shorty

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


Suicide can be a family thing.

Submitted: December 03, 2017

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Submitted: December 03, 2017

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Honestly, I'm wondering how things fell apart so completely. This was nowhere near the future I had in mind when my elementary school teachers asked. Being a doctor was off the table now. Being too broke to get to collage kinda killed that pipe dream.

Hm, I guess that naive little shit I used to be got lost along the way. Probably still stuck in that first bottle of whiskey dad gave him for his sweet 16 before he was gone for good. Eh fuck him, the man was a piece of shit anyway.

Six years later and here I am in a messy rundown hovel in the middle of back country Iowa. My best friend in the bathroom puking his guts out. The doctors said that his liver will kill him very soon. The case of beer and drugs on the table said that he didn't care. Man wanted to die all his life, just didn't have to balls to do it quicker. Maybe he wanted to know if he would come back to life like his middle name suggested. John Lazarus Riley, 35 years and he was finally getting what he wanted...a slow painful death.

Called me three hours ago to watch him die, said it was his last request. Whatever, life sucks dick and he found his way off this godforsaken merry go round. Lucky bastard.

Now here I am, with the finger on the trigger on a .38 special in case his little plan fails to kill him by sun up. It was his dad's favorite thing in the world. Even right up to when he shoved the thing in his mouth and ate a bullet right in front of a poor little 5 year old Johnny boy. Fuck, if this keeps up dying by this gun might become a family tradition, with little 10 year old Ronnie being next. Little fuck better man up and do it himself. I ain't doing this shit again.

Apparently the gun had a name, Shorty. Eh, not very creative but it works I guess.

Met Mr Riley when I got committed to the Looney Bin by my brother at 18. The same brother would turn around get arrested for arson three years later. The shrinks said something about being hyper detached and numb to the world. Whatever the fuck that means. My whole life has just been one long horrible nightmare anyways. Real, fake, it's all going down sooner or later, caring is just a waste of time.

Why did I agree to do this? If I had to guess, I was bored. Didn't really have anything better to do. That tends to happen when your life is full of people who are a) suicidal b) hate your very existence or c) are just as batshit as you are.

Honestly, being crazy gets boring after a while.

The conflict just goes away after a while. Sober, drunk, tweaked, stoned you're still the same damaged fuckwit every time. Believe me, I'm talking from experience. And when you chose to embrace it people tend to forget to wanna help you. Basically the best way I've found for getting those wannabe saviors off your back is telling them you know you're fucked in the head and love it. An alcoholic who admits it without shame doesn't get people trying clean him up.

Take Johnny boy in the bathroom for an example. Got discharged from the Looney bin after sticking to his guns. Brain pickers kept trying to figure him out for a long ass time. Never sad, nothing could insult or rile up the bastard. -Call his dad a coward for blowing his head off? "Eh, possible...didn't really know what was going on up there." -Try to get him to better himself by talking about his old lady or little Ronnie? "Kids grow up without dads all the time, don't make him special." -Wanna try talking about life? "We live, we die, there's not much to it."

The man has been preparing his family for years. No sugarcoat for the small one's pill of "daddy's gonna kill himself." Nope, fucker gave his son the full rundown of what was up. Even explained what death really meant and the fact that everyone does it. Kid was pretty okay with it and stuff. I doubt he's ever gonna fear death. Might come across as an asshole to normal suicidal people though.

Honest to whoever you pray to, the man never got down. Hell, the only reason he's been wanting this was some kind of need to know. Said something about not understanding death until you're dead.

He just blew all his personal money and took aim at his liver. This is day four apparently.

Even with as shitty and painful he looked, dude was still laughing at the TV when I showed up. I think he might be past the point of actually feeling the pain... Now that's more commitment than most marriages. The sweat shining off him and the pale greenish color of his skin probably weren't normal....and he was smiling away like he didn't have a care in the world.

Half an hour to midnight, fuck this is taking too long. I'm tempted to just take shorty here and pump his brain but he specifically said at sunrise. Being a man of my word is one of the few principles I got left.

Well, it's a good thing he bought party favors or this'd be the most boring thing ever. I think I'll take a beer. The drugs will have to wait till after he has a hole in his head or dead on the floor.

Just let me say this: I fuck'n hate life... I just hate it.

I mean, we're forced to participate in a game of breeding while our brain tricks us into thinking we matter. We don't.

Yeah, I grew up with a drunk dad but he wasn't that bad. Mostly he was affectionate but stern. Man use to be a drill sergeant so I understood that was his way, distance and discipline. He wanted you to be the best and that was the only way he knew how...taking little shits and turning them into men. He subscribed to the philosophy that if you're old enough to shoot you're old enough to drink. Then he got killed by one of his privates... Only thing he left me was that whiskey. I still haven't opened it... I save it for when I find that fuck'n coward and kill him with my own two hands.

It's the only thing I feel about. I hate and love the man. Fuck him, and fuck the kid who killed him.

Oh fuck, it's time.

Is it loaded, yup.

There's the bathroom doors... Piece of shit can't lock.

Mr.Riley has a serene look. He should as he told to to do this.

Last words: "Please give my son his birthright. Give him that gun. Shorty has to stay in the family. Please?"

"Sure."

His brains are now in the toilet.

Lucky fucker.


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