Jesus aka D. J.ZüS (jesusthejew) wrote in fictionfelons,
Jesus aka D. J.ZüS

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An Epiphany of Sorts

Hey guys, Jesus here, I'm going to start this thing right now, other people can feel free to join up, I don't think there are any circumstances that wouldn't allow people. Feel free to comment and/or leave your own stories, plot ideas, character designs, etc. Anything relating to fiction, whatever types of fiction you want to work with, go for it, I don't care, I just wanted to try starting something.

Peace Out


J. Ginsberg
An Epiphany of Sorts

I hear a loud bang from within my apartment. It echoes off each wall, reverberating through my ears.
I drop the phone I am holding up to my head, there are still words digitally exiting the speaker, they fade into beeps and whirs as my neck arcs backwards and my eyes look up. The cracks in the ceiling and the water stains create a brown mosaic that tumbles down drip by drip, faster than gravity can pull me into its embrace. My vision darkens.

I sit in a very comfy orange armchair in the gourmet coffee shop down the road from my work. I sink into the deep, fluffy cushions, and sip my Caramel Macchiato. I feel the liquid pouring down my throat, warming my insides, and soothing my nerves. The paper in front of me is opened to the travel section; there is a picture of some green hills in Greece that beckon to me to jump into the pages and out of my life. I close my eyes and imagine running down those verdant hills through the luscious greenery.
The sound of a cash register opening wakes me from my reverie. The drab grey suits and black ties serve as an awful antithesis to the bright green hills. My gaze briefly lingers on the picture once more before I turn the page into the Personal section.
The personals are separated into seven columns; all of them are pointless; the bottom of the page is dominated by advertisements for self-help hotlines, AA meetings, and various community help groups. One thing catches my eye, and that is the number for a suicide hotline. I have been contemplating killing myself for the better part of a year; I haven’t done it yet because I don’t have the balls to. Maybe the suicide hotline is what I need. Maybe whoever is on the other end can help me sort out my life, or at least prolong it until I can get professional help. Maybe it will do me good to just talk to someone instead of typing into a computer and dealing with coworkers.
I tear out the little advertisement and place it in my wallet so the fold will be down the center of the phone number. My watch chimes that my lunch hour has ten minutes left. I stand up, leaving my near-empty cup on the table, and walk outside into the bitter February cityscape.

The lock turns on my apartment door and I walk in to find it the same exact mess it has always been. The answering machine beeps across the room, sitting on the wooden desk, in its designated place. I walk over to it, avoiding the paper piles strewn about the floor and push the flashing red button.
It screeches loudly, then begins talking in a soft computerized voice, “You have two new messages, to play your messages press-“ I cut it off by pressing the button marked play. “First message.”
I like answering machines because they don’t get mad if you cut them off. They just go on talking in their monotone voice as if nothing ever happened.
“Hey, this is Jerry at work, I’m going to need you to come in tomorrow, there is a paper work problem, and we need you to help sort things out. I know that it is a Saturday, and you will be compensated for the overtime. See you tomorrow.”
I hate Jerry; he is my boss. Unlike my answering machine, Jerry doesn’t have an off button, and I can’t interrupt him. Like the answering machine, he has a monotone voice.
“End of first message.” The original monotone returns. “Next message.”
I turn to look at the mess in my apartment; I can’t straighten out my living space because my work life meshes into my personal life. Sometimes I can’t even tell the difference, they shade together as well as an artist sketch. Maybe that’s my problem.
“Hey, it’s me,” The recorded voice of a woman, “I haven’t heard from you since Monday or Tuesday. I just wanted to talk to you; you should be out of work, so give me a call back when you get in.”
They kept me late today at work. Over an hour. Sometimes it bothers me, today, I just accepted it.
Wait; did Jerry call me before I was out of work? That bastard, he was the one who kept me late today. Shit.
I sit down on my bed, the covers are untidy, and the sheet is half on the wooden floorboards. I rest my eyes in the palms of my hands and my fingers weave through strands of thatch.
I take out my wallet and finger out the suicide hotline number. I contemplate dialing it. The worn newspaper is folded perfectly down the hyphen between the number groups. I gaze over at my end table as I place the partially creased advertisement face up on the surface.
I knead my eyes and yawn as I lean backwards. I grab my sheets, and fall asleep as my head misses the pillow.

