Will Sue remember to feed the dog?
He couldn’t let it go. He thought it’d be different but it was the excruciating same. He sat at his desk. He’d been “working late” more and more, staying in the office after everyone left, sitting in the dark trying to work up the nerve to go through with it.
Will Mark pass Driver’s Ed.?
Who’s gonna pick up Brittney from soccer practice?
He’d had the gun for weeks now, got it at Dick’s Sporting Goods. The decision was made but he hadn’t done it yet. Every time he called Sue to say he had to work late again he figured it’d be the last time he talked to her. He’d revised the note on his computer until it was the most efficient, clear, and direct suicide note he was capable of writing. He even pulled out a thesaurus when he was working on it. That was the problem.
I’m Hungry, should have gotten the foot-long for lunch.
I need new socks, these have a hole.
Are those knives on the infomercial really that good?
He’d been waiting for something to happen, that’s why he was still breathing. He’d been waiting for the moment of clarity, the moment when your whole life flashes before your eyes. It never came. He tried to force it. He was especially determined now, trying to think about his legacy, about how he’d be remembered, what his lasting impact on the world would be, if he’d ever be understood and appreciated for what he had to do. It didn’t work.
Could I have gotten a better deal on the gun?
Should I have used pills instead?
I wonder what’s on TV tonight.
It pissed him off. The last few moments of his life were ticking away and all he could think about was nothing. A million things but nothing. Just all the crap that slowly takes you over. The crap that might as well be a strung-out crackhead with a knife in the subway because it mugs you just the same. It takes everything from you. You can’t stop it. It laughs at you because it’s in your head and you can never get it out.
Will I feel it when I pull the trigger?
Will the janitor have to clean up my guts?
It wouldn’t stop. There was nothing poetic about it. Nothing inspired or beautiful or tragic or even terrible. He was about to blow his brains out but it was just another thing, just another member of the parade of endless, meaningless thoughts that marched through his pathetic head 24 hours a day. That’s why he had to do it.
I wonder how long until they find another assistant sales manager?
