not me' said the spoon
"So how can we ever muster the will to survive this shit-stained existence?" asked
Frank, so passionately it seemed almost confrontational.
"I don't know," answered Stu, dismissively.
Frank looked at the gun, secretly taking joy in its density and balance in his hand.
He pointed it towards the window, taking a bead on a particular feature of a cloud he could
see from his vantage point on the cold tile. Quickly, he flipped the gun around and pulled
the trigger. A mist of blood sprayed on the shower curtain, and Frank slumped over, leaning
his head on the tub's rim.
Stu looked down at Frank and cocked his head to the side. He paused. It was almost
time for work. He picked up his bag, grabbed his keys from the edge of the sink, and walked
out. As he stepped out the front door he called back to Frank.
"I'll call 911 from the phone at my desk. You'll be okay."
He knew it was good practice to tell trauma victims they had a good chance for
survival, or they'd give up and die.
---
Stu rushed to work careful not to speed, since a ticket would delay his getting to
a phone. Stu began to consider exactly what he'd tell the 911 operator. 'Hi... My friend
just shot -' He stopped himself, deciding it was more pertinent to concentrate on driving.
If he could trim a few minutes off of the two-hour drive, Frank would have a statistically
better chance at survival.
---
As a pool of blood began to form, the friction between Frank and the tile lessened
and he began to slide. His hips shifted to the side, causing the weight of his body to pull
his head off of the tub's rim, bending his neck to the side. A smear of blood marked his
head's travel to the floor along the side of the tub quite clearly. The pain of lying on
his side with his neck forced to ninety degrees went completely unnoticed. Frank was in
shock.
---
Stu never listened to the radio while he drove. He never really listened to the
radio in any circumstance. He read lyrics and album reviews, and he'd give a CD a few spins
while it was new, before it worked its way into his storage rack. He often explained that
there was no sense listening to something once you had heard it.
---
Frank was in pain. The silence of the room was too much to bare.
"Why isn't there any music?" he asked aloud. The answer came from his own mind, but
he heard it as if it was spoken.
"You shot yourself, you dumb fuck. That's not an event that usually has a
soundtrack."
"Have you ever heard that song 'Come Out Fighting?' It's about taking that hate you
have for yourself and channeling it into something positive. You can use that energy to
take on the world."
"Didn't that guy kill himself a few years later?"
"Yeah. I appreciate the irony."
"You're a stupid, stupid fuck."
---
Stu reached over to adjust the air conditioning. It was plenty cool, and he figured
he should turn it off to get better mileage. Just as his finger touched the controls his
left rear tire blew out, bringing his car to a slow halt. As he decelerated, he pulled to the
shoulder. He looked at his watch, and was not happy this happened today.
---
Ocean waves of crimson. His body floated gently on the surface, heaving up and
down with each wave. Every direction he looked, there was a ship in the distance. His
attention turned to his hand.
"Why don't we fire a flare? The ship will surely see it and come to investigate."
"You don't want anyone to rescue you. You know what a burden you've been on
society. You think you want to go on letting people down day after day, week after week?
Just let this end right here, and everyone will be better off."
Frank randomly pointed the pistol and pulled the trigger. The tank of his toilet
burst, spilling a few gallons of water on the bathroom floor. The cold, pink water hit him
like the point of a knife. It was colder than anything he'd ever felt. He began to shiver
violently.
---
Stu, lucky to have broken down near an exit, began walking down the road looking
for a payphone. He needed to get help to Frank quickly, he figured. Since he was now going
to be late, he'd need to call the office as well.
---
Frank began to lose consciousness.
"Frankie says: Relax, don't do it," he said under his last breath.
"You stupid motherfucker."
---
Stu stepped off of the sidewalk onto the asphalt of the gas station's parking lot.
He jogged to the payphone near the ice cooler. He was reaching to grab the receiver when
his cell phone rang.
"Stewart Woods speaking."
"Hey Stu -- it's me," said the voice on the line.
