Suicide Club

Cowardly Idiot

Cowardly Idiot

I had gone through three cigarettes. I’m drunk out of my mind. My head hurts and I don’t think I can even stand upright. Harley squeezes my hand. “We’re here.”

“What?” I lift my head up to look out the window. All I can see are people.

“We’re at Times Square,” She says quietly.

That’s when the audio kicks in. The screams of a thousand people attack my ears all at once. I lean onto Harley as I get out of the car because I honestly feel like passing out right here in front of all these people. I take another swig of beer.

I want to throw up on all these damned people and their shitty clothes and their overpriced glasses with the year on them.

“Harley,” I tap her shoulder with my beer bottle. “What’s the year?”

“Who gives a single shit?”

“Take me to the bathroom,” I point her to a fast food restaurant. “I’m going to puke.”

I make sure to “accidentally” burn everyone with my cigarette as we make our way through the crowd. A chorus of ‘fuck you’s’ follows us into the restaurant and that seems to lift my spirits a bit. I make my way towards the bathroom holding onto the walls as I try to hold in my vomit. I don’t even check which bathroom I’m going into but it doesn’t matter because I’m already puking in the sink. I push a middle aged woman out of the way her overpriced makeup falls into the sink where my vomit is. Her reflection shows her shocked expression and I don’t know if it’s me being here or my appearance or my vomit or me throwing up on her too expensive makeup. Maybe it’s all of it. I don’t know.

“You’re going to have to pay for that,” She sounds so outraged, like a mouse that had its tail ripped off.

I grip at the edges of the sink as I take in both our reflections in the mirror. The smell of vomit has already filled up the entire room, maybe even the restaurant. I turn around to face this god awful woman.

“I don’t give a fuck about your batshit,” I take another swig of beer. “And there’s no way I’m gonna fucking pay for your crap because there’s more to life than washing the wrinkles off your damn forehead!”

I wipe my hands on her shirt because right now everything seems so trivial. The woman lets out a scream as I get out of the bathroom and I swear she took out her phone to call the police. But what does it matter anyway?

“Let’s get out of here,” I push Harley out of the restaurant. “I puked on a bitch. Let’s go.”

“Hey where’s Devon?” She asks once we’ve gotten out.

I toss my empty bottle into the crowd and I shrug my shoulders. “That’s not a good question.”

“What is?”

“The real question is where can I get some more fucking booze.”

“Get yourself together Chris! You’re about to pass out!” She snaps at me. “We have to find Devon and get him on TV.”

“He’s over there,” My voice is so slurred I doubt she can understand me so I point at Devon. He’s talking to some people. They’re all wearing red pins. I’ve seen those before.

Looking around I realize that more than a third of the people around me are wearing these damn pins. Then it all dawns on me. These are all members of Suicide Club. The pins are to help them recognize each other.

“You need to call it off,” I grab Devon’s shirt and I pull him closer to me.

“What?” His eyes are wide open in fear that I’ll tell the police about him. But he knows I’ll never call the police for anything not after the shit they’ve done to people.