Act Appaled.

I suppose an introduction would be rather pointless. But for the sake of not coming off completely barbaric, My name is Jess.

It’s a shame we didn’t meet at a better time, it’s a shame that you actually have to process what I’m about to tell you. It’s really a damn shame we can’t just switch lives. Imagine years of struggle, struggle with a few reoccurring events. What did me in would be the memory of my grandfathers hand down my pants, playing with my dick while my parents sat in the front seat of our rusted Volkswagen van every Sunday on my way to church.

Every morning when I drive to work, I can see his expression in my rear view mirror. His sick and sexual snarl. His upper lip curled slightly while his eyes slanted towards my hips. His tongue darting out of his mouth every so often, licking his cracked lips. Ready to devour. I avoid looking in that mirror at all cost, which is probably why my insurance is costing me so much fucking money, which is also more than likely the result of me driving a car that has a porous texture. Dented and weathered
.
I’ve decided it’s time to press my lips around the cool steel of a shotgun, not mine of course. I stole it from my room mates colorful collection of pistols, shotguns, even crossbows. It’s easy to clean blood and bits of brains off of smooth silver.

I realize my logic may be confusing to you, but to be completely honest, I could give two shits.

Maybe I should rewind.
For your benefit of course.
Maybe I should explain how things got to the point where I’m more than willing to have my roommate mop bits of my brain and spinal fluid off of the pretty white wall nestled behind me. I could tell you what drove me to this point of insanity, I could tell you the event that destined my right index finger to the strenuous task of pulling a cold trigger.

But I won’t.

Please, pardon me if my thoughts are scattered. That’s generally what happens to me when I’ve chugged two bottles of Papov. I would have gone out a bit more glamorous, perhaps some Jack Daniels, maybe even treated myself to Gray Goose. But sadly, not only am I miserable, but completely broke as well. I spent my last twenty dollars on the cheapest Vodka, and what have I got to show for it? Two empty plastic bottles and slurred speech.

I’ve had this gun in my mouth for about an hour now.

I’ve been more than ready to pull the trigger for longer. I’ve been ready for years, I’ve been ready to hear my own skull shatter and my brain break apart with that sickening squelching sound. Like when someone chews their food with their mouth open and you can hear the contents of their meal slipping around in their mouth. Tiny bits of food being drenched in spit. I can’t stand watching people eat, and I’m sure any normal person wouldn’t be able to watch some sad little queer blow his fucking brains out. I personally would.

But that’s just me.

Just so you know; I’ve tried this before. Not with a gun though, last time I swallowed half of bottle of Percocet that my dentist had given me after some oral surgery. I remember my body going numb and my eyes rolling to the back of my head, viewing what is about to be blown out of my skull, I figured if I do it this way, there would be less room for error. My last attempt didn’t end the way I wanted it to; seeing as I’m still here. Talking to you.

My roommate found me in a pool of my own vomit, my cheek resting on blue and pink chunks of pasta and bits of a double cheeseburger I had eaten what seemed like weeks before. He called the cops, who called the hospital, who saved my life and who can now fuck themselves in the ass because I don’t want to be saved, you can’t heal a victim of Molestation. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. Forgive my language, if you can’t tell. I’m a little shaken up right now.

To be completely honest my legs are shaking, and for some sick fucking reason I’m pitching a tent. The steel inside of my mouth has grown warm to the touch, but there something about a gun that will always be cold. Even after the spark, the bullet, and the smoke. I’m biting the barrel so hard I think I’ve shattered my front right tooth. I don’t know. I just don’t know.

What I do know is I’ve lived 25 years too long. I’m sick of hearing “It doesn’t count, it wasn’t sex.”

So it wasn’t sex, it was enough.

Imagine becoming sexually active when you’re five, having some old mans wrinkled hands pumping furiously under your Spiderman briefs while you wonder, is this right? Is this okay? Does everyone do this?

And then you find out.

The sick fuck wasn’t supposed to touch you there. And you think, I deserved it. And for the rest of your life you look in the mirror and see a dirty slut who sucked a cock when he was only nine. I hadn’t even lived a decade and seen as much as a fifty year old hooker. So do you blame me? Would you do the same?

Of course you wouldn’t. It’s not like you understand anyways.

Goddamn it.  My roommate just left a message on the phone we have at our apartment.


He’s going to be home in five minutes. I have five minutes to end my life, five minutes to purchase a ticket leading straight to hell. Where I belong, with people who I’m comfortable with. In the environment I’ve been raised around. See that’s the thing, people are always trying to make me better, to help me. If they’d shut their mouths for five seconds they’d see I don’t want any help. I just want to be dead.

