Death Prevention

Finally

The business man approaches, his shoulders slumped and luggage missing. His jacket coated in blood and water and his face shattered almost in two, the typical aftermath of a neo-Tokyo mugging. Seeing his face so broken reminds me of the pretty blood splatters where my head rebounded off the wall after the explosion, the way the broken bones in his nose scattered themselves across his now jagged face made me so happy. The beautiful patterns of ripped flesh and cuts across his face reminded me with a sense of nostalgia of how my sister looked with her face melted off, her pretty eyes liberated from her head and her serious jawline then broken and bloodied from the explosion. 

Something ticks within me. I remember how these sorts of thoughts are wrong and any sane person would never even fantasise about drawing pleasure from the murder of their own sister, and later their boss. Or that's what they told me. They called me crazy, that my tendencies for violence would have me out on the streets one day. That my pleasure-driven violence was not only wrong, but sickening. They couldn't bare the though of someone killing another human being out of bloodlust. The shrinks, the endless psychiatrists sent to see me in the prison ward, that's what they thought. That's where they were wrong. I remember envying them as I shattered their bones and incised their skin, burying them all underneath my bed in the prison cell. I was jealous of them. How come they got to experience the beautiful agony, and I did not? I remember staring down at my scarred, garishly crimson hands after bludgeoning my boss to death with my bare fists. They stung, and the hot blood dripping from them reminded me of lava from one of those volcanoes so long ago. I cried back then. All I wanted was to die, to experience the joy that my victims had felt before me. But in this world, no-one lets you die. The only legal way to die in this fucking city is through age or through government assassination, I am not willing to be caught enough to warrant an assassination, and I don't intend on waiting around long enough to die of old age. I lept from the rooftop. I hti the ground, hard. it hut. beautiful agony rippled though my body as I felt my ribs shatter, my spine snap, my legs shatter. But i didn't die. I woke up in the hospital, deemed ready for work again the next day. 

Back then I was naive. I wanted the spoils without the war. The reward without the struggle. The good without the bad. I have spent the last 9 hard years of my life gathering up the only remaining way to kill yourself without being able to come back: An acid strong enough to melt right through human flesh and bone, demolishing all good will and intention, until nothing remains but the gore of a person. The part which most consider the most human part of someone, then becomes the only thing left after all traces of humanity are stripped away. 

I fish down into my pocket, the pills thankfully not yet soiled by the all-consuming rain. The orange and pink case of the capsule glints softly in the pale neon light. I palm the capsule and open my mouth. 

This is what you've been waiting for. 

Take it. 

Do it for her. 

And him. 

And them. 

I push the pill into my mouth, shutting my eyes. I hear footsteps speeding away as the man realises what's happening and runs from the scene, merely out of respect. It is often considered a bad omen to see someone die in such a visceral manner. The deadly concoction corrodes my intestines and makes me bleed internally. Hot, salty, metallic red liquid fills my body, gushing from every place the poison touches. My body feels weak and my face grows white as the blood spills onto the floor below me. 

Finally. 

My eyes melt into the puddle as I die, leaving only a slimy mess of dissected clothing and human meat left to rot on the street. If I'm lucky, a rat will come and eat me. If I'm not, who knows. My final thought as my mind fades is that maybe- just maybe- I'll see her again.

I want to apologise.