Dawdling With Death

You don’t dawdle when you try to kill yourself. You pull the trigger, and you are done. You are never to be seen again living and breathing. They’ll close your casket because your face has been scarred with blood splatter and a hole from your chin through your skull.

Why don’t you take time to think about it? As soon as you take time, you begin to think. You think about what you have to live for and who’s going to miss you when you’re gone. You think about how you’ve lived so long, how about just a little while longer. Death is terrifying. Why would you want to delve into that realm so quickly?

I’m dawdling. I’m messaging a girl on Tinder I’ve been talking to for a couple of weeks. She’s cute, but not too pretty so I keep her around. She’s not pretty enough to be snatched quickly by the thirsty boys swiping at her pictures. Though she’s not ugly enough for me to let her slip away.

I message this girl about what I’m going to do, but omitting just enough information to not scare her away.

"I’m going through a rough patch". I leave in her inbox for her to find after a night out. Her constant stream of messages ceased at nine-thirty, so she should be getting back to me any minute now. I’m curious to know what she’ll say. Whether she’ll feel bad for me and say that she’s there for me or if she’ll suggest I do something other than bother her with my own demons.

Another swig of whiskey raises the hairs on my arms. I tease the trigger with my index finger. What if it were to accidentally slip and shoot my ceiling? It’s possible the room above had someone standing just at the right moment above my bullet. The thought lingers in my mind just a moment too long, and carefully the pistol eases out of my hand to the dinner table before me.

The whiskey burns my throat just a little less than the last gulp, and I pace on the tiles in my kitchen. They’re small, but large enough for me to stick my foot inside one. I make it a dance as I leisurely hop from one dark square to the next. Bottle in hand, I swing my arms up like Rose in Titanic as Jack holds her waist.

My phone vibrates and I cease my dancing. I bring myself to the table where my phone gleams with excitement.

"Omg r u ok??? I caan comeover now if u wanna;)". A smile warms my face, and the bottle of whiskey brushes over my lips once more. This girl is horny and couldn’t find anything nice enough at the bars so she’s picked the next best thing - a booty call from Tinder. The more the room begins to spin, the more my dick aches in my jeans.

I respond quickly enough to keep her wandering drunk attention - "103 Houston Ave East Village. Apartment 22E". Quick and to the point. I want to tell her that I’m excited to rip her clothes off and dig my teeth into her shoulder, but I hold back. I don’t want to appear too eager too quickly.

"See u sooon cutieee;)" - and I take another swig of whiskey as I wait.

The buzzer jolts me awake as I lay half asleep on the sofa. I lift the fallen bottle of whiskey from the floor and down the last few gulps. As I stand, I step in a small puddle where the bottle had been lying on its side. I am not one for leaving a mess, but a beautiful girl is waiting patiently at my door.

“Hi you,” She smiles at me, waiting for me to invite her in. She looks timid, more so than she appears on her profile. Her smile is cracked with a scar just above her left eyebrow. A scar that hadn’t been in any of her pictures.

“How was your night?” I try reaching for her hand as she moves swiftly from the door, but she’s too quick and agile for my slow mind. She makes her way around my living room, touching every picture and figurine on my bookshelves and coffee table. For how drunk I anticipated her being, she moves with much grace and deliberation.

“I love your place,” She looks back at me for just a moment, and I sense a hunger in her eyes. My crotch aches as I imagine how hungry she’ll look in my bedroom - how hungry she'll look on her knees. I wonder if she feels the same ache.

“Thank you. I moved a couple of weeks ago, so please don’t mind all of the boxes,” I slur. I hadn’t realized how drunk I was until just now. The room was starting to spin, and I wanted to rip this girl’s tight black jean skirt and red corset top off.

She giggles and asks me how much I’ve had to drink. I can’t tell if she’s making fun of me or also wants to make love in this moment. Is she trying to get my consent before letting me inside her? What a sweet girl. She perches at the edge of my couch, and I make my way over to her.

Within a matter of seconds, I slam to the ground. Something had been in the way. Had I broken my new glass coffee table? I dare not get up and see. I turn my head as I lay on the ground to see my Tinder girl standing above me giggling. She has something in her hand, but my vision is too blurry to see.

“You’re pathetic.” She lifts her foot onto my cheek and presses down ever so slightly. My head feels like it’s going to explode, and I beg her to stop. I feel lifeless on the floor. The room is still quaking, whether from my drunkenness or now my fear. I much preferred women who liked BDSM in the actual bedroom with code names and safe words. This was outside of my comfort zone.

“Can youu please get toff of meee? Falafel!” I rythe a little under her foot, trying to get my hands underneath me to push me up, but they must be bound to my back. I can barely move.

“Where’s your safe?” Her voice is close to me now. I can almost smell her Chanel perfume.

“My safe? What-whater you talking about?”

“Where is your safe in your apartment, tubby?” Her voice felt lower. Maybe because she felt more in control than I had first anticipated when she had said hi at the door. “Okay, we’re going to count to five. If you don’t tell me where your safe is, I’m going to play a little game of Russian Roulette.”

My gun. My gun had been on the coffee table when she had arrived. She saw her opportunity that I had so gracefully handed to her, and she took it. Now I was actually going to die.

“I don’t… I don’t have a safe.” I tried speaking as slowly and calmly as I could.

“I guess we’re playing my way then,” she cackled. “One.”

This wasn’t how I wanted to go. I wanted to go out on my terms.

“Two.”

I wanted to make love one last time. I wanted to call my sister and tell her how much I loved her. I wanted to travel around the world with the last of my savings.

“Three.”

I hadn’t even written a note to anyone. At least then the police would be more inclined to think it was murder over suicide without a note at hand. Though, it’s easy to cover this up as a suicide. I had basically set it up for her to get away with this with the alcohol bottles and all of my tissues from crying earlier in the night.

“Four.”

I’m crying now. I don’t want to die like this. I loved living. Yeah, it was hard at times, but I always made it to the other side okay.

“Five”

I don’t want to die.

*BANG*