I wrote the first 3 pieces ages ago but I'm finally getting around to writing this again.
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: I need to know right now
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: that this is real
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: like 100%
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: It doesn’t seem real
Destiny.Destroy: it is
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: Okay are there like a hotel around where you live
Destiny.Destroy: you can just stay at my place
Destiny.Destroy: my parents will be out of town and my brother wont care
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: Man are you sure
Destiny.Destroy: just chill out
Destiny.Destroy: its a big deal to me too but you dont see me freaking out
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: I’m not freaking out
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: I’m freaking out a little bit
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: FUCK IM FREAKING OUT MAN
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: Should we talk about
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: you know
Massive_Damage_Rodriguez: Uh okay.
If you gave me two hours I could think of a hundred ways to kill myself. Anyone could think of the obvious things: wrist cutting, head shooting, traffic hurling. But how about tipping a vending machine over on yourself so people think you died trying to get snacks. You could just eat a shitload of raw chicken, or even fried chicken if you were patient. You could go to the gym and use the bench press to kill yourself. Just put on more weight than you can lift and let the bar drop on your neck. If you wanted to remove your head entirely, you could get some steel rope. Tie one end to a fence and the other around your neck. Then you could get into your car and speed off.
If you gave me two hours and a plane ride to a place I’ve never been before, I could smile politely and pretend to listen to the lady next to me. I could tell you about this girl I like — the reason I’m still alive. I could tell you about how nervous it is flying to the house of somebody whom you’ve never met in person, and maybe they’re a serial killer. Maybe you want them to be a serial killer because you want to be serial killed. But probably you’re just an idiot in love.
Love, at least to me, was much different than it how I thought it would be based on movies and songs. Love songs leave out the arguments, and the intense awkwardness of not knowing what you can get away with saying. They don’t really mention the period after an argument when you don’t know if you’re even in a relationship anymore, or the parts where you simply avoid your partner just because you feel like it. If you gave me two hours I could write a song about all this shit.
Most importantly, though, with two hours you could fly from the bottom half of the country to the top half.
Before the taxi could even make it to Camille’s house, we had to stop.
“Road obstruction,” said the driver. “Can’t go any farther.”
The road was blocked by cop cars and people surrounding what looked like a crime scene. I stepped out of the taxi towards the murmuring crowd to see people with their hands covering their mouths, mothers covering the eyes of their children, and teenagers laughing like fucking idiots. I figured it must be a good one.
In order to satisfy my morbid curiosity, I pushed my way through the crowd and craned my neck towards a concentration of police officers. It took me to a while to find what I was looking for. I only needed to look up. Dangling from the tree in front of a nice little house I could see a man with a rope around his neck. He swayed calmly back and forth, before a firemen managed to get him down.
“Why would he do such a thing?” asked somebody in the crowd.
“How could nobody notice?” asked another.
An unidentified man had apparently hung himself in front of his house without anyone being there to see or stop him. He looked like a typical salary man in slacks and a button-up, but where his tie should be was a vicious rope burn. There was a minivan in the drive way, and a satellite dish on the roof. I ran scenarios through my head so that I could decide why he had killed himself. His wife could have cheated on him, but that’s way too obvious. Maybe he was having an affair, and ended up being blackmailed over it.
After the initial gasps and screams, the police came by to urge everyone to leave and I took the opportunity, maybe inappropriately, to ask him where I could find Camille’s address.
He gave me a look like I was crazy and said, “Kid, it’s right in front of you.”