Tired of ceaseless repetition, he thought about putting an end to it. But “how” is the question he had to answer, immediately. Any suggestions? A knife could cut his veins open and bleed to death. Hypovolemic shock! Good idea. But that would take long for him to make a quick escape. What about ropes, chains or wires? A bit complicated but cheap. He can hang himself up with it but would leave an ugly mark on his neck or even bulge his eyeballs out. A silent, bloodless, woundless and decent death, he wishes. Something knife and ropes could never grant.
Comatose overdose, he thought, without the first word. Comatose would mean there’s still hope for him to be brought back to life. Overdose. Certainly. He walked towards the medicine cabinet and searched for the solution he had been dying to get hold of. Benadryl, Aspirin, Coumadin, Erythromycin, Ambroxol. NEGATIVE. Those things wont kill him, exceeding the maximum therapeutic dosage would just cause gastrointestinal upsets, blood dyscrasia, possibly a GI hemorrhage in the future or even coma, but still, that doesn’t add up or even measure up to a drug that can end someone’s life in just a snap. Before everything that he had planned turn into a big letdown, he phoned his former roommate who he expects to be there in a jiffy with the paraphernalia. He bought a bunch to be sure.
Thanks junkie, he owes you his death. He sat on the floor of his pad with legs crossed, tied the tourniquet as tight as possible around his upper right arm and tapped his median cubital vein. Come out come out you precious little shit, he muttered. Then 3 large veins appeared. Cephalic, M.cubital, and Basilic. Bingo. He instantly grabbed the syringe with a large bore needle and injected the dissolved junk on to the site. Aspirate first you moron. And He did. A trace of blood. That’s a good sign. He released the tourniquet, and deposited the solution slowly. Five, four, three, two, one… god it felt great. But OD is what he desires, not the hallucinating effect of the drug. He waited for seconds for it to kick in. Vertigo. Vision blurred. Unsteadiness. Suddenly he fell down. This is what he had been waiting for. In his sight, lights started to flicker, his world began to warp. As he lay perfectly on the floor, enjoying every effect the drug could possibly have and offer, illustrations of him began to interfere; moving and living, like a biography of him made into a low budget movie. Every scene were played in a fast forward manner, but appeared as if in slow motion. TIRING. Everything seemed to be repeating. Morning – bed, shower, coffee, car, road, school. Noon – school, car, road, pad, couch, cigarettes. Night – cigarettes, dinner, cigarettes, book, bed. Repeating in a fast forward manner, muted, with poor lighting effects, bad angles, and low-def resolution. That’s why he did what he just did, so as to escape from monotony, normalcy, and unkindness.
End credits. Darkness. Every bad pixel of that film turned into perfection. Black. Am I dead now? He asked. His head ached like bad case of hemorrhoids. Nauseated, confused, and disoriented, everything went back to normal. His hands, shaking. Shit, I need more, he thought, after realizing that he failed on his very first attempt. On his second try, he injected five shots with fentanyl combined – 3 on left arm and 2 on the other. This time, a different outcome occurred. No Vertigo. No blurring of vision. Neither flashbacks nor hallucinations took place. Everything just started to collapse like a building being demolished, disintegrating second by second, his memory started to deteriorate, hands shaking, and face flushing, tingly, and burning. His chest tightened as if a heavy mass had just been tossed above him. His usual breathing was now labored as if something had just foiled his airway. His eyes, pupils both constricted, displayed such satisfaction regardless of the fact that in just one blink, he’d be dead, gone and soon be forgotten. With a vision that was now dim and mottled, he took one last look around the world that he, from the very beginning, assumed to be imaginary, scripted, and copied – from a terrible novel written by an unknown jaded sadistic friendless pompous control freak heroin addict. Finally, he’s now on the edge of his flight, just waiting for it to take off. If the muscles of his lips hadn’t surrendered, he would have smiled. If his legs hadn’t numbed, he probably would have danced. If his respiratory capacity hadn’t lowered, he would have effortlessly respired for the last time. Because what he did made him proud, happy, and calm for the first time. His body now turned purple, eyes shut dead, unmoving, his breathing stopped. Respiratory arrest. Dead.
After waiting for a total of twenty-some minutes; his ride had finally gone up high. Will it crash down? Nobody knows…