"Weird. I could have sworn my battery was dead. Hey, I gotta go."
Frank, so passionately it seemed almost confrontational.
"I don't know," answered Stu, dismissively.
Frank looked at the gun, secretly taking joy in its density and balance in his hand.
He pointed it towards the window, taking a bead on a particular feature of a cloud he could
see from his vantage point on the cold tile. Quickly, he flipped the gun around and pulled
the trigger. A mist of blood sprayed on the shower curtain, and Frank slumped over, leaning
his head on the tub's rim.
Stu looked down at Frank and cocked his head to the side. He paused. It was almost
time for work. He picked up his bag, grabbed his keys from the edge of the sink, and walked
out. As he stepped out the front door he called back to Frank.
"I'll call 911 from the phone at my desk. You'll be okay."
He knew it was good practice to tell trauma victims they had a good chance for
survival, or they'd give up and die.
---
Stu rushed to work careful not to speed, since a ticket would delay his getting to
a phone. Stu began to consider exactly what he'd tell the 911 operator. 'Hi... My friend
just shot -' He stopped himself, deciding it was more pertinent to concentrate on driving.
If he could trim a few minutes off of the two-hour drive, Frank would have a statistically
better chance at survival.
---
As a pool of blood began to form, the friction between Frank and the tile lessened
and he began to slide. His hips shifted to the side, causing the weight of his body to pull
his head off of the tub's rim, bending his neck to the side. A smear of blood marked his
head's travel to the floor along the side of the tub quite clearly. The pain of lying on
his side with his neck forced to ninety degrees went completely unnoticed. Frank was in
shock.
---
Stu never listened to the radio while he drove. He never really listened to the
radio in any circumstance. He read lyrics and album reviews, and he'd give a CD a few spins
while it was new, before it worked its way into his storage rack. He often explained that
there was no sense listening to something once you had heard it.
---
Frank was in pain. The silence of the room was too much to bare.
"Why isn't there any music?" he asked aloud. The answer came from his own mind, but
he heard it as if it was spoken.
"You shot yourself, you dumb fuck. That's not an event that usually has a
soundtrack."
"Have you ever heard that song 'Come Out Fighting?' It's about taking that hate you
have for yourself and channeling it into something positive. You can use that energy to
take on the world."
"Didn't that guy kill himself a few years later?"
"Yeah. I appreciate the irony."
"You're a stupid, stupid fuck."
---
Stu reached over to adjust the air conditioning. It was plenty cool, and he figured
he should turn it off to get better mileage. Just as his finger touched the controls his
left rear tire blew out, bringing his car to a slow halt. As he decelerated, he pulled to the
shoulder. He looked at his watch, and was not happy this happened today.
---
Ocean waves of crimson. His body floated gently on the surface, heaving up and
down with each wave. Every direction he looked, there was a ship in the distance. His
attention turned to his hand.
"Why don't we fire a flare? The ship will surely see it and come to investigate."
"You don't want anyone to rescue you. You know what a burden you've been on
society. You think you want to go on letting people down day after day, week after week?
Just let this end right here, and everyone will be better off."
Frank randomly pointed the pistol and pulled the trigger. The tank of his toilet
burst, spilling a few gallons of water on the bathroom floor. The cold, pink water hit him
like the point of a knife. It was colder than anything he'd ever felt. He began to shiver
violently.
---
Stu, lucky to have broken down near an exit, began walking down the road looking
for a payphone. He needed to get help to Frank quickly, he figured. Since he was now going
to be late, he'd need to call the office as well.
---
Frank began to lose consciousness.
"Frankie says: Relax, don't do it," he said under his last breath.
"You stupid motherfucker."
---
Stu stepped off of the sidewalk onto the asphalt of the gas station's parking lot.
He jogged to the payphone near the ice cooler. He was reaching to grab the receiver when
his cell phone rang.
"Stewart Woods speaking."
"Hey Stu -- it's me," said the voice on the line.
"Weird. I could have sworn my battery was dead. Hey, I gotta go."