A thought blooms in Gunner’s head as he awakens: Today’s as good a day as any. It comforts him to know that. There’s nothing for him anymore and he’s okay with that. Whether he decides to do it today, who knows? What matters are the loose ends all neatly tied off. Finally, his life is his own. Maybe that would be enough?
He begins the day with vigor normally absent. That feeling carries him only so far. Soon the monotony of routine sets in, as it always does. Perhaps this is the last straw, he thinks. Why should I continue to put up with it?
Gunner wonders why he’s like this. He distills it down to his vapid and inconsequential obsessions that have only encouraged habits of similar variety. He wonders what used to make him happy? When he recalls he can only scoff, as those same things are now looked at with disdain and embarrassment.
Gunner just needs to decide how he’s going to kill himself. What’s ultimately become his last — and by definition most important — decision will define his life as much as his death, if not more so. He paces the floor frantically for hours, on the verge of tears as he dismantles every forced idea he can conjure.
Perhaps I should overdose? His mind already works out multiple scenarios as the question is posited.
What would he do? Coke? Meth? Heroin? He knows not a single junkie nor bum nor dealer, not any unseemly type. How could he even procure it? What if he chances upon a police officer? Possibly undercover, or maybe he’s been watching a particular corner the whole time? And now is the time to strike, when he’s selling to that meager but slightly more advantaged Caucasian twentysomething who might know the supplier and would most assuredly roll over easier than a hardened narcotics peddler—oh shit, Gunner thinks, what if I go to jail before I can kill myself? What if I become somebody’s bitch? What of my anal virginity? They’ll give me life! My butthole’s not made for hard time. It must stay intact. No, no heroin, Gunner decides and continues pacing.
2/12/14 weds. Cult of Comet.