Reflections

My name is David Anderson I live on 1093 Park Avenue, New York City
with my wife Cassandra. Some may describe my housing as stunning or
magnificent. I just think of it as a nice house with some attractive
features. Supervising a fortune 500 Brokerage Firm at age 29 has its
benefits as well. If transparency were true throughout my life from
outside opinions, I would not have an insignificant care in the world.
From an afar perspective, my life essentials would include such things
as Ferrari's, Versace's, and several plush Oriental rug furnishings.
My identity as of today resides in expensive things; nothing more. I
woke up to the sudden loud ringing noise of my alarm clock. Its
supposed to be set at AM 87.6 so I can hear the traffic reports and
daily news headlines, but today it was blaring FM 100.4. Hearing early
morning alternative rock music at volume 17 quickly put a pulsing ache
through the back of my skull. As I rose out of bed and hit the snooze
button, I see that Cassandra is absent and her side of the bed is
seemingly untouched. It does not come as a surprise to me. She has
been in relations with Aaron from work for quite some time. I will
just expect some odd bullshit excuse from her later in the day. For
many reasons I feel it will be unfair for me to confront Aaron for
sleeping with my wife; as well as unprofessional. The floor is cold
with a slight dusty feeling. I walk over to the bathroom and turn on
the shower Cassandra raves about so willingly that truly it is worth
the $40,000 price tag.

As I step into the shower heads aim, I feel the
temperature of the water drop quickly until it has gone completely
cold. The shower for me is a place where I wake from my dreams of
better times. As I rise out of bed, consciousness is not what fills
me. It is rather a feeling of dead continuance; an autopilot. I
usually do not spend more than four minutes in the shower and it was
true for this day as well. I put on my boxer briefs and undershirt
very slowly because I have yet to reach full consciousness, this takes
a while. Opening up my dresser is always such a basic routine. It
seems like every suit is the same as the other. To me a different
hemline around the cuff line and an Italian name strapped to it
vaporizes green paper from my wallet for some unknown reason. I choose
Valentino for spite. Fastening my tie sometimes is still a challenge
for reasons I don't know why. It makes me feel like I have something
to work on I guess. Staring in the mirror as I do every morning before
heading on the short thirteen minute drive to the firm is always
rough. Today it seeing my pale white skin reflecting in front of me
had a shocking affect. My hands started to tremble in fear and the
blood in my body began to freeze. I dropped my case and just stared.
What have I become? Who am I? Is this what I wanted my life to be?
Coming back from a dream state, I fall to my back and reflect. Ten
years in the city has done this to me. I have become much worse than
my nightmares. To not exist in this world is the worst thing that
could ever occur to a person. I have succeeded in this. I have become
a robot, nothing more. All of the corporate dinners, all of the
sponsor meetings, everything for total utter shit. This is not who I
wanted to be. I wanted to exist, not to slowly be sucked into this
superficial lifestyle. I can still remember when I was ten years old I
wanted to become a fireman. My life position today cannot be explained
any more as of now then back at age ten. Going through my daily
routine, I change nothing.

Taking this prescription of Money, wealth,
and beautiful objects seems to have side affects of apathy and wearing
of your soul until you are lifeless being with only ambitions; no
dreams. I thought I was above all of this high-rise shallow
insignificant crap. Sometimes the only way you can change yourself, is
if you see your wrongful ways. But there is no changing for myself.
There comes a time when you pick your path and after a certain amount
of time, it sticks. Many people could argue with me, but I'm not much
for arguing. There is only one possible way I could change myself into
a being again. One more chance I could have in possibly existing.
Suicide has been in the back of my mind for several years now, but I
had never contemplated about it more than this morning on my hand
stitched 18th Century Chinese place rug. Maybe if I were to terminate
this existence, there could be some good passed on to someone else.
Even the slightest mark of respect carried on by someone from a
newspaper clipping or a brief message of condolences from the local
news station would be asking too much. For that undeserved
recognition, I contemplated if it truly were such a good idea for all
of the unneeded attention. I rose to my feet and stripped my Valentino
off of my body. I thought that if I were to die, I would die a person
and not the norm "Stock broker" I have grown in to be. All that was
left of my clothing was my boxer briefs and undershirt. Now was the
time for planning my suicide. I thought the classic style of leaping
off an office building would be too cliché and would attract my fear
of unwanted attention. I would not like too see any poor man fall 10
stories onto the very street I would walk on so I have to think more.
Nooses are too complicated to tie and I would want a quick death other
than a slow painful fading one. Also, it is a bit old fashioned for my
somewhat retro taste. A gun to the head death would leave an exit
wound and dirty cleanup, but it seems quite convenient compared to my
other options. I remembered that I had a small pistol hidden away in
the top of my mahogany closet. I never did think I was going to use
it, but I felt as though if I ever did need it, it would be there.

I walk to the piece of furniture and search for it vigorously until I
blatantly come to the conclusion that I am in no type of rush at all
considering my circumstances at hand. As I slowed down I felt the
large case in the back corner. I pulled the case inwards like I am
exited about what could be inside like a ten year old on Christmas. I
take it over to the nearest table and sit down. I open the case and
see the silver pistol with black grip. If I ever knew what the designs
of this gun were, I would have picked another color scheme. I am
thankful that there are bullets included inside one of the pockets in
the silver gun case. I would be embarrassed to drive to the local gun
supply store and purchase bullets in briefs and a white tank top. I
pull out the small .22 pistol and see where the ammo is loaded. I take
out the golden shelled bullets and load two into the top chamber.
Knowing my limited experience with firearms, I could possibly fire off
target or go itchy fingered. As I pull the gun towards my head, all of
these thoughts start gleaming through my head. It was not movie style
flashbacks everyone hears about, it was worries. Because I basically
had very few friends that actually cared for my well being, I thought
that if I would leave a note, it would be greatly appreciated. I run
over to my computer workstation next to the bedroom, and pull out
stationary. My first choice was red, but after thinking about it, blue
would be less negative and more to the upside of things. I choose to
have my suicide note's color pen to be black. I take a second and go
through trial and error with possible messages of what could be a
perfect ending piece of my life. "Goodbye world you have been so
cruel", "I have nothing to live for anymore", "See you people in hell"
were some of the completely ridiculous choices my fast tracking mind
was thinking about. In the end, I decided on "Thank you, I'm Sorry"
with a fifty dollar bill enclosed in the envelope. I thought if I were
to shoot myself, there would be some cleanup involved. It would be
only necessary to leave an apology and a decent tip to those disposing
of me. Putting the sky colored paper on the bedside table completed
the hour long process. I was ready. I was ready for the end of my
life. Feeling the grip of the pistol was quite awkward. I never
thought I would even consider ever attempting this before about five
years ago. Life pushes in certain ways that sometimes you cannot
control. That is life. Many people say Life's a Bitch. I don't think
that is true. Life is what you make it out to be and the rest is
controlled by some uncontrollable fate. Some lives can be wasted. I
can't think of a better example than mine. I have regrets but they are
seeping in and out of my head until I can't control them any longer.
The deed has to be done now or never. Falling to my knees I create a
sudden burst of energy within myself and release the safety. I grasped
the handle so tightly that I felt pain on the side of my skull. As I
let out a loud scream, I released the trigger. I woke up to the sudden
loud ringing noise of my alarm clock; it was set to FM 100.4 instead
of AM 87.6.