One nine millimeter handgun. Check. One clip of ammunition. Check. One piece of paper, dribbled with tear stains, containing a list of all of my sins and apologies. Check. Instructions on how to commit suicide read as follows: acquire one hand gun, one bullet, and load weapon. Step 2: write long drawn out suicide note to whomever, containing the dark scribbles seeping out of your brain, confessing all of your sins. Step 3: think of your loved ones, weep openly and press weapon to temple. Step 4: kiss your ass goodbye, pull trigger, and embrace enveloping nothingness. At this point, you should be dead. If you aren’t, try again, and realize how much of an idiot you must be to have fucked this one up. If you miss from point blank range, maybe you should reconsider the act itself. Or maybe you should just hire someone to do it for you. Either way, succeed or fail, you should be ashamed of yourself.
To my love Clara:
I write to you this, the last thing my hands will ever write, to inform you of your total success in my destruction. Yes, you are correct in your suspicions, this is a suicide note. I am now dead, my brains surely splattered upon the mirror you and I gazed into, lost in space for what seemed to be eternities of peace and understanding. And of love. I have been reliving the past six months with you over and over and even though I see through your plot now, I still love you more than anything. But now I ask you a simple question with a very complicated answer that I will never know. Why, Clara? Why did you kill me? Our love was wildly inappropriate, but whole, fulfilling. I would have given you the world, but now I am dead. Its your fault, not mine. You killed me. Enjoy your life, hopefully guilt doesn’t kill you like it has me.
Who is to say whether a love is right or wrong. Are you equipped to pass judgement on a man who loves his wife more than anything, worships the ground she walks on, but who sleeps with other women simply for sexual gratification? What about the young adolescent boy who harbors a deep secret love for his best friend, stares at him longingly in the locker room after gym class, but fears hostile retribution, and is so overwhelmed by the stigmas of society he thinks himself a freak of nature? As if your own romantic and sexual oddities are more “pure” than theirs. I can only imagine what your love life is like and honestly I want no supporting details. Who knows, maybe you like to do things to cute little lambs, maybe that is the only thing that gets you off. But hey, I say if thats what gets you off and makes you happy, there is nothing wrong with that. Just make sure you keep your life in context when judging other peoples oddities and fetishes. Clara had a fetish, but it wasn’t all that odd. Clara liked older men, and she liked to use those men to get whatever the fuck her cute little heart desired. Now Clara is only 15 years old, but if you met her on the street, you would assume she wasn’t younger than nineteen, legal. She knew how to hold herself in a way to give any sort of message she wanted and she had the body to support it, make you believe you wanted to give her the world. Sometimes that message was innocent enough, such as I want ice cream or dinner. Sometimes it said things like I want you inside me, I want to fuck your lights out, or I want to tie you up and whip you until you scream. She could have won an oscar for Christ's sake she was so good at it. And she always got what she wanted. She was quite the tenacious little bitch.
Charlie was different than Clara. He wasn’t manipulative and self centered. He was caring and sweet, enjoyed the simple pleasures of life. He was so easy going and good natured that it was very easy for people to take advantage of him, and they did. He almost always assumed the best and was inevitably treated to the worst. Charlie was barely 22 when he met Clara, and he was only slightly more 22 when she killed him. He let that bitch use him more than anyone had ever before, and she knew it, and exploited it to its last drop. Charlie was a senior at Columbia when he met Clara. He was walking in midtown, on fifth avenue when he saw her the first time. There she was, waiting to cross the street on a warm summer day, long blond locks blowing in the wind, her eyes hidden behind heinously gigantic white sunglasses. It was hot and she was sweating, and Charlie was doing nothing but staring at her ample breasts, pushing out of the gossamer, skin tight sun-dress, sparkling in the midday sun. It was like a movie he thought, like the heavens were shinning a spotlight onto her that only he could see. He felt it was almost biblical in its serenity. The roar of the city died to nothing and time stood still for Charlie until the signal switched to walk. He was frozen and unabashedly staring her down, like he was witnessing a true angel walking the earth. He was wholly unprepared to meet the devil that day. As Clara approached Charlie, still frozen in place, not blinking, she pulled down her sunglasses and gave him The Look. Oh, The Look. You know The Look. The look that makes your big brain shut off and forces your other “brain” to take over. The look that makes men all across the world do absolutely stupid shit. The Devil’s Look. And Clara, most certainly, was the devil reincarnate. So, with a simple look, she put the nails into his proverbial coffin, and effectively killed Charlie right there, on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 43rd Street. It never once crossed his mind, as he chased her swaying ass down the sidewalk, that she had it all planned out, that she would get what she wanted, and he would give it to her, no questions asked. Poor Charlie never thought to think that he was about to get used in the worst way imaginable, and that he was now living on borrowed time.
