Author’s Note: this is a sequel to another story. You can read the first part here.
The door slams behind me. I feel like puking.
What the hell just happened?
I don’t know. I’d hate to be there when it hits.
The way I see it, I have three options: check myself into the nearest mental hospital and get myself diagnosed with something that roughly translates, in layman’s terms, to batshit crazy, the nearest liquor store and get batshit drunk, or to the nearest police station and get myself in deep batshit. I don’t like any of them.
I start walking down the stairs. I can’t loiter in front of his apartment, I have to keep moving. The world bounces around me, tearing my thought to shreds: a taxi veers in front of another car, honking and a bicyclist screams obscenities and cars screech on their brakes and there’s a siren coming in from the street over and a homeless man murmuring to himself and drinking a bottle out of a paper bag. I can’t focus, and I know I’m missing big chunks of whatever plan I’m forming.
I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have anything to do, unless I want to try and fix whatever the hell I’ve done even though I should know that death is irreversible and based on what I saw that night—was it really last night? oh god—he was good and dead. You don’t detach somebody’s hands and feet and head without them dying.
Death is irreversible.
That’s going to take a while to sink in.
I continue walking. And I continue forming my plan. And I’m thinking: this is a good solution. Even though, if I was completely honest, it’s a crappy solution and really quite half-assed after everything Paul and I did. If there’s a god out there, I hope I’m not too late. Kinda funny though, a hitman is named after one of Jesus’s disciples.
I wonder if satan has disciples.
The bridge is not too far away. A twenty minute walk on a crowded day, and it’s not. Ten at night is not a crowded time of the day. I wonder if I’m willing to go through—doesn’t everybody say that every single goddamned problem is fixable the second they step off the goddamned bridge? But they don’t have images of their friend crouching over a still-moving body of a guy, hearing him scream as his hands are removed and the skin of his face torn off.
Paul used his bare hands. I didn’t know you could tear skin with your bare hands.
Today on the list of things I don’t want want to know anymore.
I climb over the railing of the bridge, wondering just how empty you have to feel before the world turns white. Very empty. I feel like a black hole and the world’s still taking the time and effort to exist around me. Why bother?
Something about physics, Paul would say.
The cars rushing below me are going pretty damn fast. I’m not sure it will work, but sure enough I think I can try. That I will.
So I whisper a prayer: dear god, if you exist, please save me.
Then I let go: