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Have you ever felt like the simple act of living just wasn’t worth the daily grind of routine and hardship? Despite how you feel about answering that overwhelming question, I have to say that I have felt it more and more recently. Before I share my very personal, somewhat self-loathsome story, I wish to address the presumably countless cynical individuals who will undoubtedly refer to my meticulously crafted plan as cowardly- if not all together selfish. Contrary to that close-minded opinion, I believe that suicide should not be held in such low regard and rather commended for the bravery it takes to commit. Rather than wait around for my inevitable demise at the hands of an unsettlingly random accident or torturously lengthy terminal illness, I find it quite empowering to organize the time and way in which I leave behind my shell of a body. Not to say that the thought of ending my own life isn’t in itself terrifying, or even nauseatingly permanent, I admit that I have never committed to anything so consuming in my entire life. With the thought of engaging in an everlasting commitment with death, I can’t help but reflect on the many jobs, relationships, and extra-curricular activities I had been unable to commit to for longer than a few months. I choose to believe that my level of commitment is directly related to the existential importance of any particular act. For example, my summer job at a local café lasted nearly three dreadful months, which held very little importance in comparison to a bittersweet college relationship shared with an unfortunately unforgettable young woman, which lasted upwards of one tumultuous year, which in turn was meaningless when compared to my decision of instigating an eternal slumber.
My unprecedented dedication to this new, albeit short, life path had come about a few days ago following a devastating separation from my recently appointed fiancée. Although I resent the cliché nature of allowing a broken relationship to affect me in such a morose manner, I believe that the link between a figuratively broken heart and suicidal ideation is stronger and more prevalent that any two human emotions in co-morbid existence. Despite previous- equally devastating- poisonous relationships, when I had admittedly felt the urge to flee from my human form and escape feelings of infinite heartache and loneliness, this particular relationship with my fiancée Jane, seemed to have triggered the nail gun pointing directly on the perimeter of my nearly sealed coffin.
Jane, a woman who did not have an impatient nerve anywhere in her petite, five foot one, one hundred and ten pound frame, cannot be blamed for my premature demise, since she did everything in her power to instill happiness in an otherwise stubbornly bleak outlook. Assigned with a task for the strong willed, Jane explored endless suggestions and opportunities to lift me out of my pit of self-loathing despair. Although I never truly had a reason to act as miserably as I did, being that I had always been in good health, not to mention being privileged enough to familiarize myself with a comfortable socioeconomic class, and fortunate enough to have sufficient intelligence to stave off poverty, I found gloom wherever it could be found.
Noticing my gloomy demeanor upon our first encounter in a college bar just short of two years ago, Jane must have taken it upon herself to adopt me as one of her many humanitarian projects. As Jane gathered with her college classmates- all majoring in varying social science programs with the intention of changing the world one day- to celebrate the final day of their undergraduate career, I on the other hand, had merely wandered in off the street to drown whatever sorrow I had been fixated on that particular day. With painful retrospection, I can see how our meeting could be considered quite serendipitous and beautiful in nature since the only reason I had chosen that obnoxiously rowdy pub was due to the fact that I heard a familiar pop tune blaring from inside. It was a song that produced vivid memories of an unusually fun family road trip I had taken when I was younger and blissfully ignorant towards my future disposition. Although I remember exactly which commercially concocted boy-band song had triggered my musical memory, I must plead the fifth and retain what dignity I have left before confining myself to my eternal grave; I do not like the idea of my tainted musical appreciation being left posthumously for future generations to ridicule.
Moving past my guilty pleasure song of the inexplicably catchy nineties pop genre, I now truly regret staying to indulge my Irish weakness for a tall glass of dark stout beer. I felt odd enough placing such a classic order amongst a bar room filled with inhibited collegians indulging in various watered-down cocktails, sweet enough that my jaw still clenches thinking about the many fruity libations that followed once I became acquainted with Jane and her possy of educated humanitarians. Drawn to me like a National Geographic photographer to the famished third world, Jane could not resist my maladjusted aura. Radiating vibes of general apathy on my part, it was a matter of time before my future fiancée went out of her way to treat my damaged soul and breathe a breath of fresh, optimistic air into my cynical lungs.
Approaching me with a painfully unnatural smile- a smile typically sported by a seasonal volunteer in a palliative care wing of a retirement home- Jane made her presence known by sitting on the bar stool immediately to my right. She then proceeded to introduce herself as subtly as she possibly could amongst the deafening, yet persistently enjoyable pop music that exploded from the speakers placed a mere foot from our sensitive ears. Upon recounting this very story months later, Jane admitted that she had tried to get my attention several times before succeeding, but was overshadowed by my love of Irish beer and undivided attention to the hypnotic chorus of the blaring music. With much persistence on Jane’s part and my inevitable need to look up from my frothy beer mug to order another, I finally acknowledged the bubbly demeanor of the radiant girl sitting next to me. Astonished by the classically beautiful features that made up Jane’s overall appearance- an appearance only matched by extinct nineteen fifties’ starlets- I quickly scanned the room to make sure that I had in fact witness true beauty and was not being subjected to delusion of my 20/20 beer goggles. Once I captured a confident look at the mob of half-naked, overly painted female population in the bar, I could- by comparison- be confident that I was fortunate enough to interact with a genuinely beautiful woman.
Once my admiration for Jane’s inexplicable beauty finally subsided, I introduced myself as Thomas. Since I had never been able to introduce myself as Thomas back home, being that every single family member and friend knew me as a juvenile “Tommy” and instead referred to my father as “Thomas”, I took advantage of being in a new city by embracing a new label, thereby embracing the opportunity of a new, more mature identity. Once I confidently established that I was a mature adult with an equally mature sounding name, I wasted no time in offering to buy Jane a beverage, in hopes that inducing lowered perceptions would extend her presence by my side at the bar counter. As I raised my glass while offering to treat her to a heavy Irish brew, she politely accepted, except opting to smoothly ask the bartender for a glass of some syrup based concoction. In the spirit of wooing the new object of my intoxicated affection, I tried with difficulty to slide my empty glass down the understandably sticky, syrup stained counter, then ordered the same diabetes-inducing beverage as Jane. Realizing that I may have painted an unflattering picture of myself, what with my affinity for nineties’ pop and despicable sugary cocktail conformity, I must clarify that my personal flaws are typically covert- only made apparent and subsequently exacerbated when a female is in close proximity.
