"Worth a Shot"
by Michael Dell
He was halfway through the note before he realized no one would ever care to read it. He turned the paper over on his desk and left it cold. He placed the pen back in its proper position at the right side. The pen should always be on the right. A place for everything, everything in its place. He stood from his desk. The closet. He hoped he had enough rope.
Hangers. Boxes of boxes. Light bulbs. Coats and hats suitable for all occasions and climates. Scarves. An umbrella. No rope. Why did he think he'd have rope?
The apartment was Africa hot. The windows were still closed. He didn't bother to open them when he came home. He had other things on his mind. Where could he get some rope? He loosened his tie. Perspiration was marking his shirt. A sweaty shirt with a loose tie. He wiped his generous forehead with the back of his right hand and pushed what was left of his hair into place. His glasses were pinching his nose. They always pinched his nose. He couldn't think. He took them off and rubbed his eyes. Why was it so damn hot? Inspiration dawned with another fitful tug of his tie.
He had lots of ties. He was required to wear them. A professional appearance is part of a professional life. He'd only need one more. He put back a green one upon fearing it would clash with his blue slacks. He sat on the edge of his bed, its sheets unkempt from the previous night's tossing and turning. The skinny end of the second tie was knotted to the fat end of the one he was wearing. Over, under, around. Tight. He was a boy scout. His work was tested and found secure. Hands branded white and red from the strain. It would hold.
Careful not to trip, he walked back to the living room with the conjoined neckwear held clear of the ground. The only thing he could think to use was the curtain rod above the main window. The rod itself wouldn't be strong enough, but the braces anchoring it to the wall seemed as reliable as any elevated point in the apartment.
The desk chair was needed once more. He ushered it to the window and took his rightful place of honor. The heat really was extraordinary. The veins in his neck bulged against the tie. He forced it as tight as he could. Face flushed with blood. He swung the other end of the makeshift rope over the curtain brace. Standing on his tiptoes, he pulled his head as high up the wall as he could and then hurriedly repeated the process of tying a knot. He lowered his arms to his sides and carefully lifted his knees. The noose held firm. He didn't weigh much. Relieved he wouldn't have to think of someplace else to tie the knot, he kicked at the chair until it fell. Hanging freely, neck strained awkwardly, back against the wall, he closed his eyes and waited.
---
According to his watch, he had been hanging there for three hours with little more to show for it than an itchy neck. A new tactic was necessary. It was with great disappointment that he untangled from his garrote. He nearly turned an ankle when dropping to the floor. He had always been brittle.
The kitchen would hold solutions. Knives. It was honorable. Warriors fell on swords. He wasn't sure he had the stomach, or the cutlery, to stab himself. Electrocution. He was always warned of people dying because they were foolish enough to stick a knife in a toaster. He couldn't plug it in fast enough. He pushed the lever down. The humming life of appliances. Its silver shell distorting his reflection. The butter knife was plunged deep, turning and stabbing about, eager for the promised bite of death.
Nothing. He picked the toaster up in his left hand and raised it to eye level as the knife rattled around its stainless steel interior. It began to glow orange. The toaster dropped and bounced off the counter as an expletive filled the air. He shook his freshly burned hand. Undaunted, he furiously swept the toaster aside, driving its plug from the socket, and thrust the knife directly into the outlet. The point would only go so far. Apparently, not far enough.
Fearing it would still be warm, he kicked the toaster down the hall to the bathroom. The cord wouldn't reach. He needed something with a longer cord. He didn't own a hair drier. The TV set was too big. No radio. The toaster was pretty much it in way of appliances. He had an extension cord! He remembered he bought it just in case he ever wanted to move the TV to the other side of the room. Where was it? Bottom drawer kitchen. And there it was. The best $3.95 he ever spent.
Wall. Brown extension cord. Black cord. Toaster. He set it on the edge of the bathtub. The water roared the room to life. He sat in the tub, still fully dressed, back against the far wall and knees pulled up to his chest. Rushing water rising to meet him. Shoes were submerged. He lost himself in the descending pulse of water from the faucet. It wasn't long before the conditions were right. He splashed forward to silence the flow. The lever was pressed. Electricity racing. He asked the toaster to join him.
