Surely, this pain means something, could mean anything if I had the will to name it. It’s not often one gets shot in the stomach, has the banality of every day existence made mortal in seconds. The meaning of the day was suddenly called into question with the sharp rush of red pain dripping down my favorite jeans.
Always thought I would be the one to do it, to murder the day, waste every hour trying to live up to the last hour’s legacy of tedium. Always thought that I’d pull the trigger on myself. What I’m wondering is, are they really doing me a favor?
My conscious mind, now staring through hazed plastic wrap at the fading light of reality, tells me to reach up. Arm flies upward toward smoking gun. Clearly, some part of me does not want to die. Muscle tension dances with danger.
What’s evident is that the arm is not bulletproof enough to fulfill its own desires. My body lurches back with the second blast through the palm, right where the palm reader said it’d be. Now I believe her.
Try to scream, but the bullet makes a pit stop in my esophagus before heading home to the kitchen counter behind me.
Is my fortune fulfilled? Better question: is my life itself fulfilled?
My life is given its title at the moment of death: a deliberate accident on the part of bad faith, one that leads the victim to their own demise. The mad murderous king and queen, destroyed by grief, histories living out in the mind of a contemporary servant of trauma. Death pact with the stranger in the mirror, bound by a noble promise of total abandon.
This was CTV Evening News.