As I cringed while pretending to enjoy Jane’s sweet drink of choice, she used her innate talent of verbal probing to inquire into my entire life- simultaneously and accurately assessing every aspect of my character. Within a revealing six or seven minutes- however long it took to gulp down what tasted like a melted cherry popsicle- Jane appeared to have gathered enough information to confidently move forward by inviting me to join her group of friends at a nearby booth. Following the invitation, I discretely looked over my shoulder to assess the irritatingly high energy that radiated from behind me and hesitantly accepted Jane’s offer regardless of the annoying company she kept, in hopes of gaining some more, highly desired time with her.
Once I reached the social point of no return, I approached the table of giddy young women with reluctance. I felt as though my presence was received as heavy metal music would in an Orthodox Church choir, instilling a sense of restlessness within the skeptical group. Although each of Jane’s friends were just as welcoming as the next- even the overtly feminist friend, who wore a black t-shirt that read “Men = Suffering”- I could tell that my lack of positive energy made them feel uneasy. Not only did my energy counteract the collective optimism that circulated through the group of confident females, but their inquisitive nature forced my hand, revealing my indifference towards various political and social issues. Never before I had I felt so ignorant toward injustices in the world; mostly because I had spent the better part of my adult life consumed with personal injustices. As the fruity drinks flowed, I became complacent- even supportive of certain naïve philosophies discussed amongst the women- and thereby gave Jane her first glimpse into the theoretically positive person she thought I could be coaxed into.
The night finally ended in a final attempt to vie for Jane’s affection. However, I admittedly underestimated the potency of the so-called effeminate drinks, since my ability to coherently woo her was greatly impaired. Consequently, I was given no more than a polite goodbye and a phone number- the only indication that a future encounter with Jane was attainable. I then composed myself to stand upright long enough while Jane and her friends crammed into a taxi. As I watched the taxi pull away, the stench of exhaust fumes overpowered my senses, making me feel much more nauseated than the cocktails had only minutes earlier. I attributed my spontaneously increased despair to the fact that I did not believe I’d have another chance to see Jane again and that I would forever be longing for the perfect girl who rocked my foundation, only to slip away, forcing all future partners to pale in comparison.
Despite my bleak prediction following my brief encounter with Jane, I had somehow managed to stumble home and keep her phone number intact until the next afternoon. When I woke from a disturbed, alcohol fueled sleep, I had embarrassingly forgotten that I had a means of contacting Jane; that is until I put on my jeans from the previous night and discovered the promising piece of paper. Staying true to my inability to stay cool and act indifferent towards the prospect of initiating another encounter with Jane, I immediately disregarded any ridiculous rules of waiting a certain number of days before calling her and reached for my cell phone. Holding my phone in my right hand and the crumpled piece of paper in my left, I cowardly made the bold decision to text Jane, rather than call her and subsequently embarrass myself my means of mediocre conversational skills. First adding Jane to my contacts- making the fact that I knew such a perfect woman feel more real and tangible than when written illegibly on a scrap piece of paper- I then proceeded by typing a variety of greetings, erasing each one until I found one that felt the most genuine and least needy: “Hi there, Jane. How are you today?” As I pushed send, that single generic greeting flooded my mind with regret and insecurity, condemning myself for not using the word “Hey” instead of saying “Hi there” and wishing that I had said “How’s it going?” instead of “How are you today?”. I dissected each and every word with self-loathing meticulousness until I received a reply no more than a couple minutes later, saying “Well, hello Thomas! I am doing quite well, thank you. And yourself?”
Enamored with her elegant vocabulary and eloquent phrasing, I became even more self-conscious of sending an appropriate and equally impressive response. Sticking to what felt natural, I simply replied with honesty by saying that I was experiencing a dreadful hangover and that I regretted not being able to spend more time with her the previous night. Fortunately the pit in my stomach was filled once Jane seemed to appreciate my honesty and assured me that there would be plenty of time to get to know each other. After that conversation, the sequence of events that followed over the course of the next eleven months are remembered as a fast, cohesive memory that ended prematurely. I am, of course, skipping over the many joyous occasions, heartfelt moments, and genuine connections, since all of it was ultimately meaningless. To be honest, it is painful to recount the beginning of our love story, because it obviously ended in tragedy; much like watching the redundant first half of Titanic, I personally always chose to only watch the second VHS tape as a child. What is in fact important, is that our relationship ended after several months of hostile behaviour, unsatisfying relations, and my inability to maintain a charade of happiness.
I do not wish to give Jane credit for my current suicidal state, but rather credit her as a catalyst that brought me to this self-destructive state quicker than intended. Before I am perceived as a considerate human being for avoiding the placement of blame on Jane for my inevitable demise, I must confess that the only reason I do not credit her as being the main reason for my debilitating depression is because I feel as though giving someone such credit strips the power away from the act of suicide all together. Having said that as I move forward towards my ultimate goal, retaining my full authority on how long I wish to live, I can leave Jane in my forgotten past as a character in one of my last painful memories.
Fortunately, the termination of my engagement with Jane had indirectly funded my final journey before actualizing my lethal aspirations. Having been voluntarily unemployed for the past six months, free from the shackles of creativity-crushing, nine to five employment, my resources had become discouragingly depleted. Since the expression “you can’t take it with you” applies to my current situation now more than ever, I am confident that the six hundred dollars I managed to haggle for at the pawn shop for Jane’s engagement ring, would carry me through until the end. On a side note, I did feel emasculated after asking Jane for the ring back, but I doubt she would want to cherish it as a keepsake from our dysfunctional relationship. In addition to that, I know for a fact that Jane does not need that measly sum of money, since she has had no problem enslaving herself to a salary ever since she graduated from university. Therefore, I will selfishly reserve the right to keep the six hundred dollars, as it would cover the expenses for my trip clear across the country to my final resting place.
Granted it would be cheaper and effortless to merely terminate my existence where I currently reside, I do however feel compelled to tie up some loose ends while I had the time. Also, it is important to remember that there are no rules when it comes to suicide, which means I could do pretty much whatever I wanted before my pulse slowed down to a deathly still pace. Consequently, I used my remaining week of life on a journey to reconnect with my immediate family. Each of my family members have been equally important to me in their own right- more so than any other people in this world- so I came to the conclusion that sharing my final days with them just made logical sense.
