Where I Find Myself

Here’s the thing that’ll make this story a little bit different. Right here, somewhere in the first few paragraphs, will be the end. The spoiler.

Ready?

Really, I’m going to skip the beginning and shoot straight on through to the end.

Okay, here.

By the end of this story, everyone in it will be dead.
There will be no one left for me to write about and nothing more for you to read about.
Not the main character, not his girlfriend. Not even their fucking dog is going to survive this one.

But, really, don’t stop reading just because you already know how it ends.

So they all die. Isn’t that the end of every story? To yours? Mine? To everyones?
Yes, it is.

I say, fuck the end. What is it anyway? It’s nothing. Isn’t it the means to the end that counts?
Yes, it is.

Everybody’s story begins and ends just the same. Except for this one.

How is this one any different? I haven’t written it yet. That’s how it’s different. That’s why I had no problem with spoiling my own story. I have about as much a clue as you. I don’t yet know who the main character is and I don’t know anything about his girlfriend. I’m not even sure what kind of dog I’m going to burden them with.
They all do die though. That much I’ve decided. Sounds shitty, I know. But, it’s what I’m in the mood for.

And you know what? Lets add another character. Yes, let’s give the main character a friend.
And since I’m obviously feeling a bit morbid, let’s put him in the ground as well.

This friend, he’s not really going to be that important. Lets say his death will mean about as much to us as does his appearance here in this paragraph. But he is worth mentioning as he is now a part of the story.

He’s not that important? What then, is my problem? Why would I even write him into the story if I’m just going to senselessly kill him?

Instead of writing something that obviously leads to a fatal overdose, like…

He pinched the syringe between two fingers, drumming the plunger with his thumb. He took three deep breaths, in and out.
I ain’t never shot this much dope before, he told her.
Well, then you’d better hold on to something, she said.

Couldn’t I write something like…

He was about to pump his veins full of too much heroin when, in her eyes, he saw his mother.

He was six years old and he was sitting next to her on a Boeing seven-something-seven. They were on their way to Chicago. He had the window seat and he took pictures of the earth and clouds from thirty thousand feet.
He couldn’t wait to see his grandparents and tell them how cool flying is.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The FASTEN SEAT BELTS signs lit up and a stewardess made an announcement as the plane began to rock and shake.

People started to cry.
people hugged babies to their chests.
People held hands.

The plane was falling.

His stomach felt light.
His heart hung in his throat.

The plane was crashing.

More people were crying now.
People were saying I love you.
People were praying.

I’m scared, he told his mother.
Well, then you better hold on to something, she said.

And now, with this young topless girl kneeling in front of him as he sits on the living room floor, his back against the flickering screen of an old television set, he begins to cry. He drops the syringe, still full of heroin and collapses into her warm body. Wrapping his arms tightly around her.

Sure, I guess it could’ve gone like that. But I don’t like it. Not for this story. So, that’s not how it went.
It went like this…

When the topless girl told him that he’d better hold onto something, he reached out and grabbed her tit. He stabbed the needle into a vein and sunk the plunger.
He squeezed her too hard and she smacked his hand, telling him to fuck off.
His body shook hard.
He opened his mouth and emptied his stomach into her lap.
She screamed. He squeezed.
His eyes rolled up into his forehead and his grip on her tit relaxed as he slumped to the floor.

Dead.

She crawled to the couch and screamed for her boyfriend, Jimmy.

Jimmy. Our main character.
Not so much in the traditional sense, though. More so only because he’s going to be the link that ties everyone together. Including the dog I mentioned earlier.

The friend. Our first death.
Jimmy knows him from high school.
How he ended up in Jimmy’s living room, holding onto Jimmy’s half naked girlfriend’s tit while offing himself like a rock star, is one of those things that is more chance than anything else.
The two of them hadn’t seen each other in years. Recently, when they ran into each other, Jimmy couldn’t even remember his name.
But he still invited his old friend over to party.

Jimmy’s girlfriend. He calls her Rose.
This isn’t her name. It’s Anne or Shelly or something like that. It doesn’t matter though because he’s only ever called her Rose. And she likes it.
She has a small tattoo of a rose on her ass. Hence, Rose.
During sex, Jimmy has always used the tattoo as a focal point. To keep from triggering.
The two of them also met in high school. They’ve been sleeping together and doing drugs with each other ever since.

The dog. I still don’t know what kind it is.
It’s a stray that Jimmy found sniffing around the back of some convenience store.
He’s had it for over a year and he still hasn’t named it.

Now I’ve found a problem with starting at the end.
I’ve already decided that everyone dies. But I haven’t decided how.
I killed the friend. That was easy. Now I have to kill Jimmy, Rose and the dog. But how?

Do I even have to?

I was comfortable with killing the friend, because I started the story with the idea that he wasn’t anyone important. Nothing special. I mean, Jimmy couldn’t even remember his name.

But the problem is, by now, I’m not so sure I want to kill Rose.
I bet she’s sweet. In some weird, white trash, junkie sort of way.
And besides, she prances around topless and she’s got that cute little rose tattooed on her butt.
What’s not to love about her?

And Jimmy. James. Jimbo. Jimmy boy. I don’t know. I’m sure he’s alright.
Maybe when he comes running into the living room from the bathroom or from wherever he was and sees old what’s his name lying dead in front of the TV, he’ll see where this road is going to take him and Rose.
Maybe he’ll want to steer them toward a better path.

And the dog. If I’m not going to kill Jimmy or Rose, I’m certainly not going to kill the dog.
I am going to name him, though.
I think I’m going to call him lucky.

Copyright © July 2008 Chris la Cour