---
There was no explosion. No crackle of energy. No burst of light. Nothing of the sort. There was only a wet toaster. And a frustrated man.
There was always drowning. The tub was already filled. He removed his glasses. Why he felt the need to take them off to drown and not to electrocute or hang himself wasn't immediately apparent. It just felt like the right thing to do.
He allowed his body to slide beneath the water. Excess splashed the floor. Only his bent knees remained dry. He folded his arms across his chest. He was holding his breath. He released the air from his lungs. He instinctively rose to the surface in convulsive coughing. Drowning was deceptively difficult.
His shoes squished and his body dripped as he strode from the bathroom, unplugging the toaster as he went. At least his drenched clothing cooled him against the oppressive heat of the apartment. There was always blunt force trauma to the head. He did own a hammer. It really wouldn't be that bad. One conclusive clout could do the deed. Pain meant nothing to the dead. The same bottom kitchen drawer held his new weapon of choice.
He had never intentionally bludgeoned himself before. It was a day of firsts. The hammer was old. It had been in his family for years. He remembered his dad gave it to him along with an assortment of other tools when he made the initial move. Now it was clutched in his icy grip, its proven metal head poised to strike once more. His body tightened. He flexed the muscles in his arms and chest and brought his own head forward to meet the crushing blow.
---
He was supposed to be beyond pain. The first one staggered him a little, but the fourth and fifth hits had no effect whatsoever. He dropped the hammer. He felt his forehead for swelling. Maybe he had fractured his skull? He could be bleeding into his brain. The thought did little to encourage him. Any impending brain hemorrhage could take hours, if not weeks, to occur. He needed something more. Something quick.
He couldn't throw himself out the window. He lived on the second floor. He could go to the roof. No good. Too many people would see his body. He was selfish about his death. What else? There was barely food in the apartment let alone poison. The knives were still an option. He could slash his throat. Or his wrists. Yes, he would open his wrists.
It was off to the bathroom to fetch his razor. His head was throbbing. He always got a headache when he didn't wear his glasses. He picked them off the floor. He made an effort to avert his eyes from the mirror. Back to the kitchen. He popped the blades free and let gravity take the handle. Twin blades for closer shaving. He twisted the ends of the plastic housing until it snapped, allowing the blades to be removed. One was chosen. He held up his left arm and bent his wrist back to expose the blue. He pressed the blade to his flesh. It sliced clean.
At first he wasn't sure. There was no feeling. It wasn't until the crimson oozed forth that his mind was eased. He excitedly did the right as the left. More cuts were added to make positive the result. He dropped the blade and followed it to the ground, red pouring from his arms. He leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, legs spread wide before him, body limp. Dizzy. He shut his eyes.
---
He had to change clothes. His pants were caked with dried blood when he woke up. The wounds on his wrists were thin red lines of failure. The kitchen floor was a mess. He scrubbed the flaking blood from his arms. Bandages were applied. His forehead was a mass of purple and yellow welts. Someone might actually talk to him today to ask what happened. He would tell them he was accosted on the way home the night before and had to ward off three brutal attackers. Four would sound absurd.
He had thirty minutes to get to work. It usually took twenty-five. He could enjoy himself. The apartment locked behind him. He stopped to straighten his tie before descending the stairs to the front door. He was renewed. There was always tomorrow. His foot missed the first step, the heel of his shoe catching in the carpet. His body came to a frightful halt in a mangled heap of limbs. No doors opened. No one was there to see his fall.
---
He always had the worst luck. He stood up, dusted himself off, and bent his glasses back into shape. Today was all days. None were any different, no matter how much they changed. Afterwards, he'd stop at the hardware store. He wouldn't fail next time. Get some rat poison. Or at least a bigger hammer.
The walk to work, normally fraught with insecurity, was now free of inhibition. Head held high, he was able to confidently inspect his fellow commuters. They were all the same. Rich, poor, fat, thin, young, old, all stumbling about in the same morass, blind to their existence, immune to life. He was no different. They shared welts and scarred wrists. Enlightenment. Recognition and a smile. He hadn't failed at all. He had succeeded long ago, just as the mass of faceless bodies passing him on the street had succeeded. No need for razors or nooses or knives. It was already done.