I allotted the first three days of my final week on Earth to driving back to my hometown. Although in terms of time management this may seem like a waste of a finite resource, I made the difficult decision to drive the thirty hour commute across the country instead of the much more convenient four hour plane ride because of safety concerns. Despite the popular belief that there is a higher likelihood of getting into a car crash on the way to the airport than it is to be involved in a plane crash, I cannot in good conscience hand over my fate to a complete stranger. If there is an afterlife, I would be beyond irritated to learn that I had died in a freak accident days before I was able to carry out my own end-of-life plan. Therefore, I will do my best to maintain control of my fate and attempt to do the impossible by avoiding the destructive nature of serendipity.
Since I had only six hundred dollars to carry me through seven days of travel, I had to avoid unnecessary expenditures by making the bold decision to sleep in my car at dangerous rest stops instead of enjoying the comfort of criminally costly motel rooms. I believe this is where the term highway robbery originated, but I could be wrong. In addition to the savings from opting out of booking conventional accommodations, I made the reluctant decision to take on a travel companion in order to save what I could on gas. I must stress that agreeing to travel even a few hundred miles with a complete stranger, not to mention one who relies on internet forums for transportation, is so far out of my comfort zone that I could not imagine a single second of ease and relaxation as long as that person was sitting next to me. However, in the spirit of delayed gratification, I believe that the remaining part of the road trip would be so enjoyable that time would seem to fly by, being spent in absolute isolation. My only hope was that I was not jeopardizing my life by naively spending my last days with an unknown person; for all I know, the cyber hitchhiker may very well been a serial killer.
Enticed by the promise of paying for the gas as far as four hundred miles across the country, I found it hard to reject my travel companion based on my skepticism regarding online encounters- especially arrangements that involve such vulnerability on my part. Nevertheless, on the day of my departure, I picked up a man by the name of Jase Higgins, who appeared to be (through my brief, superficial assessment as I quickly scanned his well kempt, professional demeanor) as normal and well-adjusted as any online solicitor could. The only insecurity I had upon my first impression, was a slight look of disturbance through the man’s troubled eyes. Perhaps I was simply projecting my own inner turmoil on Jase, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was also on a journey to his own self-discovery.
Signaling to Jase as I pulled around the corner, circling around the bus stop shelter he had been standing under, he looked happy- downright excited- to see that his chauffeur had followed through with the arrangement. I popped the truck so he could load his single black suitcase, since my army green duffle bag had taken up most of the backseat- filled with exactly seven white V-neck t-shirts, seven pairs of black socks, seven pairs of black boxer briefs, and one black hooded sweatshirt. To save time over the following week, I chose to eliminate the arbitrary, all together time consuming act of creating matching ensembles by restricting my wardrobe to seven sets of the exact same articles of clothing; I also decided to only bring the pair of jeans I had been wearing as to avoid the temptation to wear another, cleaner, pair after a few days.
Once Jase had finished struggling with his oversized suitcase, he tried to latch the malfunctioning trunk three times before making his way to the passenger side of the car. He began to introduce himself even before entering the car, making me wonder why he felt compelled to save time when we had hours of presumably awkward silences to fill. Conveying the upmost appreciation for allowing him to accompany me on my trip, he followed his expressions of gratitude by complimenting my car. Frustrated by the insincere compliment, I responded by telling him that it was not necessary to extend flattery when flattery was not warranted. I added that I was aware that my vehicle had the motor equivalent of a lawn mower and was as appealing aesthetically as a rusted tugboat, so he needn’t feel the urge to say things that he did not mean. Taken aback by my brutal honesty, he merely remained speechless and averted his beady stare towards the window as if he had noticed something remarkable on the side of the road.
The first hour with Jase had remained blissfully silent, most likely due to my unwarranted outburst upon our initial meeting. As the silence prolonged and my spontaneous outrage dwindled, guilt flooded my overflowing mind, which then provoked me to initiate conversation with my nervously quiet travel companion. Although I did want to make Jase feel more comfortable, the act of engaging in conversation was honestly selfish, since I did not want the final memories of my personality to be unbalanced with negativity. Regardless of the motive for starting a conversation, Jase instantly encouraged small talk by answering me with enthusiasm- as if he had been waiting the entire hour just to answer the simple question, “Where are you going?”
My eager passenger was beyond excited to share the details of his destination with me, despite my innately apathetic and unresponsive demeanor. He enthusiastically explained how he had found difficulty in finding his place in the world, but finally landed the career of a lifetime at a revered medical institution. Intrigued by Jase’s bravery to leave everything he ever knew to start a job at an unknown organization in an unfamiliar city, I involuntarily overcame my indifference by probing deeper into his life-changing decision. Attempting to remain modest despite the pride that exuded from his permanent smile, Jase explained how he had developed an interest in human behaviour, which led him to begin his medical degree, specializing in the field of Psychiatry. This newfound piece of information confirmed my suspicion that Jase had been plagued with a disturbed mental state, due to the fact that I always believed only the truly unbalanced of individuals followed a career path into the demented field of mental health. Moreover, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had prescribed himself a few mood altering pharmaceuticals to induce that unnaturally stiff and manic smile.
Slowly putting the pieces of Dr. Jase Higgins’ life together through his upbeat personal accounts, I quickly became irritated by the apparent string of good fortune that had recently been bestowed upon him. Supposedly, with no more than dumb luck and a piece of academically stamped sheep skin, the owner of a mental health facility had recruited Jase to head the psychiatric department of a demanding hospital ward. As I grew inexplicably jealous of both his ambition and privileged position, I preferred to inquire into his story before turning his life around, in hopes revealing some deranged behaviours or even an unspeakable tragedy that may have left him unable to cope as a functional member of society. I am aware that the misfortune of a complete stranger does not positively impact my life, increase my self-worth, or diminish my shortcomings, but I must admit it does usually make me feel better to compare myself with others- especially individuals who have hit rock bottom at least once in their lives.
Hoping to uncover a dark secret alluding to a tainted upbringing or temporarily shameful existence, I asked Jase the leading question, “So you must’ve been quite the pride and joy to your parents all of your life, haven’t you?” Visibly taken off guard by my implication of his lifetime of perfection, I knew that I had compromised Jase’s confidence. Striking a chord in the recesses of his once optimistic mind, Jase’s lengthy pause reinforced my hope that he had some past misery that would undoubtedly make me feel better about my last days on Earth. Noticing that Jase needed some prompting to share his disheartening memories, I cleared my throat in hopes that he would disregard his reluctance to share what must have been a painful, even traumatic experience, and divulge every heart-wrenching (although personally satisfying) detail.
