Kill Me Dead: A Memoir

Kill Me Dead: A Memoir

Status: Finished

Genre: Memoir

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Memoir

Summary

Unearthed from her diary, Kill Me Dead reveals an intimate perspective of UK Dorsey’s breaking point, living as an ESL teacher and plotting her own death on the mysterious, distant island of Japan. Suicidal thoughts gnaw at the fabric of her life, attempting to shred it to pieces. She planned to spend her last days on earth with strangers. She would die of starvation and loneliness. She would leave behind pages full of bitter words. On her journey to salvation, she is harassed by a five-year-old Japanese girl, sleeps on the streets of Tokyo, soaks naked in an onsen with strangers, and rides in a seductive taxi. Combining humor and anguish, UK speaks to those who contemplate suicide. She urges one to appreciate the simple things in life.

Summary

Unearthed from her diary, Kill Me Dead reveals an intimate perspective of UK Dorsey’s breaking point, living as an ESL teacher and plotting her own death on the mysterious, distant island of Japan. Suicidal thoughts gnaw at the fabric of her life, attempting to shred it to pieces. She planned to spend her last days on earth with strangers. She would die of starvation and loneliness. She would leave behind pages full of bitter words.

On her journey to salvation, she is harassed by a five-year-old Japanese girl, sleeps on the streets of Tokyo, soaks naked in an onsen with strangers, and rides in a seductive taxi. Combining humor and anguish, UK speaks to those who contemplate suicide. She urges one to appreciate the simple things in life.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Kill Me Dead: A Memoir

Author Chapter Note

Unearthed from her diary, Kill Me Dead reveals an intimate perspective of UK Dorsey’s breaking point, living as an ESL teacher and plotting her own death on the mysterious, distant island of Japan. Suicidal thoughts gnaw at the fabric of her life, attempting to shred it to pieces. She planned to spend her last days on earth with strangers. She would die of starvation and loneliness. She would leave behind pages full of bitter words. <br /> <br /> On her journey to salvation, she is harassed by a five-year-old Japanese girl, sleeps on the streets of Tokyo, soaks naked in an onsen with strangers, and rides in a seductive taxi. Combining humor and anguish, UK speaks to those who contemplate suicide. She urges one to appreciate the simple things in life.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: January 29, 2011

Reads: 819

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: January 29, 2011

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Intelligent. Top graduate. Unmarried. No children. Homebuyer. Occasional drinker. Drug-free. Non-smoker. What a perfect description for a singles advertisement!  

I started living the American Dream as a full-time news writer for ABC News Bureau two months before graduating from Clark Atlanta University. I sat in the corner of a small room, facing a huge window and typing on a keyboard as fast as I could to complete my writing assignments. As I typed, I could hear voices and sirens emanating from various monitors mixed with my co-workers chatting about their personal lives. As a rookie, I was often distracted. My biggest blunder occurred when I wrote: Earnest Hemingway will celebrate his 100th birthday with fans. Moments after I clicked the mouse to submit the story to the headquarters in New York, I remembered that Hemingway, one of my favorite authors, had died. I frantically called the bureau, and one of the writers had tweaked the story for me. Whew! How embarrassing it would have been for a reporter to highlight the story. I imagined the headline: Hemingway Still Leading the Way at 100 Years Young. Immediately, I would have been stripped of my writing privileges.


After earning my bachelor’s degree in mass media arts (radio, television, film) in 1999, I was promoted to producer and editor. I arranged newsworthy stories according to their importance, and edited raw footage and sports highlights. Mostly, grisly deaths topped my list. Mutilations. Burned bodies. I remember a mother frying her newborn in a microwave. I don’t recall what happened to the mother.


A few years later, my hours were reduced to eight hours a week. I resigned, seemingly scrapping for pennies. I applied for several positions in the media industry. Employers responded with rejection letters. To sugarcoat the denial, one company wrote: We will keep your resume on file for a year and will contact you in the event that an opportunity arises. I thought: Bullshit! The infamous rejection: Another candidate's qualifications more closely match our requirements.


I started Imavio Studios, a believable media production company that attracted all the wrong clients: those who did not want to pay, those who were never satisfied no matter what I produced for them, and those who wanted sexual favors before business started. I spent sleepless nights, designing business cards and laminating them to give a glossy appearance. I shot stills of families, praying that the sunlight would enhance the resolution.  


Possibly, I could have dabbed into a more promising profession. I wanted to be a stripper, but I could barely walk in half-inch heels. Sorry to say, I paid a plastic surgeon to chop off my moneymakers. Yes! Real, gargantuan boobs. I stopped calculating after they expanded to a triple D. Everyone confessed to me that people would die to have breast my size and one day I would regret it.


