Story written by ClutchFranklin on Monday 16, November %8

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The final thoughts of a young man.

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This is it. I am about to die. I have wondered what this moment would be like with an unstoppable persistence my entire life, and now it is finally here. I always imagined it would be me looking down the barrel of a gun and reaching into the inner limits of my consciousness to find some ultimate meaning for my life in the moments before the bullet punched a hole through my brain. Or if I was lucky it would be a car that swerved into my lane of the freeway and brought about absolute darkness so fast I couldn’t even wonder what it was all about one last time. There really is no good way to go, just different ways. I’m not one that believes a long life is a good life. In fact I have grown to dislike the elderly in most of their charming forms. My grandfather is less of a man and more of a living keg of hatred and fear that can be tapped at any hour of the day to a truly dizzying effect. I should be bothered that the son of a bitch is going to live longer than me, unless of course he dropped a toaster in his bathtub in the last fifteen minutes and nobody called me to give me the good news. I’m not bothered at all though. In fact it makes me happy that he has to live through the pain of his son and his grandson dying before him. He sure loved us, but only because he sees us as an extension of himself, and sweet Jesus does that man love himself. I may as well start referring to myself in the past tense, right? At least it’s a beautiful day. The sky is mostly clear and blue with those soft stringy clouds that are way in the upper atmosphere. It was a bit chilly earlier but now all I can feel is fire coursing through my veins and a surge of adrenaline like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I wouldn’t have chosen this but it’s just as well i’m conscious for my own death. I often feel like one should be around for their own end. It’s the last thing you ever get to do, die. And I would never want it said that I lived in fear of my own life. So here I lie on a little dirt patch about a quarter mile away from my car, sitting against a tree, looking out at a world whose natural beauty will more than likely be gone in the next fifty years. This planet is most likely coming closer to a time of great death. My friend Shannon used to say so. I think of her often. “That’s why our generation thinks about death so much.” She used to say. “We can feel it in the air. We are the first generation that can actually see the cliff we have been speeding toward for hundreds of years.” She was a sad, bleak woman but I loved her. At least I’ll be going to wherever she is. Shannon killed herself four years ago. Shannon and I went to high school together and we each are solely responsible for the other’s survival of that time. We met in a photography class and used to take candid pictures of one another for sport. I still have them in a shoebox in storage. I don’t know what will happen to those. Probably end up on an episode of storage wars. I was supposed to speak at her funeral but could only stop crying long enough to vomit. We hadn’t talked for about six months at the time she died, which is pretty normal for us. She had a boyfriend anyways and was living in Pittsburg for some reason I never fully understood. She moved there out of her love for Trevor and I don’t think she was ever really happy with the whole thing. I think she thought if she just perfected the life she signed up for it would all make sense, but that’s a dangerous way of thinking. She shot herself in the head with Trevor’s gun, the one he said he had to protect her. He was in a new relationship about two months later. Fuck Trevor. I wonder how long I’m supposed to fight, or how much of this is in my mind. It’s getting difficult to breathe but maybe I’m one of those tough son’s of bitches that can thug it out. My dad fought cancer for a year and he was only supposed to live for a few weeks by the time we found out what was going on. I think my mom forced him to keep going. I think if she were here right now she would do the same to me. Good thing she isn’t though, she would be terrified and this would all be super traumatic. God my stomach hurts. Did I fall on it? Or… No. I didn’t fall on it. I think maybe I just need to throw up. Vomiting is always a good idea. I remember the first time I got alcohol poisoning I had gotten into my mom’s gin closet. She was out of town with our neighbor Shay on a women’s retreat and my dad let me have a martini before he went to bed. He said I should know what alcohol is and what it can do before high school. I snuck out of my bed later that night and proceeded to get so drunk i passed out on the living room floor. All I know is he shook me awake in a pool of my own vomit and took me to the hospital at around five am. At least that’s what he told me. That was the one and only time I’ve ever gotten drunk. I feel a little drunk now though, I’m slurring my speech. Not that I really have much to say, I’ve just said “Shit” a couple of times but it isn’t really coming out right. I never should have come to Washington. I thought it would be the change I needed. I grew up in Tucson, and after filling myself with hatred for the place my entire life I thought it would be a good idea to go somewhere completely opposite. For the most part I loved it. The rain, the mountains, the trees, the progressive people, the good weed. It was one of the first truly adult decisions I had ever made besides seeing a therapist and taking out a loan. I lived in a studio apartment in Seattle and did bookkeeping for a shipping company that operated out of the port. I think the nicest thing in my place was the rug. my couch was a fold out bed. I liked having people over, but didn’t want them to feel like they were hanging out in my bedroom so I put all my clothes in my closet and made the place as casual as possible. I hosted a movie night and played D&D with some guys from the gym. I think we were trying to prove to ourselves that we had more hobbies than just playing basketball, but most of our characters were named after NBA players and the world we created was full of sports references. I’m going to miss them. I mean they are probably going to miss me. I have a feeling I’m not going to miss anybody, but not for lack of want. Im sure I would if I could. I find it’s better to just move on though. My mom will have the hardest time. That hurts to think about. I really don’t feel well, it’s starting to get bad. Maybe I should close my eyes for a minute…

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  • Oh, wow! This is quite profound. Well written. Good job!
    - November 26 2020 20:07:07