Responding to my blatantly intrusive cue, Jase stammered on his first words before allowing himself to share his very personal anecdote. “N-n-not always”, he said nervously. I tried to avoid eye contact and focus on the road as to indirectly relieve the pressure of coerced meddling. He continued to recount his story with much difficulty by saying, “I wasn’t a very good son at all, to be honest. My parents tried, but they just couldn’t get me to behave.” Thinking that Jase would continue his story with a laughable account of an insignificant childhood event, perhaps pertaining to eating too much candy or not saying his prayers one night before bed, I became cynical and cut him off by saying, “What? You wouldn’t eat your broccoli or something sick and twisted like that?” Upon hearing my belittling, apparently underestimating, comment, Jase became uncomfortably serious and replied by stating, “Absolutely not. I did an infinitely worse thing and my parents had to suffer the consequences.”
Following the unsettling proclamation of Jase’s supposed evil streak, he remained deep in what looked like painful reflection and chose not to expand on his intense statement. Once again becoming curious as to what he had actually done as a child, I couldn’t help myself but to probe deeper and disregard his overt discomfort regarding the topic. I insensitively asked, “Well, your parents must’ve forgiven you by now, right?” Waiting for a response, I received only uncomfortable silence in return. Wondering if he had not heard my question over the rumble of my overheating engine, I waited a minute or two, then tried to get his attention by repeating the question. This time, instead of silence, Jase turned his head toward me and with the return of his large smile, he said “Forgiven me for what?”
Unwilling to delve back into the mystery of Jase’s repressed childhood, I decided to refrain from asking any more personal questions and counted down the miles until I could drop him off at his destination. I feared that Jase would confirm my fears and end up being a deranged lunatic, which would ultimately compromise my chances of living long enough to carry out my suicide. Fortunately, my intentional silence proved to be effective in keeping Jase’s lunacy at bay until we reached his new workplace. Expecting to be dropping him off at a polished, contemporary looking mental health facility, I was sorely mistaken since the building looked more like a condemned warehouse.
As I pulled into the deserted parking lot, Jase graciously thanked me for both my company and accommodating vehicle, then generously gave me two hundred dollars for gas. Although I was more than happy to accept the excessive payment, I clarified that the amount of gas used up to that point costed no more than fifty dollars. As I tried to hand back three out of four crisp fifty dollar bills back to Jase, he waved his head side to side, chuckling to himself while saying, “No, no, please. It is my pleasure to help you fund your journey. Besides, I expect to be generously compensated here at the Paracelsus Institution.” He then said goodbye, gently closed the door, and rushed to the trunk to retrieve his suitcase. As I drove off, I could see Jase being greeted by an older, skittish gentleman at the front entrance of the institution. Although I rarely commit the arbitrary act of wishing people well, I genuinely hoped to myself that Jase would find what he truly needed, although it seemed to me that his inner demons would soon be realized.
Relieved to not only once again have the car to myself for the remainder of the twenty-five hour trip, but profiting one hundred and fifty dollars for only having to bear the covert insanity of Dr. Jase Higgins for a few hours, had allowed me to make some changes in my airtight budget for the rest of the week. Despite my ameliorated financial situation, I did not want to lose sight of my ultimate goal by enjoying the finer things in life. I have been swayed in previous life changing situations and I was not willing to let that happen this time around. For example, when I had graduated high school, ready to begin my academic career as an undergraduate student with a Major in Philosophy, I had gotten sidetracked on my drive out to the university by a mere help wanted sign at a local campus bar. In a matter of minutes, I had obstructed my life path by opting out of a formal education because of my spontaneous desire to sling suds to drunken college students. Once I had worked at the pub for close to a year, I had finally realized the error of my ways by envying the promising student body who visited that particular watering hole, naively wishing I could be one of them. However, by that point I must have drank more spirits that I had served, because my defective attention span could only carry me through one failed college semester before getting expelled. To make a regrettably long story short, I now acknowledge my susceptibility to be swayed on a moment’s notice and used this knowledge to keep any reasons to live far from my conscious mind.
In order to avoid being reminded of the luxuries of life, I chose to use my recently acquired one hundred and fifty dollar profit to stay at a rundown motel on the side of the highway after a thirteen hour leg of the journey. As much as sleeping in my car at a rest stop seemed fiscally responsible at the start of the road trip, I soon remembered that my door locks had been malfunctioning more often over the past few weeks and I didn’t want Murphy’s Law to dictate my untimely demise at the hands of a blood thirsty transient. Pulling up to the first motel I spotted through my dangerously heavy eyelids, I was unsettled to see the Bates-like motif of the economical lodging. Despite my reluctance to stay at an establishment that seemed like the original breeding ground for bed bugs, I did not trust my ability to drive while half asleep- fellow motorists and woodland creatures alike would have encouraged me to rest for the night.
I slowly exited my car and tried to walk toward the entrance while stretching my stiff, restless legs. Assuming that I looked like a hilarious Monty Python sketch, I was happy to notice that I was the only person around; most likely attributed to the fact that no other rational, self-respecting person would stop at a motel that advertised coin-operated single beds. I quickly wondered why the fact that a bed fit for a single person would warrant a vibrating mechanism, but then halted my perverse train of thought before involuntarily fantasizing about the sexual habits of lonesome travelers. Reaching the door of the First Stop Motel, I had finally worked out the kinks in my legs and was then able to walk with determination, in hopes of getting access to experience one of the proudly advertised, specialty mattresses.
I pushed the door open, triggering a startlingly loud buzzer noise that signaled the presence of a customer. Although I noticed that the buzzer had served its purpose once I saw a homely gentlemen scurry out to greet me at the front desk, it threw me into a frenzy of panic, embarrassingly flailing my hands and simultaneously kicking both of my feet in the air like a martial artist. Humiliated by my exaggerated reaction to the unnecessarily loud signal, I failed to brush it off as a Tourette-induced tick once I reached the counter only be received by the raspy sound of the clerk’s voice saying, “Sorry ’bout that, mister. I’ve been told that the door buzzer is quite loud, though I can barely hear it myself- old farm incident, you see.” As the middle aged man showed me the interior of his nauseatingly unkempt ear canals, I couldn’t resist but to ask him to clarify the farm incident of which he spoke. Responding to the inquisition quite naturally, he had recounted the story as though he had to every customer to be startled by using the off-putting buzzer as a conversational segue. He then continued to share his anecdote with great enthusiasm by re-enacting how a stubborn cow had been quite infuriated by a routine branding and reacted by kicking the man on both sides of his head with its synchronized hooves.