Cold and covered in dirt.

I’m not wasting any time counting backwards. I don’t waste time having second thoughts. I just bite, I bite and feel my left tooth shatter. I pinch my eyes shut and swallow shards of my own teeth. I can’t tell if the iron I’m tasting is my own blood or the polished metal of this friendly shot gun I’m deep throating. My index finger tightens around the silver sliver shaped like a toe nail clipping.

I inhale. And my lips curl upwards. Finally. It’s over. It really is.

The sound is low and fast, occurring so fast that I jump. You should see it, I’m sure you’d laugh. Here I am talking about how ready I am to end my own fucking life, and when the trigger clicks and the bullet is let loose I jump. Like a fucking puss.

The spark.

The bullet speeds down it’s intended tunnel and lodges itself into my face with force. My head kicks back, causing the back of my skull to slam against the wall behind me. Just so you know, I still have a boner.  My ears are bleeding. But what the fuck does that have to do with anything? It’s only a minor amount of gore as opposed to the huge hole that should be bleeding in the back of my head. My ear drums have been reduced to a memory and it’s silent. So silent that it pulsates through my body vibrating, making my stomach churn.

I can hear something shatter, I don’t know what it was. I’m hoping it’s my entire head, but the funny thing is I can still see straight ahead and the only sense of mine that has been dulled in my hearing and my reception of pain. I’m supposed to be dead. Things are supposed to be black right now, or do these things take time? I don’t fucking know. I’m just really drunk, and really waiting to be dead.

The bullet.

I’m waiting. A couple of seconds now, I should be good. I look down. There’s plenty of blood, plenty of soggy scar tissue staining whatever it can reach. Fuck.

No.
Fuck.

How the hell do you miss the own back of your skull? I missed, I managed to fuck it up again. I’m sorry I’m cussing so much. I’m just really tired of failing, failing even at failure. I can’t move my left side, I can’t feel it, I just know there is a huge hole in my jaw, I just know my teeth are exposed by loose flaps of skin. Blood and saliva are leaking out of my mouth, down my throat, to my stomach. This is probably the right time to start feeling nauseas right?

I thought so too.

This is what I get for being slopping, for doing this when I’m fucked up. My body falls back, my head bumping that wall that I had hoped to shower in a portrait of bodily fluids. My art, my death. I can’t even get that right. My jaw is hanging loosely to the rest of my face, connected by a few thin strands of skin and muscle. My eye lashes are covered in ruby shaped droplets of blood. I guess I’m still holding the gun.

God Fucking damn it. I’m still holding the gun.

I’m twitching. My hand is Twitching, I’m not really sure whether it’s because I’m so scared or because my body is going into shock. I’m sure you’re thinking it’s both, but I know myself better. I know it’s not both, I know it’s one or the other.

The only plus side to this situation is that I have about four minutes to bleed to death. I have four minutes to drain myself of life, seeing as I don’t have the strength to get up and look for another bullet, let alone load the gun, mentally prepare myself for the blow, and then finally pull the trigger.

Again.

There are so many different textures filling my mouth and then draining out the huge hole in the side of my face, fragments of bone and teeth floating around in tissue and blood, the blood light red. Vibrant. The tissue slimy and almost burgundy. The left side of my face is like a sticky, bleeding, flower.

The smoke.

No. My stomach hurts, I mean. I’m can handle nasty shit, like watching movies where a guy gets his head cut off and eaten. I can watch the stuff and laugh, but it’s so different when your own skin is sticking to your hand. It’s so different when you’re so drenched in your own blood that you can smell it. No. Please. I’m so sorry you have to hear about all this. But I’m sure if you didn’t want to know, you would have stopped listening.

I just gagged.

I’m trying really hard to breathe, it can’t breath through my mouth, my windpipe is clogged with blood. I’m feeling faint, faint and sick to my stomach. I’m trying to breathe through my nose but I keep sucking up bits of blood. I’m sorry if I keep repeating myself. It’s really hard to think straight. I don’t think I’m going to able to keep my food down much longer. Which is another mistake I made, well. Either way it would have been a mistake. I can’t drink on an empty stomach or kill myself on a full one.

I gagged, adding to the already slimy texture of blood and spit. Bits of leftover spaghetti and stomach acid burning my blooming wound, pouring down the side of my face and awakening my sense of pain. I pinch my eyes shut and push back tears. It wasn’t supposed to hurt this bad. It wasn’t supposed to smell this bad. I wasn’t supposed to see this mess.

I can’t breathe.

Shit. My roommate is here, I can’t. I just. Can’t.

[an; more chapters. he's not dead. =]]