Hard Times

Life. Are we living it? Or is it living us?

Are there simplistic ways to life? Or do we have to live through all the heartaches?

It seems as if life is nothing but disappointment and depression, constant pain and no gain.

Life has been rough as of late. It's as if I have to go through all the hardships and heartaches at such a young age, for no reason. At the age of seventeen, I was diagnosed with Stage Four Hodgkin's Lymphoma, leaving me with a slim chance of life. At age eighteen, I lost my father to cancer – a seven year battle he endured. At age twenty-one, my sister had committed suicide since her boyfriend left her after a five year relationship ended abruptly. When I was twenty-two, I lost my favorite cousin to cancer. Oddly enough, we were both diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma at the same time, February of 2012, with the same stage, Stage 4. He lost his battle while I continue to struggle with mine.

On my twenty-fourth birthday, my grandmother, aunt, and mother had all died in a car crash caused by a drunk driver, something that should have never happened. Period. When I turned twenty-six, my two remaining close cousins also suffered the same fate as my mother did...

By my twenty-seventh birthday, I was the last of my immediate family from my mother's side. I never knew the members of my father's side of the family so I refrained from engaging any sort of conversation or contact with them. I was all alone – cancer patient, no job, no family...

No life...

Don't get me wrong, I'm open to independence. It's just that...what I'm trying to...

How do I put it?

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I like being alone, but at the same time, I hate being alone...if that makes any sense...

At this day in age, I'm surprised I haven't gone completely insane or lost my mind or even committed suicide. Don't get me wrong, I have thought about it – suicide, that is – but I can't imagine the afterlife. What's it like? Where do you go? What happens to your dead corpse? Who knows? Is death painful? Or is suffering from a broken bone more painful than death?

In my bedroom, inside a nightstand drawer, there is a handgun – a pistol, if you will. Next to the pistol are two bullets, one for self defense, and one for the end. The pistol used to belong to my father when he was enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. He gave it to me, as per his request in his will, and I've kept it in my nightstand drawer, which also used to be his. In case I forgot to mention this, I've lived in this house all my life, watching many events unfold before my very eyes – September 11th, the war in Iraq, Barack Obama becoming the first African American president, witnessing three family members, myself included, get diagnosed with cancer – and they've all taken their toll on me and my life in some sort of way.

I approached the nightstand in my poorly lit room, light only coming in from the full moon that was embracing the land in a dim white light. I opened up the drawer and saw the moonlight reflect off the sleek, chrome pistol. It had been kept very clean, having it's own rag, located right next to the bullets that were in the drawer. I had grabbed the rag, then embraced the rag around the pistol, bringing it closer to me. I admired the sleek design of the pistol, running my fingers over the barrel of the pistol and down the side of it and over the trigger, which I accidentally pulled, but was fine since the pistol was empty of ammunition.

"Oh, how I wish you were still here..." I sadly spoke, referring to my father obviously, the previous owner of this beautiful pistol.

I call her beautiful because she means a lot to me and she meant a lot to my father. I remember when I was younger, probably around sixteen-years-old, I saw a story on the news that both me and my father scoffed at. The topic – ironic enough – was about weaponry and it's effects in public areas.

"'They say that people don't kill people, but that guns kill people.'" My father recited to me.

"Isn't that true though, dad?" I asked. Back when I was sixteen, I never really thought about that statement.

"If that's true, son," my father continued, "then I guess knives stab people and planes crash into buildings. It's always the objects' fault; never the person holding or controlling the object."

My father was a wise man, really making you think with his statements. I remember holding on to those words and putting them in the back of my head, where I wouldn't ever forget them, foolish as it sounds.

I looked down at the sleek beauty, grabbed a bullet, then took the pistol outside where I could get a better look at it under the moonlight. I gazed up at the bright full moon and admired its beauty. The moon was awe inspiring, hypnotic even. The moon is only like this twice a year, on the longest day of the year, the summer solstice, and the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice. Tonight was the winter solstice and, up in the north, it was unseasonably warm. I never minded the warm weather, but it seemed as if this year, mother nature decided to skip the pleasant autumn and go straight from summer to winter. Tonight was an unusual sixty-eight degrees, with little wind movement.

I took in some of the crisp cool air of the night and closed my eyes. I began to think about my dead relatives, how they were doing up in heaven and how the time flew by without them to share a few laughs with along the way. I don't think I mentioned this, but I am an atheist. I choose not to believe in God, but I do choose to believe in heaven and hell, as odd as it sounds. However, that's besides the point.

I began gripping the pistol a bit tighter as tears began falling from the corners of my eyes, down the side of my face and, ultimately, down to the ground. I missed my family very much, there was no doubt about that. I'd kill to see them again, I really would. Looking back up at the sky, I closed my eyes tightly so that the tears could stop escaping and sighed slowly.

"Wait for me, everyone..." I said.

I motioned the arm holding the pistol up to my head, with the barrel of the pistol touching the side of my head. It was cold and unforgiving, almost as if it didn't want me to proceed with what I was about to do. I didn't want to do it, but I also didn't want to live like this anymore. So, with one last, painful sigh, I opened my eyes, looked up at the moon and pulled the trigger. I heard the gunshot and felt the bullet tear through my skull and brain, going in one side and coming out of the other. My vision had become disoriented and time appeared to slow down tremendously. The last thing I remember while on earth was my body collapsing onto the cold, wet ground.

Suicide was the answer, I guess.