r/nosleep | Reddit Horror Stories • Collection

I help people commit suicide, but they have to convince me to do it first.

I've worked a lot of odd jobs in my life, being something of a drifter in my adult years, but this is certainly the strangest one. I opened this "business" myself a few years ago after my own girlfriend committed suicide. She took a pistol and unloaded her brains all over our bedroom wall. Most people think that would make me want to stay as far away from death as possible, but everyone deals with their grief in different ways. Me, I thought I would give people a better option. I make people feel good, and then I put them to sleep. Really, I just don't want anyone to ever walk into their bedroom after a miserable shift at work and have to see what I saw that day.

Because I'm not just a coldblooded killer, my payment is simple: five thousand dollars in cash, and a compelling argument for why I should help them end their life. In this argument, I'm looking for something very specific. Some people try to give me a sob story about how nobody has ever had it worse than them while others weave tales that are so disgusting, they clearly just want me to go ahead and off them for the benefit of society. To maintain my good conscience, I need to know they have absolutely no hope moving forward in life.

If I'm not satisfied, I pack up their money and send them on their way. I actually say no more often than I say yes. This isn't because I'm worried about getting caught, mind you. The cops in my town know all about this little operation I run... they just don't shut me down because they make up a significant portion of my clientele. Mostly older cops who have seen too much, now too hardened to live a normal life. I think law enforcement here like to know that I'm always an option for them if it comes down to it.

Tonight, though, my potential client was a doctor. An older gentleman, with wisps of grey dispersed throughout his dark hair. The days are getting shorter now and it was late afternoon when I let him inside my apartment, so I was surprised to see him wearing heavily tinted sunglasses.

I started to give him the usual greeting, but he cut me off almost immediately. "Please, put these on. It's for your safety. And mine," he explained in a hurry, shoving a similar pair of darkened glasses into my hand.

"Oh, uhm, alright," I stammered, putting them on to shield my own eyes. "You can go ahead and set your things down over there and take a seat." I motioned to the living area of my apartment. He dropped a heavy briefcase on the floor and moved towards the chair, but I stopped him. "Sit on the couch please. You'll want to be able to lie down if we end up going through with this."

He followed my instructions, dropping his visibly exhausted body onto the squishy cushions. I joined him in my usual spot, a hard and structured chair I would pull from my dining table positioned at a right angle to the couch. Sometimes this setup makes me feel like a shrink, especially when I'm really in the thick of a story.

"Did you bring me what I asked for?" I inquired once he seemed fairly settled, as settled as one can be when they're seeking assisted suicide.

"Yes," he said calmly, reaching into the briefcase and handing over an envelope full of cash. "Although, something tells me you're more interested in my story."

I felt my face flush at this suggestion, because it was true. I guess I'm a little sick in the head myself, but the stories are far more important than the money. I need the money to live, sure, but the stories give me a reason to keep living, if that makes sense.

"If it's a story you want, young lady, then I've certainly got one for you. It might sound crazy, but I can assure you it is indeed true," he mused, running his fingertips along the lining of a couch cushion.