Once the anticlimactic story of the man’s deafening encounter with an angry bovine ended, I tried to steer the conversation in order to land at the possibility of getting into a room for the night. Hoping that a personal connection with the visibly lonely man would result in obtaining the nicest of decrepit rooms in the sub-standard motel, I read his nametag so I could address him by name- it read “Jer”. Assuming that the last two letters “R” and “Y” had faded with time and that the proprietor of the quaint establishment had not felt the need to invest in buying new nametags, I confidently addressed the clerk as “Jerry” and asked him if I could rent a room. Confused by my simple request, the inexplicably befuddled motel clerk repeated his own name, but with an inflection that implied he was asking me to clarify his own name. “Jerry, mister?” he said with confusion. I responded in disbelief by pointing at the corner of his red vest and stating, “Yes…isn’t that your name, Jerry?” Subsequently, the man who apparently was not Jerry looked down at his nametag to inspect my allegation, then smirked the most condescending of smug smiles while he patronized my reading skills by saying, “Do you see an ‘R’ and a ‘Y’ at the end of my name, mister?” Feeling that my confident assumption had insulted the man, I apologized and fed him a blatant lie regarding my debilitating dyslexia. Once hearing about my fabricated learning disability, Jer apologized for his insensitivity, adding that he “knew the world of learning disabilities all too well.”
Although I could have simply apologized for my arrogance attributed to assuming I knew better than a company issued nametag, I have to admit that lying had always been quite entertaining. Even when there was no need to cover the truth, I found it nevertheless amusing to invent details for any given reason. I remember one specific time when I had told Jane that I had a tuna sandwich for lunch, when in actuality, I had a peanut butter sandwich; there was no reason to change the ingredients of an insignificant meal, except for the plain fact that I found amusement in lying. It may not be the most understandable of hobbies, or even the sanest of actions, but I still cannot shake the thrill of inventing a lie and having another person believe it. Having said that, I do not consider myself a pathological liar- as I suspect a mental health professional would- but rather a social liar; compared to an addiction, I wouldn’t necessarily classify myself as an addict, only a social user for occasional entertainment to escape my mundane reality.
Once my lie pertaining to my inexistent dyslexia was believed by Jer, who continued to act ashamed for his insensitivity, I finally received my room key and was expected to have a restful night before putting thousands of miles in my rear-view mirror the following day. Before being able to escape the confines of the drab motel lobby, Jer called me back to the counter to clarify the length of my stay at First Stop Motel. Thinking that I had been clear about my intention to spend one full night at the motel, Jer caught me off guard by asking quite sincerely if I planned on staying for the marjority of the evening. Confused by his use of the term “evening”, since it was well past midnight, I assured him that I would require lodging until the morning. As the confusion relayed between us, like a misunderstood game of tennis, Jer scratched his head and muttered a series of numbers to himself. Hoping to help shed some light on the very simple, yet obviously foreign, concept of renting a room for a night, I specifically told him that I would be fine checking out by six a.m. the next morning, as I wanted to get on the road as early as my fatigued mind would allow. Looking up at me as if I had asked him to solve an impossible math equation, he simply repeated “Yep. Sure.” over and over while he scribbled numbers on a scrap piece of paper, making his stub of a pencil dull as he scratched out each line he had just written.
Trying to avoid being perceived as more intelligent than the motel clerk, I delicately asked Jer if I could help in any way. Relieved, rather than offended by my offer, he wondered how to charge me for the night’s stay if the motel rates were nine dollars per half hour. Disturbed by the motel’s need to provide thirty minute increments of lodging for the undoubtedly seedy clientele, I moved past my disgust by explaining to Jer that since it was 12:15 a.m., I would make it easy and check out at 6:15 a.m.- making it a grand total of fifty-four dollars for the six hour stay. Listening intently to my step by step mathematical explanation, Jer bobbed his head ignorantly until he finally took my word and let me head to my room with a final, “Okay then. Good night, mister.”
As I ventured out of the motel lobby, once again allowing the alarming sound of the door buzzer to give my heart an arrhythmia, I looked down at the key that Jer had given me- an actual key, not a key card, indicating the period of time in which the motel’s owner decided to stand still as technology progressed forward. Noticing that I had been given room number seven and was just approaching room number one, I decided to make the seemingly long trek to my room instead of collecting my duffel bag from my unlocked vehicle. Realizing that it would have only taken mere seconds to retrieve my belongings, I quickly used my skills in time management to decide that those valuable seconds would be better spent asleep. Having been focused on a variety of insignificant issues, not limited to leg pain, exhaustiveness related to Jer’s lack of math skills, and sleep depravity, I noticed that I had not been fixated on planning my upcoming suicide. I find it quite humorous that throughout a life of relatively consistent happy moments, it could only take a series of unpleasant moments to distract myself from my unwillingness to live. I imagine that it would be the other way around for most people, but I have always gone off the beaten path of normalcy.
Unable to keep my eyes open long enough to pass the six doors that led to my room, I let my eyelids shut in hopes that nothing would cross my path until I safely reached the doorstep. Fortunately, I arrived at door number seven unimpeded by my fatigue-induced blindness and struggled with the ancient door lock for a few moments before successfully unlocking it, then lunging through the rickety door, stumbling onto a stained red carpet. As my face made contact with the coarse carpet fibers, I nearly regurgitated in response to the pungent smell as it radiated up my cheek bone and coerced its way into my nostrils. What could only be described as a lethal combination of black mold and sweat from a trucker’s inner thigh, my eyes watered as I guessed as to when the carpet was last shampooed. Immediately following my misty-eyed encounter with the soiled carpet, I realized that the moisture that had accumulated under the stubble of my unshaven face was not a result of my teary eyes, but was instead a collection of mystery liquids that poured into a particularly sunken area of the damp floorboards. Unwilling to guess the unknown liquid, as if I were a contestant in a deranged game show, I clung to my reassuring ignorance while keeping my nauseating guesses at a safe distance from my curious mind.
Needing nothing more than a good night’s sleep, I hoped that the bed spread would contain significantly less moisture and odor before crawling into the over-starched sheets. It may have been a sleep deprived hallucination, but as I peered back the tissue paper thin duvet, I feared that I had seen an insect scurry back under the ill-fitted bed sheet. Far from confident to brave my way into the potentially infested bed, I sacrificed a warm cover for the night and laid deathly still on top of the duvet, hoping not to stir the hidden bug. Embarrassingly scared to move, I started to feel phantom itches on my feet, then my mind exploited my fear of insects by creating imaginary fluttering between my leg hairs. As I laid straight as a board on the unsanitary bed, only moving when my body decided to violently jerk at the thought of a bed bug or spider crawling onto my vulnerable body, I realized that my tiredness had been replaced with unprecedented hypervigilance. Knowing that my attempt at sleeping for a few hours before my 6:15 a.m. check-out was beyond futile, I simply embraced the fact that I could stretch out my legs for a while before once again imprisoning myself in my uncomfortably small car for another twelve hour sentence.
