NOW
He sat back against the wall of his room, cradling the heavy
object in his hand. The lights were out. The glow from a computer
screen and the last few minutes of the sun lit his face. A voice
repeated itself in the back of his mind.
Father: I'm not upset that you didn't graduate. You are being harder
on yourself than I am.
He grimaced, pushing the voice away, but it was replaced by
another.
Mother: It was embarrassing. I wish you'd get your GED and go on to
college, so we can get past this whole thing.
And another.
Himself: I've been thinking of writing a play. I think I'll call it
Prozac.
They kept coming.
Girlfriend: I just don't love you anymore.
Teacher: I'm really disappointed in you.
Himself, writing: I used to be a genius. (thinking) That'd make a great
opening to a book. (pause, anxious) If I ever write it.
Teacher: Why don't you just drop out and get your GED?
Himself: I just want to do something, anything. I feel like I have to
accomplish something.
Therapist: Were you using any drugs?
Doctor: Just fill out this questionnaire, and I'll go get you some free
samples.
Doctor: Just remember, if you kill yourself, you'll never have a chance
to get laid.
His diaphragm lurched in that sort of half-giggle half-patronizing
snort that he performed too often. It comforted him, until he was
filled with
doubt again, and then he just felt hollow.
He looked at the object in his hands.
It was a gun.
It was a loaded
revolver. A .38 that belonged to a friend.
He looked down the barrel. He realized he could only see a short
distance down the barrel, because the light was bad. He shifted, moved
to get a better look, but realized that his head was blocking out the
light. He snorted again.
He opened up the cylinder. He had only been able to find one
bullet. He pried it out with his fingers, and looked at it. The
leadvfelt soft; he tested it with his fingernail, and left a shallow mark in
its side. In a fit of irony, he scratched his initials on the side.
G. D.
He snorted again. Putting the bullet back into the cylinder, he
realized the
cliche' of the action. He smiled and spun the cylinder,
slamming it back into the gun with the palm of his hand before seeing
where the bullet stopped.
Russian Roulette.
Teacher: I don't want to be the reason that you don't graduate.
Friend: We've gotta know! Did you or didn't you?
Girlfriend: I love you.
He tested it, weighing it in each hand, and tried twirling it
around his finger. Unbalanced, handle too heavy. He pulled the hammer
back.
Doctor: If you ever feel like that again, you should call a safe house.
There's nothing worth killing yourself over.
He pulled the trigger.
Girlfriend: I just don't love you anymore.
He pulled the trigger.
Doctor: I want you to go on an antidepressant.
He pulled the trigger.
THEN
He was a hero. He didn't save the universe from aliens, or his
country from a nuclear war, or feed the homeless. He rescued people.
He had achieved his goal. He had done something.
He had written a book, and the first line was "I used to be a
genius." He wrote a play about his bout with depression; he played the
main character. The play never became popular, but was shown at a local
theater, and he was satisfied with it.
He had a wife, and a family. He helped others realize the worth
of friends, and in a peculiar twist of fate, they decided to pay him for
it. Some thought he should be a minister. He took on the nickname
"Reverend." He became relatively wealthy.
He did not exist.
THEN
He fell apart. He tried to make people understand who he was, and
how he got that way, but they dismissed it as a crude attempt to gain
sympathy.
He drank too much. He became infatuated with illegal drugs. He
lived off the state, eventually ending up in an undignified group home,
where he continued his paranoid delusions in relative freedom.
The people he met called him "Reverend." It was an insult, but he
didn't understand it. He was, after all, insane. The drugs they kept
him on made sure of it.
He did not exist.
THEN
He was just an ordinary guy. He worked for an electronics firm,
enjoyed going to bars at night. He had been married twice, but both
marriages ended with divorce, though he was still friendly with his ex-
wives. His current marriage made his life complete: he would work,
return home and eat an FDA-approved meal, watch a mindless show on
television, read a newspaper, have sex with his wife, and go to sleep.
Every summer they took a two-week vacation in Cape Cod.
He did not exist.
NOW
He sat back against the wall, cradling the heavy object in his
hand. Voices ran through his mind. He cradled his head in his hands,
the object resting in his lab. He cried. The voices kept coming.
These were his thoughts. They never stopped. Gradually, they quieted,
and he snorted to himself. The house was still.
He looked at the object in his lap.
It was a gun.
It was a loaded revolver. A .38 from a friend.
He looked into the barrel. He realized he could only see a short
distance down the barrel, because the light was bad.
He opened up the cylinder, and checked the bullet. He wrote his
initials on the side.
He snorted again. He put the bullet back into the gun and spun
the cylinder, slapping it back into the gun.
Russian Roulette.
He pulled the hammer back.
As he looked into the barrel again, he thought of
Shroedinger's
cat. It was an exercise in scientific theory; the abandonment of simple
common sense in favor of scientific
pragmatism: the cat is neither alive nor dead until you open the box to see.
Friend: She's definitely lost some respect in my mind.
He thought of the bullet. If he pulled the trigger, and the
bullet was there, then he created the bullet, didn't he? But then, he
quickly realized (for no realization was ever slow for him), the bullet
would travel through his skull and remove the center of his brain and
send it flying out the back of his head. He read somewhere that the
brain would die before the signals could even reach it.
Therapist: But you are feeling better now?
If he died before he felt the bullet, then how could it exist in the random chamber?
The only way to prove that the bullet existed would be to pull the
trigger and feel himself dying.
Girlfriend: Do you ever dream about me?
He tasted the gun. It had a metallic, oily flavor. He closed his
eyes. The thoughts never ceased.
Himself: I love you.
He pulled the trigger.