There is something I find extremely peaceful about sitting alone at the bar with an ice-cold beer by my side. After a certain period of time, my thoughts begin to flow in sync with the air bubbles slowing making their way to the surface of the amber liquid in front of me. As the head of my beer disappears, my deepest thoughts make themselves known. My feeble attempts to ignore them consist of eavesdropping on the couple arguing at the other end of the bar while fixating my eyes toward the big screen in the corner.
My fingers leave their unique pattern on the glass as I slowly take another sip. Still cold. I shiver as the drink makes its way down and lean back peacefully as the warmth of a nice buzz takes over that initial chill. Blue Moon number three.
After this one, I should probably head home.
My hands ignore my head as they reach for another sip of beer and a napkin. They proceed to rebel against my mind as they snag a pen from the bartender. With the small utensil raised, and now landing onto the pure, white victim, it’s black ink seeps through, seeming to poison the thin cloth as it expands with every stroke. Like clockwork, my peaceful thoughts begin to darken, mimicking the ink bleeding onto the paper. The napkin becomes covered with the deepest secrets my mind trusted my body to protect. Betrayal in its simplest form; this is my story.
Death has always intrigued me. I was painting my nails this afternoon. Black of course. As the opaque liquid strokes concealed my yellowing nails, my mind began to drift back to its most recent obsession- death. Suicide to be exact.
A Coheed and Cambria song began playing in the background, and like most songs, this one brought me back to a certain place from four years ago. It was when I recently found out an acquaintance from high school passed away. I guess that is the polite way of saying it these days. I was riding a train on my way back to Germany from a weekend in Venice, Italy. I cannot remember the song, all I remember are the mountains flashing past as I looked out the window trying not to cry. Inevitably, a few tears began rolling down my right cheek closer to the window. Quickly brushing my hands through my long, dark hair, I recovered the droplets before anyone had a chance to notice them.
She passed last week. That was the email I received from an old friend back in the states.
Passing on. On to where? In reality, she died. God for some reason, chose to take her life away. Her name was Beth. She was a good person. She enjoyed riding her motorcycle with all her white, red neck, sexy ass guy friends. They were all “too cool” for helmets. Just like the Beth I knew in high school, she stuck to her guns and wore a helmet every time she went out riding.
I am sure that five minutes before she died, she was riding on the highway at an exhilarating, yet safe acceleration with her smile growing wider at every mile marker she left behind. Cars passing by probably saw her as the alluring mysterious woman with the kick ass all black helmet. I guarantee she had pink detailing on the side too.
Feeling the wind creep up her helmet, Beth began reflecting on whatever biker chicks reflect on while they ride. Sunsets. Men. God. Who knows. Or maybe she was just spacing out. Thinking about nothing in particular until an obnoxious car horn rudely interrupted her thoughts. Before she had a chance to look to her side and realize what was— SCREEEECH! …
“Beth!!! Beth, why aren’t you screaming? Are you hurt?”
They run closer. Then, like the others, they stop in their tracks. For some, it takes the sight of a lifeless body for the state of shock to settle in.
Like that, Beth’s story was over before it ever really began.
Yet here I am. Drinking alone, writing, and now contemplating how I want to end my life and if I have the balls to do it.
Can I just plead insanity and be done with it already?