I cannot fucking wait to get home. Sitting for five hours in a car is not my favorite thing to do. I should have planned to drive early in the morning instead of the afternoon. But then again, who wakes up early after carrying your dead father to be buried formally the night before? Dad was a decent man.Always sitting in his chair, thinking about the meaning of life. And it must have rubbed off on me because every now and then I find myself sitting in a chair with a glass of half-assed whiskey that I felt so proud of aging it one month and a cheap, slightly bent cigarette hanging from the corner of my mouth,wondering about why I’m here—what my purpose of this world is.

Aristotle says that we are born with a “blank slate” of thought—this later became known as tabula rasa. We do not enter this world with built in conceptualized mental representations of what the world is, no. I mean, we are born into a world the has already built concepts of what the world is, yes, but we don’t know that yet right after getting pulled out of your little bubble by a strange being. I mean when you think about it, it is really Hello, little one. Welcome to life where you will die.

Driving though the highway at night is never the best time to drive. My high beams are out and my headlights look like as if someone pissed on them and the stains acted like paint, and not the easy wash off kind either. My two-hundred bed sheet thread count never sounded so soft. I smell something—it smells like something is burning, but I don’t see any fire and it is too dark to see any smoke beyond the hills that this highway is laid out on. The smell is getting stronger and I am getting nervous. As the smell gets stronger and stronger, I begin to make out the outlines of a smoke cloud rising to the black sky some miles down.

I begin to wonder of what it could be. A group of kids starting fires? Why would they be out here at this time of the night? Or worse yet, a vehicle accident.Anything is possible at this point. All I know is that whatever it may be, it cannot be good.

There it is—a red-orange coloration that is beginning to look like fire the closer I get. I can now make out everything. There has been a wreck. One car is on fire but not flipped or anything and the other is totaled from the front with the driver still inside, unconscious with his head resting on the horn of the steering wheel. I park my car next to the other vehicles that arrived before I did and rush to the scene where I see a man on fire.

“AHHH! AH! AHHH! AHH!!!HELP ME! PLEA-AHHH!”

The man is covered in flames. How can he even articulate any sounds, let alone meaningful ones—I don’t know what to fucking do. Some people are running to find any container of water or an emergency fire blanket from any of the drivers who stopped. A couple try to urge everyone to gather dirt from the side of the roads to try to put out the fire that has engulfed the man. I run towards them to help but not enough people were volunteering. Most stand as still as a male deer as hunters rustle by with caution and watch the man dance in the fire screaming for human aid. He is beyond any aid, honestly. No one can put out the fire. The bones begin to peek through the melting skin. The screams drift away into the space until all I can hear is the fire singing in the soft wind. The man falls to the ground like a rag-doll as if his god is done playing with him. Already his body is completely unrecognizable. He doesn’t look human at all.

Now I’m not religious, but for the sake of this thought, let’s say there truly is a god who created everything in the universe, which of course includes us. Isn’t that a bit selfish, no? A god who gives life only for us to spend our days trying to figure out what we’re even doing, then die and go to heaven or some similar concept of heaven where supposedly God is? Why not skip the life part and go straight to heaven?

People began to walk towards the other car with the driver still stuck inside. I join in to help drag the driver out due to the doors being bent in a way that does not allow us to open them. We see beer cans scattered in the vehicle, and they smell freshly opened, too.

“This motherfucker killed that man!” a bystander says. “He doesn’t deserve to be pulled out!”

Everyone began murmuring and yelling. A woman with a green blouse and a child in her hands cries along with the baby. An older man is trying to gather younger and fitter men to help him get the drunk driver out but they refuse. “Has someone called the police?”

“Yes, I did call the police minutes ago. They should be here any moment” says another.

I look back at the burnt body. Others have gathered dirt to dump on the remaining flames that still inhabit the man.

“Someone make sure the license plate is not burnt!”

I leave the drunk driver and head towards the burning vehicle. The front license plate is ruined. I go around to the back and it is still readable but I must hurry before it isn’t. I take my jacket off and pat down the flames that cover the license plate. Another person joins me and uses their sweater to help pull the plate off.

“Thank you for helping me.”

“Don’t worry about it.On three—one, two, three!”

