With the gun in your mouth it’ll be tough to write. The gun won’t be the problem – your hand will
be the problem. You’ll be holding the
gun with your right hand and writing with your left. That means your writing will be virtually
indecipherable. Your wife, after
watching you try to struggle for twenty minutes, will sigh and take over
holding the gun for you.
“Fffnks hmmy,” you’ll mumble into the barrel. She’ll smile at you politely and then, once
your eyes return to the page, roll her entire head and mouth the words fucking retard at the top of your head.
With her holding the gun, and a fresh piece of loose-leaf in
front of you, the lettering writing process will be much easier. Occasionally you’ll show it to your wife, and
she’ll nod and smile and offer suggestions (referring to yourself as a
worthless impotent piece of shit instead of just a worthless piece of garbage,
for example) and, within ten minutes, you’ll have a suicide note that would
make a rock star proud.
Heart swelling with pride, you’ll hand the note to your wife
and then take hold of the gun again. She’ll
nod politely at you and then trot back behind the couch, where she’ll watch
you, highball glass in hand, as you pull the trigger.
The bullet will tear through the flesh of your left cheek
with a heat that you wouldn’t have expected.
You were under the impression that firing a gun inside your mouth would,
if anything, render your entire body insensate, but instead the fierceness of
the energy discharged by the gun will rattle your entire skeleton. Your teeth will be vibrating in a ghostly
fashion, your face will be hot, and your cheek will simply not feel anything
anymore.
Pain will be overridden by shock. Half of your face, torn off by the relatively
small nine millimeter round, will simply feel insubstantial. Your wife, horrified, will drop her glass
and run over to you.
“Oh god,” she’ll murmur, clutching your head to her breast
as blood gushes out of your face. It
will be unclear what she is thinking to you in this moment, unclear what she
was thinking up to this moment.
It won’t be until you mumble “Honey, I think I messed it up,”
barely coherent through shattered teeth and shock numbed tongue, that she’ll
begin to cry and the two of you will know, really know, for the first time in
your lives that you actually love one another.
Congratulations on Failing at Killing Yourself!
