counselor

Uhh, based on a (relatively) true story. Names (if there are any mentioned, to hell with me re-reading this) are slightly changed. I used a few quotes from my own lyrics. It's kinda based off the death of Hunter S. Thompson. Or just the "counselor" part a

A
short story
by Matthias Alexander Franklyn
      
      
       He was alone. Sitting. Waiting. Wasting. A single motion is all that it would take to end it all. The bullet would go through the muscle tissue then, hopefully, his spine. It would be almost completely painless, if he succeeded that is. He had heard about suicide-via-firearms going awry. He wasn't scared, he knew what he had to do, but he didn’t do it. Not yet, anyways. Instead he sat there, thinking. He thought about his mother, who was dead. To him at least. She had died from a cancerous tumour three years earlier, but she had been gone much longer. She would have been sixty this year. He thought about his earliest memory. A vivid image of his father giving him a good left. His father gave real hard, strong lefts. Not that kind of swing he'd expect from a right-handed pig like his father. He loathed his father. Not only for the beatings, he probably deserved them anyways. He deserved them now, for sure. No, he loathed his father more for the other things. The irreversible things. The things that still haunted him. Such travesties that are punishable by death. Sadly, state-approved euthanasia  is humane and painless. These scum need to rot slowly, with their guts spilling into the streets like Judas' intestines spilling into the fields.
              
       "Let the b******s burn," he thought aloud. Then he thought of her. Her with her perfect eyes. Her with her flowing, shining hair. Then he thought of the things she had down. The unthinkable crimes she had committed. She slept with his friend. No, his brother it had seemed. F*****g w***e, he thought. He was glad it was over, or at least he lied to himself that it wasn't. He wasn't sure whether he still cared for her or not. It wouldn't matter anyways. He knew what he had to do.
      
       He looked at his typewriter. A piece of paper in the ribbon. A single word written on the page: “counselor.” He knew it was spelt wrong. It was all part of the strange game he was playing. He didn't remember writing it there, but he must've. He assumed he had done it subconsciously. He hadn’t been able to actually write anything in weeks. Months even. He had a deadline to make by Thursday and all he had was a single word without meaning. No, it had meaning, he knew that. It meant nothing though. In simplistic terms, his brain had fried and he had written “counselor,” probably due to the fact that everyone was telling him to seek help. He knew he should, especially in the state he was in now, but he knew that some shrink whom he would pay ungodly amounts of money by the hour, confirming his sanity (or lack thereof), would accomplish nothing. He saw nothing left in life. His suicide would be mourned, yes, but he was not sad. Angry, perhaps, but not sad. He had done everything he had wanted to, and he saw no more reason to live. He stared Death in the face, felt it's cold, black breath, and spat in it's face.
      
       The only commitment he had left to this world was a contract saying that he deliver his publisher two more books, with a manuscript (or a rough draft, at least) by next Thursday. As if that would happen... He reached into the upper-left drawer on his writing desk and pulled out a Zippo and his pack of Marlboros. He smiled gleefully for the last time, as his contract went ablaze. He lit his cigarette from the burning mess and took the single, most satisfying drag he had ever had in his entire lifetime. It would be his last. As he sat there, weighing his options, his choices, his thoughts, he was dragged back to reality by the ringing of a telephone.  
      
              The peaceful sounds of Pagani's 5th Caprice echoed throughout the house.
      
       After what seemed like an entirety of the pretentious b*****d on the other line calling, he answered, though quite reluctantly. He regretted answering within the first "Hello". It was him. His ex's lover. No, she had a boyfriend and he a girlfriend. Whatever. They were considered all the same to him. In the end, everyone was. They were all w****s. We're all w****s. Every last one of us. Whether you like it or not. After a dull exchange of words, mostly relating to writing, as his 'friend' considered himself an author, although he had no publisher, agents, nothing, although he certainly had the ego, He decided that he would end it soon. Mid-conversation he got the most creative idea he had in weeks. He mingled over the phone a while longer, trying to figure out the three-way call option on his Nokia. He finished dialling before his so-called friend even asked what was going on.
      
              "Hello?"
      
       Her voice seemed so angelic. It was met with mixed reaction on all parties. Anger. Despair. But mostly confusion. He tried to garner attention but no one would listen. He couldn't understand how these two people, who were at one time best friends and lovers, could argue so much. He knew this was his chance. He cradled his .44 Magnum with a grip so tight that the hip was being dug into his hand, which began to bleed. He began breathing far too heavily. The air seemed thin. The room was getting dark, too dark to see. He was dizzy. He needed them to listen now or he felt his chance would be gone. With his remaining strength, he did what needed to be done.
      
              "For Christ's sake, shut the f**k up!"
      
              He tensed his finger around the trigger. A single motion is all it takes to end it all. Swirling images filled his head. Years of pain crying out in his tears. Memories flashed by in seconds. He slowly increased the clench on his finger. Only a matter of time.
      
              Click.

Author's Note

Eh, kinda bleak, boring, but whatever.

Reviews

[Calypso]

good.