The license plate pulls off and is saved from the unforgiving flames. The police, ambulance, and firetruck arrive. We hand over the license plate for the police to identify the man, for his wallet must have burnt out along with his body. The drunk driver is set onto the stretcher and taken away. The remaining flames are put out with little effort by a couple of firemen. I walk back to my car to sit down. I cannot get the image of the burning man out of my head. His screams echo through the back of my mind. It is these moments that we realize how fragile our lives are. We do not consciously think about it every day. Life is like tight threads of silk,prosperity, and shit. If a single thread is bent too much, it snaps. All the other threads that make up the universe carry on and try to keep everything together without bending too much. I start my car and make my way through the aftermath then onward home.

I lay in bed with my eyes wide open. I have lost my appetite for sleep. I’ve never seen any death like that, and that is because I served two tours in Afghanistan. I’ve seen men get decapitated by bullets and internal organs spilling out of the abdomen. I get up to go for a glass of water. I stand above the island with my elbows resting on the surface and my hands covering my forehead. I walk over to the television and put on the local news.

“Police reports have stated that a 32 year old father and husband, Gregory Latker, was killed in a horrible accident earlier tonight. Latker was coming home after filling up containers with gasoline and a drunk driver lost control and hit Latker head on. The drunk driver is under critical condition and—”

That is no way to leave this world. Now I’m not one to rely on the local news but I applaud them for reporting this event the right way. I hope the drunk driver fucking dies, but it would be wrong to name him and have the hospital flooded with people who seek vengeance of Latker’s death while the doctors and nurses are just doing their job.

“—once determined,police will escort drunk driver in to the station. This is Sheryl Gregory from News Channel 41 signing off. Goodnight.”

It is too early and I am dragging myself to the bus stop. I stop at my favorite coffee shop on the way to work. For some reason it is a busy morning. I am the seventh person in line. As I stand in line I can hear the person in front thinking out loud what kind of goddamned coffee she wanted.

“I want a…uhh…well no,no…cappuccino or maybe a frappe..ehh…ah—”

I mean fucking hell, she had all the time to think about what she wanted and still nothing once it was her turn. I’m already late for work and I do not have time for this. Then I remember how much I hate the coffee at work. It is just downright terrible. It’s like if someone took a shit, took the time to make little coffee bean shaped shit as if he does this regularly honing his craft,and had the audacity to replace actual coffee beans with their shit pseudo coffee beans. I wish I was exaggerating.

After twelve fucking minutes it was finally my time to order. Twelve minutes. For coffee. The Italians just had to make all these names up. I could have gone to the bathroom, set toilet paper nicely on the toilet seat, sat down and got comfy, take a shit and while doing so, complete today’s crossword puzzle, then wash my hands like a germaphobe, and finally walk like a have polio back inline and still make it before the person in front of me orders. Fucking hell.

“Medium,black, leave no room for cream” I say.

I want to turn around and taunt the woman couldn’t make up her mind, but suddenly I am relaxed by the aroma of the beautiful coffee that sits in front of me. This is the first time I felt calm today. I don’t know how long I stand in silence, appreciating coffee and whoever discovered coffee, but a man shouts “HURRY THE FUCK UP!” I take out my wallet and pay with change as quickly as possible. I grab my coffee and immediately feel a hot sting on my wrist, like someone branded me. Now I feel liquid running down my arm. The fucking barista decided to leave no room for the lid.He did not even put the plug into the sip hole—that little shit.

I make my way to the area with paper towels and cream and all that. I grab way too many paper towels to dry off my wrist. Why can’t I have a decent morning? I finish and I look up and there stands a mirror.

I see him. The man that died. It is happening so fast. I can’t move. I look at him directly in the eyes. He has eyes like mine. Dark grey eyes that scream if you pay close attention. They are so still. His nose is bent like mine, a little to the left. The skin is black as tar and crisp, crumbling at every facial movement. I see the silent agony just asking for answers after seeing and experiencing things that left him speechless. And his face, I know I have seen it before. There is no expression at all. Just a blank face lost in the world with no other soul to comfort the poor face. I arrive to work twenty-seven minutes late. My boss is furious. I try explaining why I am late but he won’t have it. “Just get to work.”

I go straight my cubicle, or jail-cell, whichever is more coherent than the other. I begin sorting documents. All these papers. One of them reads “If said agreement pertaining to this disclosure, whereas it is true that said holder breaks the listed rules, then the opposing party may receive full credit of which they invested.” Agreements. Is that all we do? Agree and disagree everyday of our lives? What is considered the grey area in this situation? Sure, you can somewhat agree with someone while somewhat disagreeing with said someone,but I just think that is bullshit. If someone does exactly that, I immediately assume that they don’t know. Maybe they’re scared of expressing their true opinion.

