Golden Saucers

               The fundamental fact taught by life is that indecisiveness always catches up. One can commit suicide now or later, that is: expediently or — suicide by old age.

               The sensation was not abrupt. When one finishes a chapter and continues on to the next the prior partition is not forgotten. Or, better yet, when one closes a book for the last time and that particular unplaceable feeling lingers. Ah, but I am jumping ahead…

               My wife died. I found out from my secretary who knows better than to disturb me while I’m working. This little rule that I had established for my own convenience made it that much more significant when she entered. I confess that the moment she walked in I wretched, nearly vomiting. ‘There was an accident,’ she said. I had heard the same phrase at the cinema and so I reflect now how vital the art form is in designating social stratagems. Where would we be in life if for every situation there was not a phrase equivalent to, ‘there was an accident,’ laid out for us… I wretched, and was afterwards informed that she had died instantly. Like the cinema, I extended my arms and flung my body across my desk, knocking everything onto the floor. My secretary rubbed my back and after some initial necessities, I went home.

               I was surprised to find that the emptiness of my house intimated itself similar to if my wife was simply working late. I decided not to eat dinner, not because I wasn’t hungry but because I felt like it wasn’t appropriate. Ready for bed, I took particular notice of the void next to me before falling soundly asleep.

               The next day I spoke with a world renown mortician who had already begun returning the shape to my wife’s crumpled face. Despite his politeness, I was short with him. A serious annoyance was growing in me. I had not cried yet and showed no signs of it. The details surrounding my wife’s corpse, so far, maintained the countenance that my taxes might. The days went on and the funeral came and went in much the same vein and with the same air of frustration.

               In hindsight, chocolate is to blame for my eventual decision to kill myself. You see, I had recused myself from all worldly pleasures in the wake of my wife’s accident in full confidence that they would prove unfruitful. But… Two months having elapsed, I found myself still occasionally performing acts of habit ingrained since before she had died. One particular night I woke up and, half asleep, found a Charleston Chew chocolate bar that I had hidden in the freezer probably a year prior and took a bite. The ecstasy that accompanied the bite woke me up from my delusional slumber. I took another bite and confirmed my suspicions. I returned to work the next day.

               It takes a tragic event to realize how well oriented our species is to tragedy. I discovered that man is made to lose. He is made to persevere and endure. People die and people live, it is a fact of life, but loss shows us how little we have. We can bounce back and continue living as if nothing has happened. It’s only the people who have not lost and want to appear empathetic that insist society be structured in such a way where a grieving process is necessary and must be afforded. It was an illusion. One that I wholeheartedly bought into. Oh my, how I yearned to grieve! Time continued to elapse but in it occurred no substantial grieving. I cried as a child might from a jarring experience, only to realize that there was no pain. The chronology is not a process of acceptance of grief but a process of dispelling the illusory jarring sensation. This discovery shook me and so I ‘persevered,’ while at the same time coming to the parallel conclusion that I didn’t want to be here anymore. I wanted to be with my love and if that meant in oblivion, so be it.

               Life takes a meditative tinge when one commits to living it no longer. It’s the difference between being stuck in traffic a block away from one’s house and being stuck fifty miles away. In other words, any discomfort is momentary. In fact, the decision to do the deed and the elaboration it then required of my intellect actually brought me great joy. The climax of my giddiness came not at but after the decision was concretized; it came with the intoxicating and necessary selection of method. My initial area of concern was the following: my studies have yielded that humans, upon the brink of death, are alleviated, by the brain, with a cocktail of chemicals and neurotransmitters which result in a euphoria debatably unable to be experienced in any other circumstance. I took to inquiring great minds on the matter, very carefully of course, many of whom would argue that such a release has originated in humans that strange conception that is an afterlife. You see, they say that the brain functions in such a way those last few moments that time slows down, that the euphoria is so intense that, according to those scientific minds, the few lucky patrons who experience the sensation only to be revived mistake it as visiting heaven or in certain diabolical cases hell.