Enjoying only my horizontal position on the bed and nothing else about the creepy, pay-per-minute motel room, I had grown tired of my unrelenting fear of miniscule invaders and welcomed even the slightest distraction. Looking around the room for some entertainment, my eyes locked onto the approximately thirteen inch screen that had been bolted into the wooden dresser at the foot of my single bed. Skeptical of its functionality, I carefully took my left hand and felt around the night table for the presence of a remote control. After a few moments of blindly brushing my hand over unsettlingly moist objects, I finally landed on a flat, rectangular remote control, which had also been bolted to the wooden surface. I had concluded from my keen observations that the motel had been forced to be proactive in the face of local burglary, specifically focusing on stealing electronics from the early nineteen seventies. Expecting the television to not work, as it belonged in a museum of television history rather than in a motel room, I was surprised as my arbitrary pushing of remote buttons signaled the black and white picture to slowly expand, filling the small screen.
Browsing through the ten channels offered by this particularly awful, outdated cable package, I was only able to find two channels that actually had visible programming- compared to the other eight channels that depicted a sensuously displeasing combination of white noise and snow. Since one of the available channels hit too close to home as it was showing a major network’s exposé on the unsanitary and downright disgusting conditions of the average motel room, I chose to watch the other channel. To settle my uneasy mind regarding the presumed army of insects that patiently waited for me to fall asleep before attacking, I was satisfied to watch whatever re-run was playing on the available channel. On the more appealing channel, I found it suitable that the forty-five year old television would be playing an equally aged sitcom. Just like listening to a Beatles album on an old fashioned 33 rpm vinyl record, I enjoyed the authenticity that came with watching that particular show on such an out dated device- I felt as though I was watching its premiere, in the format its creators intended, like many individuals did decades ago.
Even though the era-appropriate, light-hearted content of this nineteen seventies show was delightfully entertaining in a way that cannot be found in contemporary television programming, my mind was once again pulled away to fixate on my short, ominous future. Oddly enough, there is nothing like a positive, heart-warming theme to evoke an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Perhaps it would have been beneficial to instead watch the news special where they take black lights to motel bed spreads, so that my primarily pessimistic mind would have had a negative outlet. However, being taunted by the innocent repartee between television actors playing loving family members was enough to send me into a frenzy of despair. Unable to think about anything other than the planned sequence of events that would transpire this upcoming Sunday evening, my heart was in a neck-to-neck race with my mind, making me feel as though the inside of my body was trying to escape through my tightly wrapped skin, provoked by the incessant screaming of my inner monologue.
Trying to predict whether I would have a simple panic attack or feel compelled to facilitate my suicidal plans earlier than scheduled as a way to escape the torture that had blanketed both my body and rational mind, I merely shut down. Much like a mechanism that cuts off power to a machine that is dangerously overheating, my body saved me from spontaneous combustion by triggering my sleep mode. If I hadn’t fallen asleep at that very moment, I can’t say whether or not I would have ventured out to my car and retrieved the lethal tool that I had brought along for Sunday evening. I can in fact say that I am happy that the entire process was not spoiled by a barrage of fleeting thoughts, since it would have been the equivalent of having someone spoil a surprise birthday party a few days before the event- very disappointing, not to mention anticlimactic.
Fortunately, my consuming thoughts of dreadful memories and self-loathing behaviors were powerful enough to distract me from my fear of the potential creepy crawlers under the covers. Thanks to my obsessive mind, I was able to get upwards of four uninterrupted hours of sleep, snuggly wrapped in layers of unwashed sheets. Despite the guarantee that I would leave the First Stop Motel with a fungal infection, it had nevertheless served its purpose, which allowed me to get back on the road and continue my journey onwards. Having been sufficiently subjected to the despicable conditions of my motel room, I opted out of a morning shower as a way to avoid witnessing an atrocious mess or unnerving, mystery stain that might warrant a call to the local police station. Instead, I walked back to the motel reception office to return my bulky room key and bid an ultimate farewell to the affably dim witted clerk, Jer. Although I predicted another conversation with the developmentally disabled clerk to be both exhausting and frustrating, I couldn’t help but look forward to saying another final goodbye- the third of many final good byes to come.
Walking into the motel reception, first preparing myself for the startling door buzzer as to avoid another humiliating spasm, I anticipated Jer to exude the same welcoming demeanor as the night before. Successfully walking into the lobby without reacting violently, I walked over to the counter and waited for Jer to rush out in response to the buzzer. After waiting a few minutes, with no sign of the clueless clerk to be found, I looked around the room to see what had been keeping him. As my anticipation turned into impatience, I noticed there had been a nearly illegible, handwritten sign posted on the far wall of the lobby that read, “No clerk today due to emergency. Put room key on counter before checking out. –Management.” Assuming the worst, I feared that Jer had been involved in a life threatening incident at some point during the night, preventing me from giving him a proper goodbye. The possibility that his life had been compromised in the face of a sudden illness or tragic event made me confident that I had made the right choice in ending my own life; the never ending possibility of death continued to seem much more unsettling and fearsome than choosing the time, place, and process of my own death.
Unusually chipper for someone who had suspected a new acquaintance of dying- unusual in the normative sense, however quite usual for my personality- I enthusiastically left the motel lobby and made the short walk across the parking lot to my car. Upon reaching my rusted excuse for transportation, the ease with which I was able to open the door, dug an instant pit in my stomach now knowing that the intermittently dysfunctional locking mechanism had chosen the previous night to malfunction. Hoping that there hadn’t been any morally bankrupt travelers who had taken advantage of my shoddy anti-theft system, the ounce of faith I once had in humanity had disappeared once I noticed that my duffel bag was not in the backseat where I had left it.
