On September 28, 2016, at the age of twenty years old, I decided to die.
I was driven by my ominous emotional deficiency to commit suicide. My inability to wrap my brain around the foreign and disturbing way I viewed the world made me chronically bored no matter what I did; my extreme aggressive behavior was short-lived and every accomplishment was followed by some sort of emotional comedown. I thought I’d grow out from my abnormal behavior and become a better, more decent person, but looking back I knew I’d be fooling myself if I thought I could change. I was just a demented chameleon, conveniently changing in the face of different circumstances by picking whichever personality seemed useful to me. There wasn’t a definitive, real version of me. It was all just a perfect fabrication. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy some of it; making people believe I was a specific person with very minimal effort elevated my established sense of pride. But then it became so effortless and I started losing track of my different personas which eventually led me to lose interest in playing the game. Although I felt like I’ve seen and experienced a big part of life, I was completely aware a lot of things would’ve been left undiscovered if I decided to go through with the termination of my existence; however, I didn’t care.
I was never a stranger to suicide. My friend Robert killed himself back in high school and that immediately created an effect. The thought of suicide became a consolation through tough times. I thought of it almost daily, sometimes even more than once a day. Knowing I was perfectly capable of doing it was what sustained me all these years. One day, though, the black gloom hovering over me every single day since I was fifteen was more powerful than usual. I woke up that morning and decided I wanted to do it, that it had to happen. Before that, I’ve been delaying it, shuddering at the thought of throwing my life away when a potential positive change could be waiting for me right around the corner.
I remember waking up to noises; regular everyday noises I’d usually not pay attention to since I was used to hearing them. That day, everything looked and felt different; that’s because I had I finally decided to put an end to my life. All of a sudden, I was so aware of everything in my surroundings; my sense of awareness had boosted. Ironically, I was feeling more alive than ever.
I had an appointment to meet up with a client and have my last sexual encounter right before completely clearing myself from this world. In my mind, having sex right before I died was the best way to go.
Since I wasn’t afraid of death as much as I was afraid of dying, I had to thoroughly consider my options before choosing one. I knew I definitely didn’t want to suffer and that my method had to guarantee my death. Shooting myself was the easiest way to do it, but obtaining the weapon wasn’t. I had to be twenty-one and pass a federal background check to get a purchase permit which wasn’t going to happen, so I had to illegally get one online. It was hard for me to trust any of the sites, though, and I eventually came across an online auction site with a message board that allowed me to communicate with retailers and gun owners. I started chatting with a guy who lived around my area, and he agreed to sell me one of his handguns. The following day, I changed into a t-shirt and jeans and texted him; we agreed to meet at the corner of a strip club on Hienz street.
Walking in empty streets at night, I kept looking at calendars and posters of events that were to take place in the next couple of weeks; I closed my eyes and tried to conceive this idea of the world existing and going on without me in it and surprisingly it didn’t feel that bad. I pictured myself laying in my grave deep within the earth, my mind completely silent. I cried, but not because I was sad but because I didn’t care. There’s something troubling about a person who doesn’t care about his own life. I knew that I had no purpose and that I stood no chance at living with my afflictions; whatever those were. What mainly pushed me to go that far was the fact I knew very well that no one could truly accept me for who I was; that no one could love me because I was unlovable.
Outwardly I was all confidence and valiant; inwardly I was spiteful and unable to relate properly to the rest of the world. The adult world was a deplorable and savage place to be in, and I had to fake empathy to pretend I understood how someone around me felt when I actually couldn’t even care less.
I don’t know the real cause of my flaws. What I know is that when I was young and all the way through my teenage years, my decisions were made for me. Everything was decided by my parents, until I made the life-changing decision to move to the States and take control of things. However, I think it was too late. I grew up to be immature, with an unrealistic life plan characterized by my thrive for instant gratifications, believed I was entitled to things, and I still do. Admitting how I feel and the way I perceive myself won’t change a thing. I’m stuck. That’s who I’ve always been and who I always will be. I tried to change and make a smooth transition into adulthood, but obviously I couldn’t. And so, I found myself a grown up, and everyone expected me to do things and accept the harsh side of life. But it was too late. I wasn’t ready back then, and I don’t think I’ll ever be. I had to get myself out there, find a job and make a living just like everyone else. In my college years, after I quit being an escort, I looked for other effortless ways to make money; I donated plasma and stole merchandise from poorly secured stores and sold them to others. But I couldn’t keep going like this, I got sick of it and felt like a total loser. To get better jobs that consisted a little bit more effort, I made stuff up on my resume and sent them to small companies whose employers I knew wouldn’t bother digging into my background or calling my fake references. All I had to do was present myself the best way possible, and be confident and extremely persuasive and ambitious during jobs interviews. Even then, I didn’t succeed.