               The pleasantness of the idea (regardless of the way it went), as with any pleasantness I experienced after the departure of my love, added an additional tinge of anger. I should not have such joy in the wake of such a tragedy. Yet I still found myself allowing the idea to influence me. The eventual nonentity of death would obviously occur regardless and so I had decided that such a final climactic experience would be worth pursuing. To articulate the conclusion that throbbed so stupendously and excitedly in my brain was that the more painful the moments before death were, the more chemicals were released via the brain. Or so I had logically decided.

               I spent the next week thinking out a type of harness that would inflict a stab wound near my heart. I have a cowardly view of myself and wanted to avoid the inevitable and desperate reservations my brain would attempt to express to me before the act. I would not allow such a spectacle in my final moments and so I decided that the only real choice was some type of harness. I would allow myself no acknowledgement to any method that required anything but the most mundane amount of will power. It would be rather straightforward and wholly unimpressive I profess; the harness would hold the knife in place allowing me to fall easily in such a way that would lodge it deep. I began construction quickly, laughing at the thought of how I would look to whoever found me. It would be a comical sight no doubt. The more progress I made on the harness the greater my fear grew, a terror not of death but life. The plot to lengthen the period prior to death also unavoidably extended the time that I could be saved. I was seized by the horror of a failed attempt. The greater the pain, the longer the time and the more pain and time, the more possibility of discovery. What if I could not squelch my screams? What if some selfish soul found me unconscious and saved me. I put my tools down that instant, such a plan was folly. My focus was renewed and that primary and singular focus was death. A gunshot to the head.

               My first attempt at acquiring a firearm, which I had decided was the easiest possibility, was stifled. I had tried to acquire it from a colleague. He, like most, had known my situation and such a situation was claimed by society to cause a great deal of distress in an individual. If only the fool had experienced it himself he would know that I was in the sharpest and clearest realm of thought. But alas, no matter how many times I protested he would not allow it. I was very persistent though, I fabricated a story that when returning home one night I found a window curiously ajar and had a legitimate fear of an intruder. It was no use… I was forced to purchase it legally and lethargically.

               The process took several weeks. I spent those weeks anxiously awaiting the arrival of my salvation. Most days were filled, by my energetic imagination, with alternatives. Every window invited me graciously and each speedy vehicle encouraged me to leap underneath to enjoy the weight upon my bones. The fear of a failed attempt remained present, though, and so I displayed, what I imagine to be, a remarkable determination and grit in order to ensure my final goal. To ease the growing temptation, I spent the weeks studying the exact procedure I would employ. I had never fired a gun before and so again I wanted to be sure that there would be no delay, no moment to allow for any silly sentiments to dictate anything other than the logical conclusion I had come to weeks before. It was simple enough and I had already purchased the ammunition. It would be delivered like any other package, I would open the case, loading it entirely to ensure a fire regardless of any error I could make, prone to errors as I am, and all would be set.

               The day is blurry. Perhaps I struck some vital part of the brain that allows the full consciousness to transition. It went, as far as I can remember, completely according to plan. The package arrived, and within minutes I had it open, loaded, and placed on the side of my head. I held it in my right hand due to its steadier constitution and the obviously cleaner pull that the pointer finger on my dominant hand would produce, although I don’t think it would have made much of a difference either way, and I lingered not for a moment with the gun against my head before I pulled the trigger. Instant blackness… No pain. For the life of me I don’t know why I was expecting such a great and instantaneous pain. I remember wincing as my finger felt the resistance of the trigger, embracing for a great impact like it would matter. I lingered in the blackness for seconds, still conscious, thinking about the lack of pain, no deductions were made other than a reluctant inquisition as to why I was experiencing such a lack of sensation, and then eventually a confusion concerning the persistence of my consciousness, coming to the conclusion that I must not be dead yet. In response to my confusion I was seized by an excruciating pain which I welcomed jubilantly and completely as the finality of my existence. It was the gravest pain imaginable and I concluded, in the midst of it, that the tinge it possessed was surely deadly. Excitedly, I felt it grow and exceed my most imaginative contemplations and at its climax my consciousness cried out in joy that it would be over soon. All occurred in blackness and soon the pain subsided. I remained in a state as before, conscious but without sensation. My mind remained partially exalted due to the pain it had experienced a moment before, like one might feel after a rollercoaster, although obviously amplified beyond comprehension. I lingered in the blackness for quite a time, until eventually it evaporated.