I inquired, “Should I get implants now, buy the tallest, sexiest pair of stilettos, and practice pole dancing?” Even when I imagined swinging on tall, iron poles I grew dizzy. My stripper fantasy quickly ceased.

I witnessed drug dealers with loads of money, but I always believed if I sold drugs I would be tempted to use them and if I used them I would die on the spot. An instant death would not be cool, especially if I never got a second to feel high, to feel a moment of sheer ecstasy.


I considered going back to school to become a mortician. At that moment, I thought about the night an ex-boyfriend, who was a meticulous undertaker, sneaked me into an embalming room. My lips shivered and I could see my breath forming tiny clouds. A strange smell floated in the air. I stood two inches away from a dead body lying on a cold metal table. The corpse looked peaceful, as if it was sleeping. Rigor mortis had not set in and I guessed it exhaled for the last damn time. I ran out of the room and never looked back.


I was stuck inside of a body screaming for answers to absurd questions. Who the hell am I? What is my mission on earth? Am I just a selfish human being going through life wanting more than I need? I love simplicity, but nothing was simple to me. My most enjoyable feeling, not counting secretly masturbating, was transforming to a state of tranquility when I stared at an aquarium full of tropical fish. I became motionless and somehow sucked into the glass box as I swam among the creatures and ate tiny particles of food.


Rumors spread about me being crazy and having everything anyone would ever dream of obtaining. That’s it: I WAS CRAZY!


America is labeled as the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave; I, too, am an American. Nevertheless, I did not feel free or brave. Yet, I was trapped and scared. Though we, as Americans, have so many privileges, why are our educational and family values diminishing? Why do we treasure neatly cut pieces of paper with the faces of presidents plastered on one side more than we appreciate our own lives? Why do we commit the most heinous crimes for the possession of the mighty dollar? Have we been tainted by the concept that money is powerful?


Admittedly, I have accomplished a lot in my premature life, but I was still unhappy. Annoyed! One of my frustrations stemmed from men. The married men just wanted to fuck me and call me their mistress. The single men just wanted to fuck me and call me their bitch. The gay men just wanted me to fuck them and call them a bitch. I was lost. Confused! I screamed for sanity. I begged for closure. Everything I did was to please others. And I have been pleasing others for years.


Often, I reflect on the day my virginity was stolen. The Thief must have started when I was merely six. He babysat my cousins and me and played games—games in the dark, games that involved touching. When I was twelve years old, He sodomized me.  I was lying on the bed when He entered. He didn’t say anything. He removed my clothing. I prayed that the fondling would only last a few minutes. I felt pink hair gel, used as a lubricant, inside of me. I smelled a sweet berry scent. I heard the panting of dogs and wolves, though human in nature. My lips formed the words, “no, please stop, it hurts.”


I want the awful memories to evaporate. Shock therapy, perhaps? Yet, I must live with the fact that these memories will be carved in my brain forever. I forgave Him in my mind, though I never confronted Him.


By the age of 21, I’d slept with numerous men—mostly unprotected with more than half of my sexual experiences being one-night stands. After the encounters, I’d feel sleazy and guilty; I’d violently scrub my body (which began to look and feel different). A few years later, I was diagnosed with PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome), causing infrequent menstrual cycles, increased body hair, and an enlarged clitoris. My diagnosis had nothing to do with my promiscuity; I thanked God that I had not contracted a deadly disease or become pregnant.


I had temptations of wanting to go to the other place. Some refer to it as heaven or the endless torment in hell; others say there is life after death. I referred to it as death after death, a continual process of dying.


My will to live was blinding. I considered plotting my own death as a draining process. I thought about my cousin, Delisa, who had taken her own life by cutting her wrist and allowing her blood to drain in a bathtub faucet. Where is she now? Did God ever forgive her? I did not want to die a gruesome death—cutting my wrist, blowing my head off, swallowing a handful of pills, or plunging from a soaring building. I just wanted to exist and eliminate necessities like food, water, and family ties. I wanted to spend my last days on earth with strangers. I would talk to them as if we would become lifelong friends. I would know everything about them. I would make a list of those strangers and title it Those I Met Before Dying.


I appeared to be lifeless. I vowed to go far away as I could. Blasting off to another planet would have sufficed, but I settled on moving to another country…and thus, the scenes of death began.


© Copyright 2019 UK Dorsey. All rights reserved.

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