Jerry walks away from my cubicle, his loafers pad the ground not quite silently. He just asked me to stay an extra hour doing his job for him. This is what work has been like for the past six years. I don’t think my corporate ladder has any rungs.
My cubicle is laughing at me. It isn’t really laughing out loud, but it is inside my head. It laughs like a psychological horror movie flashback, obnoxious and everywhere. I roll my chair backwards into its giant mouth, stand up, and walk down the hallway in the opposite direction of Jerry. I’ve had enough of work today. I’ve had enough of work forever. Every week is the same thing, and now the shit has piled up too high.
I might be psychic because I can tell that the future will be filled with crap. I open the door to the stairwell and turn to pay my last respects to my job. After today, my career is dead.

I sit on my bed staring at the end table. A decade old revolver lies as stagnant as my life. It sits beside the suicide hotline number and next to that is my phone. My fingers reach out to probe the surface of the revolver. I pick it up and examine it from many different angles. I open up the chamber. My fingers have done this a thousand times, open the chamber, and look at the single bullet. Just like the rest of my life, broken down into easy steps.
Get up. Shower. Shave. Go to work. Come home. Go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.
Some people say that a simple life is the best life. Here’s how simple my life looks now.
Close the chamber. Place my index finger on the trigger. Position the barrel in my mouth. Cock the hammer with my thumb. Pull the trigger. Go to sleep. No more repeats.
I contemplate the differences between each series of seven steps. Scenario one, work is on Monday. Scenario two, I never have to work again.
I put my index finger to the trigger and hold the gun sideways in front of me, examining the serial number etched into the side.
I begin to cry. I drop the gun on my bed and pick up the phone. I dial the seven digits for the suicide hotline and wait.
I go to hang up. “Hello?” a faint word coming out of the earpiece.
“Hello?” again, distant.
I raise the phone to my ear and speak into the receiver. “Hello?”
“Who is this?” The voice on the other end says.
I sniffle. “I’m in a bad place right now.”
“What kind of place?”
I tell him. “I quit my job today.”
“On a Saturday?”
I gaze around the room. “My boss always makes me come in on Saturdays.”
“What’s your problem?”
I’m confused. “Don’t you know?”
“Are you going to kill yourself?”
I don’t respond.
“What are you going to use? Do you have a bottle of pills next to you? Are you going to hang yourself with a belt? How about a rope?”
I wait a second. I look to the gun facing me on the mattress.
“I know. You’re going to shoot yourself. You’ve got a gun right next to you.”
I stare at the revolver.
“You going to use a shotgun? No, I bet you don’t have the balls for that. A magnum? Nah, I don’t think so. I bet you have a wimpy little revolver, or a nine millimeter.”
I don’t say anything.
“I’m right aren’t I? That’s why you’re being quiet, I’m dead on aren’t I?” He pauses for a second. “Listen buddy, you called me, you going to say anything?”
I croak softly. “You’re right.”
“What did you say? I can’t hear you.”
Louder. “You’re right, I have a revolver lying next to me on my bed.”
I look up from the gun, my eyebrows arch. “Well what?”
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
I fall silent, my mouth gapes open.
“Well, why don’t you just do it? Get it over with. What else do you have to live for? Nobody likes you; in fact, I hate you. Just get it over with…”
I grab the phone with my left hand; the voice on the other end is still talking. I pick the gun up with my right. The gun shakes in my hand as I situate the barrel between my teeth. The rattling is unbearable. My thumb cocks the hammer with a click.
I hear a loud bang from within my apartment. It echoes off each wall, reverberating through my ears.
I drop the phone I am holding up to my head, there are still words digitally exiting the speaker, they fade into beeps and whirs as my neck arcs backwards and my eyes look up. The cracks in the ceiling and the water stains create a brown mosaic that tumbles down drip by drip, faster than gravity can pull me into its embrace. My vision darkens.
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