Self Sunset
A Short Story
ABOUT THE WRITER
Andrew S. Birch is a writer from Las Vegas, NV focusing on extreme, erotic and transgressive writing. Volume 1 of short stories and art is available via www.samhel.com with sales going to two new books.
The night is long and rough, and my mind can't take it. Feeling overwhelmed, I stare into the setting sun. Seventy-two floors up, the wind is blowing slightly, and the door was unlocked, almost like I was invited here. The only issue I see with ending my life now is the impact my death will have seventy-two floors down. I will become a puddle, strings of meat spread across the concrete sidewalk. Flesh will lay upon cracked bones, muscle tissue, and organs. A nice family, unaware of the situation that will haunt them for the rest of their lives, may end up burning clothes stained with me on them. That is my main concern—well, that and somehow being alive for a few seconds after I land. Even if it's just a second or two, the thought of feeling what it's like to be a blob on the sidewalk terrifies me.
Standing at the edge, I've been contemplating this for too long now. I hear the door I entered burst open, and the police are there, ironically holding their weapons at my back. If I were shot and died on the way down, it would alleviate the fear of being alive upon landing. I don't think I'll worry too much about what my death will do to the people below. The chatter from the police is making it hard to focus on my internal dialogue. I turn to face the officers and inch closer to the ledge. This will be an interesting last moment.
"Don't do it, there's a lot to live for... blah, blah, blah," is all I hear, a chorus of chants from officers with their pistols drawn. One woman stands out—she's going to be very traumatized; I can see it on her face already. Her gun is by her hip, and she's the only one not trying to talk me out of it. She seems just sort of in shock. I'm going to stare at her as I fall. I nod at her and see her face, and as I tip over the edge, it just goes blank.
All I can think about, as the wind slows down and this eight-second trip feels like eight minutes, is how the police officers tried to persuade me not to kill myself—with weapons. It's very...