Hess street

You know it's not difficult to take a life, especially if it's your own. The appropriate chambered determinate or ignored suggested daily requirement—a piece of cake. Just choose 'A' and put it in 'B,' that's it. A permanent solution to a temporary problem. Quick. Easy. Simple.

Well, maybe not as simple as you would think.

I remember finding them naked and finished. Finished with each other, finished with themselves. How do you recover from forcing the door open because my fiance and best friend's clothes were impeding my entry? Half dressed. Full f#@!'d. I vaguely recall stumbling down the centennial stairs because back then, people were half your size and weren't as drunk. I collapsed on the front porch, gathering myself on the wicker chair for a moment as the 'holy shit's' and 'what the hell do we do now!' drifted through the open upstairs window.

Day's then weeks passed. Letters from the landlord. Changed locks. Broken window. The knapsack full of whatever I could grab. Friends couch. Park bench.

It doesn't take long, my friends. Not long at all.

A rain-soaked, atypically cold summer night. Hungry because you haven't eaten in days, and your so-called friends are 'tired of your shit.' The only thing you feel besides your dad's .38 revolver, the one token, the tight ass bastard left you after his porcelain coronary is the contemplation of your furtive actions.

The funny thing is, stuffing the business end of a revolver in your mouth is precisely like placing your tongue on a 9-volt battery, but instead of a quick head jerk and soured look upon your face, it's a definitive solution with a simple side effect and consideration. Who'll find me? Do I care? Am I going to shit my pants? Will she find out what I've done, and will she take a moment to consider her part? I guess I'll never know.