Now, when you use something, anything, you are attempting to acquire something out of it. When you use a microwave, you are acquiring hot food. When you use drugs, you are acquiring a different perspective. When you use a woman, you are acquiring an orgasm. Its all the same. Even when you are in a relationship with someone you love, you are using that person, and that person is using you. And why do we use everything to promote our own personal gain? Because we have to, it’s a mechanism of evolution, survival of the fittest, so to say. If that’s not the case, then it is a decently good way of justifying your heinous actions, if you even need justification to begin with (I doubt it). Clara had taken this idea of evolutionary gain through using someone to a whole new level, and she needed no justification. Her moral compass was so far from true north that she didn’t even have morals anymore. Most human being’s, even evil ones, have some sort of sense of compassion or empathy, but not Clara. She was an emotional rock, driven by one thing only. Her only goal was to acquire whatever she wanted, regardless of collateral damage. She didn’t even bat an eye when Charlie killed himself.
Sirens blared and horns honked and Charlie heard nothing. He was focused, a man on a mission. He followed Clara for two blocks before she abruptly made a sharp left into a Starbucks. He followed her in and stood behind in line, unsure of what to do next, his heart about one step away from exploding out of his chest and raining goo all over the lowly patrons of this particular Starbucks. Clara glanced back at him, saw that he was still eye-raping her and gave a quick smile. She ordered and moved towards the register to pay. She looked into her purse in shock and smiled her sweet, cunning smile at the cashier.
“Oh my god,” she said, “I think I left all my money at home. I am so sorry.”
Charlie, quietly chuckling to himself at this opportunity fate had so cruelly tossed his way, grabbed his wallet and handed the cashier a five. This is it, he thought, my ticket to salvation. He thought he was doing a nice thing for a seemingly nice and shockingly beautiful woman. He didn’t know it yet, but he was already madly in love with her, his mind clouded by unthought dreams and fantasies. Clara gave Charlie the ultimate seductress look and kissed him softly on the cheek. She leaned up and whispered in to his ear, “thank you, handsome.” She grabbed her drink and sashayed her ass all the way over to a table in the corner by the window. Charlie stood completely still, blocking the register until a typical New Yorker almost knocked him on his ass. As he stumbled away he noticed Clara was staring at him and she motioned for him to come join her. This was the pivotal moment, the end of the beginning of the end. If Charlie had had a fighting chance to save his life, it had just flittered away from him. He was as good as dead now. No, in fact, well, metaphorically anyways, he was dead. And now, those of you who are reading, those who are hoping that the end is going to be different from the beginning, should just stop reading. Those of you who had hoped Charlie would see through his bulging member clouded mind, and run the opposite way, there is nothing left for you here. Take this book, this downer of a love story, and throw it away, or give it to someone you hate, I don’t care, I already have your money, and I already used it to buy to buy some damn good scotch. This is not your mother’s sappy romance novel, and I swear to god it will end the way it began, with a bang and a splatter. Because face it people, real life is not the movies, nor is it shitty, mass produced sex novels. The nice guy certainly always finishes last. And Charlie was the nice guy, he filled the stereotype magnificently. And he will finish last, and end up six feet under. However, if you are the realistic type, and are looking for a story to help you not feel so disgustingly sorry for yourself, you have come to the right place my friend, and you will not be disappointed. But I digress, back to our sad pitiful tale of love.