I close my eyes to rub them. I recently found out that when we’re tired, our eyes are dry—and rubbing them stimulates the lacrimal glands to produce fluids which allows our eyes to stay open so that we can function. I did not know that until a few days ago. Google can be a nice place to kill time. I look around to reach for my coffee. I realize that the only coffee I have on is on my shoes and my cup is probably still sitting at the coffee shop. And I was not really wanting to lick my shoes. I sat up and lifted myself off the chair. I somehow managed to make it to the coffee station without stumbling over the flat floor. The aroma was so foul I made a face in disgust. I think I might have groaned a little. I poured in only half of the small Styrofoam cup and the other half with some knock-off brand of Half & Half. I took a rather larger sip than I meant to. Note that this coffee just finished brewing and for some reason it gets so hot that int he winter we don’t even need the heater.

“FUCK!”

I spit the coffee out, but not back into the cup, but on my chest. I run to the bathroom and cool off and clean up. One of my co-worker, Chris, is using the urinal. I walk over to the urinal on the far end from Chris.

“Man I’ve got this huge hangover!”

What am I supposed to say to that? There is no fucking talking between two men who are taking a piss. I stand here, excreting fluids,in silence.

“So how was your weekend, man?”

“Okay.”

I can’t piss any faster.

I finish up and walk over to the sink. I turn on the water and stick my hand under the soap dispenser.

“Hey man, I’m sorry about your father. I know it must be hard.”

“It is nothing.”

Dad lived his life. I am not going to mourn someone who died doing what he loved after a full life, or at least a full average life. I always wondered why it is a social norm around here to say I’m sorry for your loss to someone. It’s not wrong to feel bad but what good will those words do? I don’t see any cases in which the deceased is brought back to life. The norms can be a weird thing. I suppose it makes everyone feel human.

“I guess God needed another angel” he said.

Now I’m not trying to attack his religion. I respect all religions. I enjoy understanding their complex systems which frankly I believe to be a bit unnecessary. But who is he telling me God killed my fucking father just to add another angel in his ranks? Is that what he says to mothers who had miscarriages?Oh I’m so sorry. God wanted you to have a miscarriage so he can take your son and make him an angel. I know not all religious individuals believe this. But Chris is fucked up. But I don’t care. I’ll relax at the park. I just need some time for myself to get through this week. I grab my keys and power walk my way to my car. The park helps me get my mind off of things. The mind can destroy a man with simple representations of the physical and metaphysical world—I should know.

I take a seat next to a young woman on the bench. She’s sitting on my favorite bench. It sits right on top of a small hill, overlooking the clear pond surrounded by a field of green with occasional, sturdy trees scattered throughout. The sun is beginning to fall and I cannot describe a better sight than this.

“Hello, how are you today?” she interrupts.

“I am well, thank you”I mumble.

“Nice weather out.”

“Yes,” I smiled.

She has a navy blue blouse with red flats. She carries George Orwell’s 1984. She’s in for a hell of a read. “Good book you have there,” I say.

I don’t know why I even said anything. I came here to sit here in silence, not for fucking small talk. I hate small talk. They’re lazy and meaningless. Maybe it was her green eyes that I seem to have lost myself in. Or her dark, silk,brown hair that sits upon her shoulders with smooth waves. Or even her blouse that compliments her cleavage. I won’t lie, she is attractive. I can’t remember the last time I had a decent conversation with a beautiful young woman.

“Oh yes, I have read it many times!”

“Ah, so you have.”

I don’t know where to go from here.

“Say, what do you think we are doing here?” I ask.

“Well based on my recent experience, it appears we’re talking.”

Oh, she’s good.

“No, what do you think our purpose is in life?”

“To live, I guess” she says with a smile.

“Well of course, but surely you must have thought deeper about this.”

“Gun to my head, I say that our purpose is to exist as an extension of the universe, expressing itself. We express it with life, death, art, sounds, moving, talking,fucking—you name it.”

“Yeah, I won’t argue against you. But what exactly influenced you to say that?”

“How do you mean?” She asks.

“Those words that conceptualize their meanings didn’t appear from nowhere. Your experience allows you to perceive that our agenda is to fuck, among other things, thus expressing the universe as humans. So, how can you really be so sure that your interpretations of your experience is true?”

“How can you be so sure that it is false?”

