Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 37

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 37

This entry is part 30 of 32 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!
Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page

Thinking About Death

The combination of morbid creativity and extreme anxiety that powers the mainframe I call a mind affords me plenty of (unwanted) opportunities to consider how I want to die when it is my time to do so. Not that we have a choice, but I think I would probably be right in assuming that every one of us has—at one time or another—considered one type of demise preferable to another.  

Suicide?

I have considered the merits of types of suicide (that’s another story, for another day) as well as accidents and diseases. My imagination is high powered and my dreams even more so. The combination has allowed me to explore the feelings and emotions of the end in ways that most could not even fathom.  

The Best Way To Die

I am probably a part of the majority when I say that I have always considered dyeing in my sleep to be the best way to go. The assumptions I base that on are that it is painless and unexpected. Critical thinking is a bitch though, and I have recently come up with a couple of reasons why even the (seemingly) sublime thought of slipping away in the dead of night could be just as terrible as all the alternatives: 1) It is always assumed that dyeing in our sleep is painless. I think that assumption comes from the fact that no-one is there to witness it. We wake up (or walk into the room the next day) to find our loved one dead and automatically assume that they just slipped silently away into the great beyond. Is that the truth or the tale we tell ourselves to cope with our own personal loss. 2) The older I have gotten the more I have come to firmly believe that we implicitly know when our time has come. If that is true then there is no ‘unexpected’ death. Even if it is just a fleeting moment—we know when the time has come.  

A Bug’s Death

What’s the point, Dave? Glad you asked. I was driving home from Pennsylvania today contemplating death. It is a terrible thing to do when you are driving 65 miles an hour in a large piece of metal and glass on a road filled with potholes and surrounded by assholes that are just trying to get to their 4th of July party before all the beer is gone. That being said, I am an asshole too and that is exactly what I was doing. The anxiety was really starting to affect me when all of a sudden SPLAT! A huge bug exploded on my windshield right at eye level. It was in that moment that I decided that—if I had my druthers, and the power to decide how I was going to go—I would be a bug, on a highway, on a windshield.
Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 37

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 33

This entry is part 26 of 32 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!

Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page
I had a heart-rending nightmare one evening that left me broken in the dark for hours after it occurred. This terrible piece of #flashfiction is what it spawned.
 

Brianne stood silently by the table and watched the flame flicker on the wax embodiment of the number fifteen atop the cake. She’d been there well on ten minutes now — vacantly transfixed by the ebb and flow of the tiny light in the middle of the room. She watched, standing straight, arms limp at her sides, head lolled to the right, and completely emotionless.

The cake is beautiful she thought, white icing and all — a very nice gesture from the mother who could not make it home for her birthday. The thought brought a single tear to her eye that left a black mascara tinged trail as it gently streamed down her face. It clung, momentarily, at the bottom of her cheek before dropping to her breast below — In the end, one tear was all it took.

Brianne took the knife from the table and pulled it gently across her throat. The intent was fragile and focused on attention. The effect was resolute and final. She underestimated the sharp bite of the blade and it pulled itself deeper into her flesh than she had ever intended. White icing now red, Brianne slipped into the black.

That is the end of Brianne’s story and nothing that came before this moment or happens after, matters. Her entire existence begins and ends, with one single moment of despair and miscalculation.

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