Partial Draft

"Let me die." The cold ring of the gun barrel presses to my temple. "Please, let me die!" My thoughts scream. "This depravity is unbearable; languishing in it won't fix me." "It's time to end it." My hand is oddly calm for a man about to take his own life. "There's nothing left to value; they've destroyed it." I can't even feel hatred though. "Why should I love when there is nothing to live for?" I'm trying to rationalize the atrocity I'm about to commit. "Death is all they value; consciously or subconsciously; spiritually or physically." "Taking my life would make me a hero in their eyes. They'd look up to me. They'd write articles and air tv news. They'd call for changes, always looking to someone else to make that change. They'd cry for me, never remembering to cry for themselves. "Friends" and "loved ones" would arise to speak on my behalf against the "system" that destroyed me, those same "loved ones" who despise me in life. For a week, I'd be a God, then they would forget. Nothing would be different, only one less life, not a big deal." Hatred for myself wells inside. "How could I say that? Only one less life? That's tragic." "I don't deserve to live because I've allowed everything I live for to be thrown away as trash. Only the ignorant, those who can't truly live, only they deserve life." "I don't really believe this, that's them speaking. Need can't be the standard for deserving; and they need life badly." "Maybe my death will help them see...I know it won't. No matter, it's time." I close my eyes and press the barrel harder against my head. The cool morning wind rustles my hair. "I'm going to miss this." I take a deep breath. Cold air fills my lungs and suddenly I'm no longer on the side of the cliff. I'm ten years old. It's snowing and my father and I are walking back through the woods. "Dad?" I ask. He looks at me with his sharp, intelligent eyes. The hint of a smile is on his face. He loves answering my questions. "Yes?" "At school today I was told I had to share my truck with Joey." "Oh.." He frowns, a look of deep concern.We're just coming up on a large granite rock near the clearing to my house. "Sit down," he says. "What did you do?"  "I said no, Dad. I hope that wasn't bad, but I don't even like Joey and I don't know why I should have to share with him. He's never given me anything. Dad I'm not sorry I didn't give it to him, and I'm sorry about that. Did I do wrong?" My father smiles like I've never seen him smiling; a smile of straight, pearly teeth and absolute confidence in what it was about to say. "No, you did everything right. I'm so proud of you." He puts his arm around me. "But sometimes, Dad, I feel maybe I should just give in to make others happy, even though it makes me unhappy. Maybe that will help me avoid the wall my teacher says I've put around myself." My father laughs. "Son, when you're banging your head against the wall, bang harder. Never, ever, stop banging." I'm back now. The gun is still pressed to my head. "Dad," I whisper to the wind, "You never stopped banging, and they killed you for it. I can't give them that satisfaction." My finger wraps around the trigger....Nothing happens.; my hand won't move, not out of whimsical weakness or fear of what lies beyond, but rather, out of metaphysical necessity. I've never been self-destructive. My body won't register the orders I'm giving it. I feel terror, true terror as I haven't felt since the day my parents disappeared. Tears begin to well in my eyes as I'm overcome with a sense of utter helplessness. "Oh God! If you exist, let me die!" I don't think he's listening, and the tears are now streaming down my face. "I can't live in the world on their terms; Those who despise the living; those would tell me what to think, what to do, what to feel." I'm ordering my fingers to pull the rigger but they aren't listening. "What do they even value? I've never seen it; my entire life I've been witness to their systematic destruction of value. They've bastardized their religions, they've emasculated their men, made whores of their women. They've attacked reason from both faith and science. They've destroyed genuine benevolence in the name of obligation and taught one to be tolerant of all cultures but ones own. They've punished the great while championing drug addicts and dipsomaniacs on their televisions. They tell us we can never be 'humble' enough. They've made the producers greedy and the non producer a victim, never realizing who pays for their welfare checks. They have demanded what is not theirs. They have demanded my life." "Don't you realize what you're doing!" Suddenly I'm screaming. "Don't you know by destroying us you're destroying yourselves?!" I feel as if my insides are going to explode. My head is spinning. "You sons'a bitches! You tell me I can't feel; I've felt more than any of you ever will!" "Want to know why?" I'm laughing hysterically. "Because I've thought more than any of you!" "Do you under..." I'm cut short by nausea and my lunch begins to poor out of my mouth over the edge of the cliff into the ocean. The gun falls from my hand into the water below, but I make no attempt to catch it. I lean back, drenched in sweat. "Of course you don't understand." I whisper. "I don't even understand." I'm drawn back into the past again, this time I'm sitting in my third grade classroom. I've just received my test; I earned the only perfect score and my teacher announced it to my class. I wish she hadn't. A boy named Andrew notices me smiling at my paper. Andrew is portly for his age, for any age actually, with a soft round face on which his cheeks somehow hid most of his puglike nose that seemed to always be running into a glob of mucous that dries just above his upper lip. Andrew was an average student. "You shouldn't be so proud of your grade you know. My pastor says pride will make you go to Hell." "I don't believe in hell." "You should still be humble and shouldn't brag." "When have I bragged. I never told you my score." Andrew is getting angry. "I can see it in your face, just don't think you're all that." "Why?" Andrew looked puzzled. I continue, "I got the grade, why should I pretend I didn't?" "Umm," Andrew face is as bright as a cherry. "You just shouldn't." "Okay, Andrew." I'm now taken to a few weeks later. Andrew just received an A- on his test. "Hey everybody, what did you get?" Andrew is running around the classroom hoping to compare his grade with everyone else to make sure it's actually a good score. "Ha! I beat you!" He screams, proudly flaunting his grade at whoever will look. He comes over to me. "What did you get?" I won't tell him. "I told you not to be so proud! I beat you!" I didn't respond and he walked away triumphantly. On the flip side of my test, written in red, it said, 100%.