“I’m not saying your interpretations are false. My point is, or at least my extended point of Aristotle’s point is, we’re born with a blank sheet of paper of our own to write in. The illusion is that we’re limited to the papers that have been written in by others before us. And yes, there are quite a lot of papers, but there is still a limit. So how can we really break free and conceptualize the universe into something that is so radical that we break down because we can’t understand what this is all for?”

She sits in silence, looking at me as if I am naked. I look into her eyes as her face omits the space between hers and mine. Then I see the burning man. I hear him screaming. I remember the words father and husband coming out of the reporter’s mouth. What is the meaning of his life being taken away from his family like that? His family didn’t do anything to deserve this fate, as far as I’m concerned. I stop her.

“I’m sorry. I may be fucking this up, but I have to. I am not right with myself. I am not right to this world.”

“Shut up” she says.“You are right to everything.”

“I need to leave, okay?I can’t be here. Anywhere. I can’t.”

I get up and walk away from the bench. Leaving the woman behind. I refrain from turning my head for one last look of a beautiful young woman.

I get into my car and drive off. An evening of silence turned into an evening of second thoughts. I now realize that it is time for me to part from this reality. I am ready to die.

I arrive home and enter my house. Some people call it cowardice or selfishness. It is like the young woman said, we may as well be an extension of the universe expressing itself and one way to do that is by dying. It doesn’t matter how you die. Dying is dying. There are no other end results—the goal is the same regardless of the cause. And who are they all to judge the act of killing oneself? No one knows what it is like. No one truly understands what others are going through. And if they did, well then we’d have public suicide services.

Yes,those close to those who kill themselves are hurt. But it isn’t about the ones around them, no. It is about an independent choice. No one else can decide what I can and cannot do with my body. I am its host. I decide what I do to it. And this brings up a common misconception about suicides. It is about ending your consciousness and body functions. That is it. There is nothing else to it.

I work my way to the closet and bring out the equipment. One military grade gas mask, and one small tank of carbon monoxide. I took them from headquarters while stationed abroad. I have put this off for too long now. I put them upon my bed and clean up the house to tidy it up a bit. A few dishes need to be washed. I forgot to fill the pan with water so the thick grease can dissolve.

“Goddamnit.” This is a pain in the ass to clean. I scrub as hard as I can.

I finish the dishes and start the shower. I would like to smell nice for the police. That sounded weird. I’m sure it is a pain in the ass to clean dead people so I will do the work for them. I step into the shower as it begins to warm up and get to work. It feels pretty good for my last shower. I get out and dry myself. I pull out a t-shirt. I also pull out a fresh pair of boxers as well as some shorts—something comfortable. I really hope I don’t shit or piss myself after I’m long from this world. It is then that taking a shower will have been pointless.

Normally,people write out notes. Well, my note is the beautiful young woman from the park. And with that note she possesses, I know I have made my mark in this world. Even before meeting her. I’d say that I have contributed all that is necessary. And I am content.

I walk over to my record player and sift through my records. I pull out Mozart’s Requiem in D minor. Seems fitting and it is a hell of a score. I carefully set the record in place and bring the needle over with caution and set it on the record. It begins playing and I smile for nothing can possibly make me this happy. Mozart orchestrating my own peaceful death—I’ll make sure to thank him in the afterlife, if there is one.

I realize I need to put a sign on my door saying there is carbon monoxide. I would hate for others to get hurt upon my discovery. I get a sheet of paper from my notebook and a sharpie. Danger,carbon monoxide inside. Proceed with caution. That should do it. I get some duct tape and tape the paper right on the front of my door. I see my neighbor walking his corgi.

“Hello, neighbor!” he says.

“Hey Seth, how’s it going?”

“Oh you know, it’s going. Beautiful night out isn’t it?”

“Yes, it really is.” I say.

“Well you have a goodnight. See you around.”

“Likewise, Seth. Goodnight.”

I walk back inside. What a nice guy. I make my way back to my room to return to Mozart’s masterpiece. I walk over to my bed and put the mask on, connect the tube to the carbon monoxide tank, and lie down on the bed with the tank besides me. I twist the valve and take in deep breathes.

“Here’s to life and death and whatever comes afterw—“

Hello reader, I really do hope you enjoyed this piece! I welcome any feedback--I can take a punch or two.

If you or anyone you know is contemplating suicide, call this number:

1 (800) 273-8255 National Suicide Prevention Lifeline Hours: 24 hours, 7 days a week

I am here to talk to as well. It is never worth ending your life.