The woman I watched over like a mother, the days babying her and protecting her as she toddled along behind me crying in winding corridors filled with entities straight out of those horror films I loved oh-so-much in college, has run away to save a man who has no regret, no mercy. I know she is dead. That frail, beaten woman, could not survive a hell of this caliber, with looks and kindness alone. Oh, the ways she would be torn apart for a sadist's kicks. Eyes gouged out, breasts removed and hands bend and twisted, forced into living through the eyes of a ghost. I've seen all the others, my neighbours, and victims of a time long past. I've seen myself, too. There would be nothing worse in my eyes than being a whispering ghoul in agony, traveling all of earth and beyond - Whatever universes I have traversed in, to be specific- in search of a release too great, too elusive for hell-burnt hands to grasp. Walter has ensured that I have an first class pass into the tenth circle of hell, plush seats and gourmet peanut bags logged with blood and all.
And so, after a long debate with myself, I decide that escaping is futile. Because of the odds against me, the soul-shattering hell if I do fail, and because of my lifestyle in the real world, I have now decided to give up my life. In an urban town, with no reliable job, no money, no immeadate family, no friends, and a government who would slap me in the asylum at mention of the things I've been through to 'protect others' from my insanity like a quarantine, I don't have any place here. If I moved, it would eat up the small pools of money I've saved for mundane, everyday dreams, like getting a vehicle that didn't require pedalling. And what satisfaction would I get from a car? That I could travel to the same areas I go to everyday, only quicker? No, I would get bored of it quickly. It would go into disuse and I would be still dead inside.
A new question arises from the depths of my detiriorating mind. Which way should I depart this world? Letting the grotesque beasts and damned ghosts kill me and find what they want so dearly in my blood? No, I still have my dignity.
The Hemingway Solution seems the best choice by far. Shoe off, sock off, barrel in the mouth and toe around the trigger - just the way Kurt Cobain went, and no unfortunate comas or worries about being a lifeless vegetable. However I don't have a shotgun- Only a pistol and a revolver, and therefore no guarantees Walter may find me bleeding out and declare me as one of his twisted Sacrements before the time my life runs out. Cutting myself in the bath seems to be a viable solution, but congealing would prove to be a problem, since the bath is clogged with icy, lumpy blood, and the taps don't work. Drowning would also work, but I'm still hesitant to put my head under blood and take it into my lungs, even though I will die anyway.
I'm afraid of what it will feel like.
So I'll continue drinking myself into a stupor and trying to think, think of ways my waterfall of life can become a cracked, dried pond.