Engaging in a juvenile display of aggravation, I climbed out of my car and slammed the door as hard as I could- ironically jostling the door hard enough to make the locking mechanism secure the door shut with infuriatingly bad timing. Now that I had successfully, yet unintentionally locked all of the doors with a wildly ineffective and now inconvenient locking system, I had to perform the difficult task of breaking into my own car. Overly self-aware, I tried to choose the least embarrassing and destructive entry route before making any snap decisions. After a few minutes of contemplation, since I had no knowledge or ability pertaining to the locksmith trade, I excluded all but two options, including breaking one of the four windows, then reaching in to manually unlock the door, or jimmying the truck and entering from the rear. The only issue with the latter was that if I were successful in gaining access to the trunk, I would still have to force through the rear seats, since I did not have a fancy latching device with which most vehicles are equipped. Suspecting that I would cause more damage to the vehicle by tearing through the back seats, I ruled that out as an option and proceeded by grabbing a nearby rock and smashing the driver’s side window.
Immediately after shattering the driver’s side window, I was filled with regret due to the fact that I should have probably chosen one of the other three windows to smash, which would have allowed me to avoid hearing and feeling harsh sixty mile per hour cold winds in my ear for the next thousand or so miles. Realizing that my retrospection is typically delayed until seconds after committing a regretful act, I came to terms with my ill-advised actions and started to carefully pick pieces of window pane from the driver’s seat. Closely inspecting the interior of the car for hidden shards of glass, I lowered my head to the fabric of the seat to ensure I would not receive a painfully sharp surprise a few miles down the road. Passing my lengthy inspection, I still was hesitant to put my full weight on the seat, so I delicately floated down, putting more pressure on the backrest than on the seat below. As I found it hard to manage the gas and brake pedals with my torso raised uncomfortably high on the backrest, I clenched my eyes and lowered my body, expecting to feel the aftershock of my recent stupidity.
Wiggling around to make sure all shards of glass were removed before beginning to drive, my backside seemed free from what I believed would have resulted in unimaginably excruciating pain. Therefore, I put my car in gear and started down the highway, only able to focus on the irritating fact that my belongings had been stolen. Not that my sets of seven articles of clothing were of intrinsic or financial value, my frustration pertained to the fact that besides my clothing, I had a substance in that bag that would facilitate an easy transition into death- and a subsequent afterlife if billions of religious individuals proved to know something I didn’t. What should have been an easy sequence of events, had turned out to just be a hassle. To be honest, I blame this royal glitch on none other than Jase Higgins. If he would have simply paid me what he owed, rather than be an unnecessarily generous hitchhiker, I would have never been in the privileged position to rent a motel room. Moreover, if I had stuck to my original plan and rested in the car, I would have been present to protect the one thing that meant the world to me. I hate to come across as unappreciative, but it drives me up the wall to think of the audacity of some people; the world would be a better place if everyone committed to what was expected of them, offering nothing more and nothing less.
For hours into the second leg of my road trip, I could not shake the unsettling feeling that a gigantic hole had been drilled into my otherwise flawless plan. The worst part of it was that I hadn’t the slightest clue of how to bridge the gap between a setback and my final ambition. It wasn’t like I could simply stop at a family owned general store and replace something that had taken much effort and searching to obtain. Even if I could locate a replacement, I risked the possibility of getting caught by law enforcement, which would result in not only having to spend more time on this planet, but forced to spend that extra time confined in a prison, truly trapped by the domineering hands of society. Feeling as though I had hit a wall, unable to use my self-proclaimed skill of resourcefulness, my mind exhausted nearly every legal means of obtaining what I desired. Unfortunately, since certain lethal substances remained off-limits to the minority of law abiding citizens, where others such as alcohol and tobacco remained widely accessible, in constant supply, I would have to take an alternate route and procure the object illegally upon my arrival in my hometown. Although the circle of peers with whom I used to associate consisted primarily of straight-edged individuals with intact moral compasses, I would not have a hard time finding the proper black market connection once I spoke with my younger brother, Danny.
Perhaps my favorite out of my three siblings, Danny was the person I looked forward to seeing the most. This favoritism had always been unexplained and quite frankly, illogical, due to the fact that he has always tested my patience and made a valiant effort in trying my very last nerve. Unlike my two twin sisters, Maggie and Lizzie, who tried time and time again to cater to their oldest, most revered brother, Danny always received the majority of my respect- maybe it was because he didn’t want my respect to begin with. Contrary to myself, Danny always found comfort with his unique personality and disregarded the critical opinions of others, especially those from family members. On the other hand, Maggie and Lizzie were shamefully similar to me, never happy with their own innate quirks and forever worried about the opinions of others, especially those from family members. Consequently, I never felt the urge to compliment their attributes or praise their accomplishments because they were overtly desperate for it. To illustrate my point, during Maggie and Lizzie’s high school graduation, I chose not to attend the ceremony, but to instead cheer on Danny at a dart tournament at a local pub, Junior’s. Looking back, I must say I do feel a profound sense of guilt, but I cannot and will not apologize for a decision that came so naturally at the time.
As I continued to think about my family in the same exact sequence as I always did, my mind routinely proceeded to wonder about my parents. Being polar opposites in terms of personality, my mother and father had each passed down their own unique traits to me and my siblings. My father’s predominant characteristics must have trickled down to Maggie, Lizzie, and myself, since he was just as self-aware and insecure- if not more- than we were. My mother, Kelly, on the other hand, shared her confident, independent characteristics with Danny, making them both the envy of the household. I never understood how a marriage could be so successful when one spouse was so much more secure; I would imagine that my father’s insecurity would annoy my mother to no end and that my mother’s unwavering confidence would in turn exacerbate my father’s low self-worth. However, it is apparent that I understand very little about marriage, since my parents have been happily married for nearly thirty years and continue to illustrate the depiction of an abnormally heart-warming storybook marriage.
In opposition of the growing trends of fickle marriages and premature divorces, my parents had truly set the bar impossibly high when it came to constructing and maintaining a perfect, seemingly effortless, relationship. As much as I am proud of the consistently strong- virtually invincible- relationship that my parents have never stopped building over decades with layers upon layers of devotion and limitless love, I do have to say that I resent it much more. Growing up as the product of a perfect marriage left me with the naïve assumption that I too would have the competency to find my soulmate. I assumed that I could effortlessly stumble upon the same kind of untainted love that I had been familiar with during my formative, especially impressionable years. Unlike my unbelievably fortunate parents, I quickly learned that obtaining and subsequent maintenance of true love was the most difficult of tasks. For this reason, I do resent my parents for instilling an unrealistic understanding of romance, thereby stunting my ability to find my perfect match. As a consequence of this selfish portrayal of unattainable love, I lacked not only the patience to screen various partners, but also the patience to work on relationship issues to eventually form a healthy bond. Bound by my impatience, I could never shake the idea that love should be easy, which has led me to disregard any woman who displays the slightest bit of resistance- including Jane.
