Disclaimer: This article contains sensitive material about suicide.
“Myth of Sisyphus?”
“Nor have I.”
And silence enveloped them as they sat on the porch gazing at the clouded night sky.
The laurel bushes weren’t like the way they were the night before. The streetlight shone down on it and it evinced a flowery grave, hastily put together for a knife with the pungent red liquid on it, now dried. The owner of the house is inside anxiously and nervously weeping in bereavement. He had popped 3 dispersible 1mg Clonazepam tablets, yet no sign of relief.
“David Foster Wallace?”
“Hmm…”…as she slid her hand inside his jeans.
“Did you know he committed the act too?”
They kissed the sweet sweet nectar off each other’s lips and embraced each other in a sort of inexplicable sordid feeling, what other might mistake as love. Je ne sais quoi. Maybe it was love but they didn’t know. But what they did that night might go down as an apotheosis of philosophical absurdity.
The night before, the laurel bushes only saw the monochromatic yellowish hue of the streetlights and no nictitating stars in the starkly dark sky…so dark that it could be sliced open like an eye and the dark liquid, darker than what the knife saw would ooze out of it.
The fenestration, the windowpanes on the heard muffled screams that were loud enough to disturb a good night’s sleep of the neighbors and induce some sort of a nightmarish state in them as they moved way past the R.E.M.
He carried her to the bedroom and almost ripped apart each other’s clothes in the heat of passion and perspiration the size of dew on morning leaves surfaced on their skins as they made love at the dead of the night. It was his first night without the rubber and their first time with the vial by the bedside.
He sobbed through the night into the early somewhat hastened and ugly, foggy dawn. But he hadn’t forgotten to hide the kitchen knife in the backyard garden they had so lovingly created together. Viviane lay there asphyxiated and Joanna was under the bloody sheets. Joy had wilted like a rose and withered into the dusty wind. He sobbed through the night without a bloody resolution and with fear in his heart.
Viviane saw Mom and Dad fight. Viviane saw Dad wave the shiny kitchen knife furiously at Mom and Mom point her long finger at Dad. Viviane saw Dad drive that shiny knife into Mom’s guts and saw her spill that thick, bright, red liquid and look at Dad with dismay and shock. Viviane let out a shrill cry and started crying. Viviane saw Mom writhe in pain on the floor and the maroon carpet turn darker. She remembered crying her eyes out and standing prostrate in the corner, scared of everything that she saw – the whirring ceiling fan, her mother’s dead eyes, her Dad’s sobs and shivers, the bloody knife… Viviane remembered Dad rushing to her and putting her to bed. Viviane remembered Dad choking her to sleep and her not being able to breathe…
They lay there…in post-coital bliss.
“Are you ready?”
He asked, lovingly as he caressed her smiling lips. She gently nodded her head.
“Romeo and Juliet?”
She laughed and kissed him. Then both of them wept a little.
They both drank from the vial and kissed the world goodbye.
He rushed. Was there a rope somewhere? What has he done? WHAT HAS HE DONE? He immediately ran to the garden and dug a hole to bury the bloodied kitchen knife. What about his hands? What about the hands that took away his wife and daughter? How does he avenge them? He hastily dug out the knife to slit his wrists. He presses it against his jugular vein that now has a strabismic pulse. No, he can’t do it.
He quietly starts his car and drives with the intent of getting out of town and possibly killing his strabismic pulse at a stop. He kept the option of crashing and dying open. But he just fucking can’t do it. He sobs through the whole ordeal. But he just fucking can’t kill himself.
Ah! The absurdity of death by self. Romeo and Juliet lay dead clutching each other’s hands, with a unified smile on their faces and foam on the pillows. Viviane lay on the bed, blue. The Mom lay on the floor all red. Meanwhile, the Dad drives through the night yet he cannot commit what might seem like an infallible fallacy in this case. A fugitive from that night onwards, but he cannot commit suicide. Te judice, may I say that suicide is a brave act?
A dog howls at 0300. A car is found toppled with a mangled body inside it at 0748 in the morning.
Two suicides, one a present, one a fear born out of fear, carried out by fear and ended with fear stood on two plateaus, two opposite cliffs with a tumultuous nadir, a truculent ocean between them. The belligerent waves stand as the dichotomy and the watery ether that separates the two acts. One by will, one by absence of will. One driven by love, one driven by hatred. One voluntary one involuntary. But eschaton for all of them.
Two sides of the ocean,
One bellicose, one tranquil
Two ships of the same man
One burdened, one free
One made of blood and bones
One made of rosewood
Yet what pushed them to the chasm I just saw?
Il n’y a qu’un problème philosophique vraiment sérieux : c’est le suicide – Albert Camus