Suicide

Roger stood in plain view of himself in front of the large mirror in the sitting room - he wanted to see himself die.

There was nothing for him to live for: his wife had left him, and his career was going nowhere fast. Nothing excited him anymore. He had nothing to look forward to. He was permanently tired with hypertension and cholesterol; it would only be a matter of time before a fatal heart attack anyway. Nobody would miss him; perhaps his income but that would be compensated by insurances. Nobody listened to him; his opinions and interests counted for nothing. His wife had only been interested in his salary. His son laughed at him - he was a joke.

It was time to put an end to this miserable existence.

He placed the cold metal of the revolver to his temple, felt it draw the warmth out of him.

What would he feel?

Would he see himself fall?

Would he hear the shot?

Nothingness, oblivion, was that what death was? How could you comprehend the incomprehensible?

As a child he had believed in God.

He hesitated before he pulled the trigger. Wasn't it taught that it was wrong to take one's life?

But, he had long since become an atheist.

Perhaps he would spend the rest of eternity in hell?

Rubbish. Religion was just a myth.

He lowered the gun.

He raised the gun.

"Fuck it!"

He squeezed the trigger and brilliant white light blossomed within his mind and vanished as swiftly. There was no pain.

*

He was eight years old and his mum had entered the classroom.

She had been crying; her mascara was smudged.

She was at his desk and something was terribly wrong.

"Daddy's dead, darling."

She clutched at him.

From that moment on he would have to pay for his crime. Karma. He would suffer grief for the rest of his life - his son's grief - and not know why.

From now on he would be his son.

A terrible abiding emptiness filled his being. The tears flowed.