               I awoke. The room was dim. The only light emanated faintly from a carpeted staircase that was situated opposite where I lay. I recognized the room at once, not just from what I could see but what I could feel. The couch which I laid upon was leather and massive, it extended with the corner of the room in an “L” shape and if I tried I could not reach from one end to the other. The heavy fur blankets exuded a warmth of their own and the hefty pillows cradled each limb. It was my Uncle’s home, from when I was growing up. My family and I visited it only occasionally but it was always my favorite place. Every day I spent there, surrounded by my cousins and extended family, exhausted me due to the sheer amount of love we all had for each other. I would battle to stay up as late as possible to spend every moment I could with them but that leather couch and its blankets were so persuasive that I never lasted long. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and only be able to make out the stairs. I would lie harmoniously awake and reminisce on the day that had just passed, sometimes I could even see the outlines of my beautiful cousins and would watch them sleep for a bit. Laying there, I had almost forgotten the events that had transpired some unquantifiable time before. Seconds maybe, but I could not remember… I could only remember the blackness, but now I was here and I felt happy.

               Sitting up I allowed the shag carpet to comfortably embrace my feet, I noticed that I was wearing pajamas. They were an immaculate white and grabbed what little light they could from the distant stairway and reflected it. Even after removing the blanket, it still felt as if it remained around me. I felt warm… I felt content. The stairway called to me and approaching it, I heard, on the floor above me, the muffled speech of several people. There was light chatter and an occasional burst of innocent laughter. I labored to make out the quantity of voices but it was no use, a fresh tone entered at every juncture and not being able to make out what was said I gave up and continued ascending the staircase. The handrail felt good against my hand. My Uncle was a lifelong carpenter and it was in the simpler things that one really noticed his craftsmanship. My hand glided across the polished oak and the carpeted steps propelled me upward. Stopping before the door, the warmth of that precious blanket remained, but I identified it now as the warmth of a hug. I hadn’t been embraced in so long that I had forgotten what such a thing felt like. It was distinct, as if I was being hugged from every direction. The urge to cry was fended off diligently by me, for what reason I am still uncertain but I did maintain my composure despite the tears that gathered anxiously in the corners of my eyes. The voices were more distinct now. My uncle was a big man, but he remained compassionate until the day he died. His voice was soft and energetic, his laugh unmistakable. It was him! God, how I loved him, how I loved them, how I loved her… I opened the door slowly. It was definitely my Uncle’s house, although it should not exist any longer, I was sure it was destroyed. A joy began overwhelming me. The basement door, which I had opened, gave way to the kitchen into which I had not yet stepped, but would give a clear view into the family room where the familiar voices could be heard. I noticed, looking into the kitchen and not yet stepping into view, that spread out every few feet were large golden saucers. They were meticulously placed an equal distance apart from each other and throughout the entirety of my view. They shone vibrantly. I decided not to question them. My breathing was relaxed and I stepped into the kitchen giving me full view of the family room. Everyone was sitting on the couches and chairs dispersed around the room, just as they would on those rare occasions when the entire family could gather. I looked to my cousin, who growing up was my very best friend. She smiled warmly and motioned for me to come sit next to her, there was an empty spot on the couch. I could not hold my composure any longer and looked to the nearest golden dish with blurry vision. I knew what they were for now. I fell to my knees and began to cry harder than anyone alive.