the funeral, their hearts hollow and their souls deteriorating.

But I knew I was dead or at least dying.

I think I started to die a long time ago with the smell of cigarettes and the whoosh of a ball rolling across a pool table. But death was taking too long. The thud of a heartbeat was still ringing in my ears and I could still think and process and hurt and live. I don't want to be like those people, the walking zombies, the ones who were already dying. I just wanted to get it over with.

But I'd forgotten the bullets.

A very pesky part of my thoughts tries to lighten up the whole situation. Maybe something wanted me to live, some higher force, maybe God.

I doubt it.

I was still here because I was a dumbass who didn't plan out his death as thoroughly as he planned out his TV schedule.

Out of all the things that could go wrong, from the safety being on to almost shooting my foot, the one thing that stops me in my tracks are the bullets. Almost like a tragic, cruel twist to ground me in my torment.

I grit my teeth and I don't know why I do it but I toss the gun. I toss the gun, The Wolf's initials emblazoned glimmering in the dark, and watch it soar into the purple midnight sky. It was like a silver comet as it plummeted into the dark ocean waters with a loud splash!

Something inside of me plummets into the ocean too but I'm not sure what it is. I think it was my motivation, not the motivation to stop staring out at the open ocean in silent fury like an angry idiot, but the motivation to die. That's the thing about suicide, I guess. It was like a never ending cycle; one moment the motivation was there and the next, it was gone with lost attempts, sometimes replaced by meaningless promises or just dead silence.

I walk home, hands shoved in my pockets, not knowing what I feel. It was as if everything that had wallowed and welled up inside of me had plummeted into the ocean with The Wolf's gun. Now I was just numb, waiting for something to fill me up. I think I wanted hope to fill me up, like the sun-girl's laser that had flashed so brilliantly on the horizon. But of course, hope was all a lie.

Hope was lasers, meaningless promises or pretty suburban houses embellished with manicured lawns and minivans in the driveways. When I was younger, hope used to be the suburbs like the quaint city of Rolling Hills where nothing bad ever happened outside of Mrs. Burnsby accidentally feeding her dog Hersheys chocolate.

Hope used to be Rolling Hills in a large, beautiful teal house on 87th street. Hope was white shutters, a manicured lawn with a walkway of rose bushes, a big stereotypical minivan in the driveway, and lights that lit up the beautiful teal house like a warm hug waiting to be received in the night.

The lights are on in the beautiful teal house of 87th street. The lights are on, a big, bright lie, to draw anyone near.

I stop in front of the bright lie and almost consider smoking one of The Wolf's cigarettes still lodged in my pocket, because I was empty and maybe smoke could fill me up.

"Lucky?"

I hear a familiar call; a quiet chortle that breaks the peaceful night of the sleeping neighborhood.