As my train of thought made the ill-advised route past gut-wrenching memories of Jane and our failed engagement, I tried with all of my might to avoid fixating on a particularly regretful milestone. Despite my futile attempt at pleading with my conscious mind to repress any and all aspects of what I was about to recollect, the vivid re-enactment of my marriage proposal had come flooding back to my forefront of my mind. Unlike typical engagement stories, where the groom-to-be plans every detail of the proposal for months, asks the woman’s parents for their blessing, then proceeds to nervously ask the love of his life to spend the rest of her existence in infinite exclusivity, my story is quite the opposite in almost every aspect. Instead of planning the proposal for months, I drunkenly proposed to Jane in the spur of the moment as a way to prove my level of commitment and ultimately win a week-long fight in light of an accusation that I had been looking elsewhere for intimacy. As for asking Jane’s parents for their blessing, I definitely went the other way in the face of that chauvinistic tradition, by instead including in my proposal a bold statement along the lines of, “Let’s get married despite what your parents may think.” Finally, begrudgingly reminiscent of my less than valiant- and wildly unromantic- proposal methods, I admit that my anxious and nervous demeanor was replaced with a hostile tone of voice, as I blatantly shouted my vow of commitment to Jane between sips of beer.
Successfully instilling as much remorse as my vulnerable ego could handle, I was able to distract myself from the deafening current of rapid winds that coursed through my broken window as I made headway down the highway. After several hours being lost in deep, self-loathing recollection, I had decided that despite my ability to thrive on negative emotions, I needed to channel my despair through a different outlet- at least for a few hundred miles. In order to lift my spirits and mindlessly travel across another significant part of the country, I assigned myself the extremely important task of choosing the perfect song to listen to as I prepare for the end of my life in a mere five days.
I believe that my life is like a poignant documentary, which makes it understandable to want an incredible soundtrack to accentuate my life’s most significant moments. Up to now, I have successfully introduced perfect songs to my greatest milestones, like when I bribed the sound technician at my high school graduation ceremony to play Green Day’s “Time of Your Life” as I walked across the stage. Although I felt intensely empowered by being carried across the stage by this generic rock classic, the response I received from classmates and teachers alike, was primarily hostile as it appeared as though I was trying to steal the spotlight from the graduates. In my defense, I was not trying to divert the attention from any of my classmates, the act was purely self-gratifying; I merely had no regard for my fellow graduates.
In hopes of recapturing the empowerment felt on that day, despite the reality of accomplishing what countless teenagers do every year, I knew that my suicide would truly be complete if I were to fade away to the perfect composition. On that note, I frantically searched through my playlist to find the song “Not Fade Away”, which I believed would create a chilling juxtaposition between the act and the lyrics. However, what stumped me about this particular tune was that I couldn’t decide between the Buddy Holly original or the Rolling Stones cover, since both were equally notable. Jumping back and forth between the two musical masterpieces for nearly an hour down a deserted stretch of backwoods highway, I couldn’t bring myself to choose one. I was not comfortable partaking in such bold favoritism for arguably the most important time of my life, which led me to abandon that title all together. This difficult decision inspired my first rule for picking the perfect song: I could not pick a title that has been covered by an equally impressive artist or band. This newly enforced rule unfortunately ruled out “All Along the Watchtower” and of course with a heavy heart, “Blackbird”.
Excited by my incorporation of rules into the process of finding a ballad suitable for suicide, I eagerly introduced another rule to ensure that the final choice would be unmatched in caliber, creativity, and originality. The second rule I had devised to protect the integrity of my final choice was that I had to stray away from any title that included the words “the end” as to avoid choosing a predictable song. Therefore, as much as they are beloved classics and I wouldn’t have m inded hearing either of these as the last tune I’d ever hear, The Beatles’ inspirational final composition “The End” and The Doors’ morose “The End” both had to be ruled out for consideration. Disappointed by my own rigid guidelines, I reluctantly moved past several stellar song choices and continued to find one that encompassed my entire being and exemplified my time spent here on Earth.
By the time I had set my second rule, I had realized that the sun had disappeared from the horizon, leaving a pitch black void above the spacious road. Having been exceptionally enthralled with my musical selection, I hadn’t even noticed that the neon digital clock on my dashboard indicated that it was past midnight, officially making it Wednesday- one day closer to the end (not the song, but the act). Realizing that I had mindlessly driven just over nine hundred miles and that I would reach my hometown in a matter of a few hours, I was not yet ready to enter into the city limits at such a late hour. I wanted to stay true to how I envisioned showing up at my childhood home, hoping to arrive unannounced in the middle of my family’s breakfast, being welcomed by surprised smiles and shrieks of excitement. Although I would do everything in my power to manipulate the variables of my arrival to receive the welcome I felt I deserved, I dreaded that every time I fantasized about a perfect moment, I would end up disappointed and sorely misled by my hopeful imagination.
Trying as hard as I could to control the events of the following morning, I decided to pull over for a few hours to appeal to my resistant and overly active mind in hopes of falling into a comforting slumber. Unwilling to replay the unsettling events of the previous night’s stay at the bug infested inn, I chose to go forth with my original plan by merely stopping at the nearest rest stop and sleeping on the side of the road. Once I pulled over, I instantly realized that in addition to the dangerously dysfunctional door locks, I had increased my chances of inviting a murderous hitchhiker or blood thirsty bear into my vehicular accommodations through the smashed window. Rather than spend the entire night jumping in response to nonthreatening sounds from outside my nonexistent window, I attempted to reduce my perceived vulnerability by sleeping on the passenger side. I figured that if a predator chose to exploit the easy access of the broken window, I would have time to flee from the passenger side and sprint into the protective cover of the adjacent woods. I had not accounted for the possibility of having more than one predator approach my car at any given time, but quickly dismissed the scenario as unlikely in order to coax my heartbeat into a tranquil rhythm.
Fortunately, it was much easier to fall asleep knowing that I was safe from the heinous conditions of the First Stop Motel, as well as having a focal point to direct my chaotic mind. Even though my mind continued to race off the fumes of music selection induced adrenaline, I could feel the gradual deceleration of my rapid mind- like the wheels of a train being forced to screech as the brakes are forcibly applied. Involuntarily instigating my mind to retrieve dreadful memories or focus on what awaited me at my family home, my mind finally shut down, allowing me to drift off into a peaceful sleep.