Looking back, I can’t possibly think of one reason that pushed me to thrive and fight my way through life because deep inside I really didn’t care what happened to me. That kind of strong drive is something only ambitious people possess, but I know I have it in me too. What I can’t figure out is why. I guess it’s because of the image I’ve been wanting to build for myself rather than the substance behind it. I didn’t want to be taken for a fool and so I quickly realized building a façade was key to convince people I was smart and unique instead of admitting I had nothing special to offer. My obsession with class and snobbery instilled in me unattainable life expectations I was afraid I couldn’t live up to.
I arrived to the meeting place, walked deeply inside the dark alley and found him standing against the wall. He appeared withdrawn and tongue-tied, but it wasn’t like I wanted to socialize with him anyway. I gave him the cash in exchange for the gun and left immediately after. The gun added a lot of weight to my backpack I couldn’t try and forget it was there. I took the bus to the hotel and met my client around the lobby. He checked me out before we made our way upstairs and for a second I thought he was about to reconsider, but he went with it. We walked to room 103: My death room. He opened the door and let me in first. He walked over to the window and checked the outside before closing the curtains. He remained socially inept and turned on the lamp. I put my bag down on the floor and took off my hoodie. When I turned, he was staring at me. I remained immobile and just stood there, numb and unengaged. It was the only way for me to go through the night; by acting as if I wasn’t there. He approached me and started to undress me. He pushed me to the wall before going down on his knees and sucking me off. He then stood up and I did the same. I kept stopping because I was too distracted, my eyes focused on my backpack, knowing the gun was inside, waiting. I kept thinking about it throughout. As we fucked, I imagined blowing my brains out, blood splashing on his face, turning it all red and sticky.
He left the room, leaving me all to myself with a couple hundreds scattered on the nightstand. I stayed seated on the bed for a while, his cum slowly spreading down the inside of my thighs. I cleaned up and moved over to the desk and put the gun on it. I turned on the lamp and stared at it. The moment felt trivial. I was used to being surrounded by tragedy I was no longer shocked or frightened by things like suicide or death. I tried thinking about reasons to reconsider but I couldn’t think of any. I held the gun to my face, and the shape of it as well as its close proximity instantly terrified me. I started to hesitate but remained determined to do it. I grabbed some of the money off the table and left the room. I walked over to the convenience store nearby and bought a bottle of vodka and walked back to the hotel. I turned on the TV for background noise which helped ease the tension but only for a little bit. I gulped half the bottle until my throat got sore and waited for the alcohol to kick in before grabbing the gun again, dizzy and unfocused. I positioned it right next to my ear before moving it down under my chin, then putting it in my mouth, the cold gun barrel grinding between my teeth. I then motioned it towards my mouth, my hand all shaky, my heart rate the highest it has ever been. I paused briefly and tried to make a deal with myself one last time.
“Don’t do it, Felix. Don’t do it to yourself today. Give yourself six more months. If your life doesn’t drastically change, then do it.”
Before I even knew it, though, my sloppy hand jerked and aimed low as I accidentally fired it, the bullet hitting me right in the shoulder. I collapsed backwards and started bleeding profusely. I panicked and left the room.
I threw the gun in a garbage can and tried walking to my place to treat the injury, but halfway there I started to get tired and felt myself fading. Next thing I know I’m on a gurney being inserted into an ambulance. The paramedics kept asking me what happened and due to my distress I kept pretending I didn’t hear them until we made it to the hospital. I used the few minutes I had during our commute to think of a made-up story; something they’d believe. I couldn’t come up with anything until I arrived at the emergency room where I caught a quick newsflash on the television screen announcing a couple of people as victims of a crossfire that had just happened downtown next to the Pedestrian Mall half an hour before I was rescued. A fight had broken out between two gangs at the intersection of Burlington and Clinton and a decent amount of people were in the area when the incident happened. Gathering the minimal amount but valid details, I claimed I was in the area when the shooting happened. The weapons used were small caliber guns that shoot bullets similar to the one stuck in my shoulder. Jackpot!
I was rushed to the operating room upon my arrival after doctors assessed the extent of the damage and immediately worked on controlling it. The bullet severed my axillary artery, and I was lucky I was taken in before all my blood gushed out. I’m glad it didn’t hit the bone. The police was notified after doctors concluded I was a victim of a gunshot wound and I let them jump to their obvious conclusions. When the cops arrived, they walked into my room and began to interrogate me. They asked me rudimentary questions about what happened and I tried to be as helpful as I could while remaining a bit vague, like I was so taken in the trauma and my pain that I couldn’t focus properly. There were no further questions and I was released after my recovery and had to undergo physical therapy to get full control of my arm again.