Just to See Hell

by Chandler Morrison

  For the next few hours, McPleasant hewed Walden’s body apart, lathering himself in the blood and intestines and haphazardly throwing strips of flesh at the wall so he could watch them stick there and slide down, leaving long red trails. He used the knife to peel Walden’s face like an orange, and then chopped at his teeth and sawed out his wretched tongue that had so incessantly wagged throughout the course of the night.

  He eventually grew tired, and he decided to finish with his bloody project in the morning. There was a small cot in the corner of the house that reeked of sweat, but it was a bed, so McPleasant slept.

  * * *

  Two days later, his feet kicked comfortably up on the hotel room coffee table, McPleasant surfed absently through television channels. The previous tenant of the room lay lifeless on the floor a few feet away, his head cleaved open and his arm broken in several places.

  “This is how it’s gonna be,” McPleasant said, to no one in particular. “From now on, this is how it’s gonna be.” He sighed contentedly. Killing, for him, was like drinking water. Before his sister, he’d just killed small animals, and that had been like sucking on ice cubes in terms of quenching thirst. But after killing his sister, he’d felt completely rejuvenated. Like taking huge mouthfuls of the purest spring water. Fornicating with her corpse had been delightful, as well, but the killing, as Walden would have said, really took the cake.

  And now that he’d gotten a real taste of killing, he wasn’t going to stop. Now that he’d drunk actual water, he was done with ice cubes. It was crisp, natural water from here on out.

  He looked back over at the dead man and whistled through his teeth. It was only just beginning.

  Because humans, normal or crazy, killer or victim, are all the same.

  And they all get thirsty.

  To the Face

  This is not a cry for help.

  If I’m clear about one thing, and one thing only, let it be that…

  This is not a cry for help.

  First let me say this: I don’t believe in the phenomenon known as the “suicide attempt”. Allow me to elaborate. If you really want to kill yourself, you’re going to fucking kill yourself.

  Period.

  End of story.

  When life becomes such a burdensome tribulation that the only solution is death, don’t you think a person would make damn sure that the death was done right? A man’s final act in life will never be half-hearted. Make no mistake; a person who wants to die will die.

  And I want to fucking die.

  I’m not a sympathy-seeking attention whore.

  I’m not a moody teenager who just wants to be noticed.

  I don’t listen to Hawthorne Heights.

  Suicide is not a fucking fashion statement.

  Prescribe me Prozac. Prescribe me Zoloft. Prescribe me Paxil. Cymbalta, Abilify, Celexa, Lexapro, Effexor, Wellbutrin, Elavil. Prescribe me Pristiq, Sensoval, Remeron. Put me in therapy, put me in hospitals, put me in psych wards. Send me to support groups, weekend retreats, seasonally-themed mixers.

  Medicate me.

  Rehabilitate me.

  Fix me.

  Right? Right? That’s the answer, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Not feeling well? Feeling kind of blue? Don’t worry, we have a pill for that!

  Fuck off.

  I’ve got pills, too, now that you mention it. Set out before me, on this table, all a part of my farewell gesture to the world. I’ve got Valium. I’ve got Xanax. I’ve got Vicodin. Percocet, Percodan, Klonopin, Ultram, Demerol, Ryzolt, Metanor. I’ve got ProSom, Librium, Ambien. All these pills, all dumped into a big heaping pile in the center of the table, hundreds of capsules and tablets compiled into a miniature Everest of primarily-schedule-I pharmaceuticals in my very own dining room.

  And if all of those aren’t convincing enough, I’ve got some razor blades, a kitchen knife, a box cutter, a letter opener, and…my personal favorite…the grand finale, the big shebang, drumroll please…a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun.

  Yeah.

  I plan to do this right.

  But why, Nameless Narrator, why? You’ve got so much to live for! You’ve got your whole life ahead of you!

  Yes, a reason. Everyone always wants a fucking reason. Well, pick one. Any of them. It doesn’t make a difference to me. Throw it on the board and see if it sticks.

  My girlfriend dumped me.

  I lost my job.

  My spouse is cheating on me.

  Those are the common ones, right? Like I said, pick one. Check yes or no. Select the response that BEST answers the question. Please do not fill in more than one bubble.

  Right, well, they’re all the same, aren’t they? In the end, is there really any difference?

  I’m depressed.

  No one loves me.

  My daddy molested me.

  There, more fan favorites. Knock yourself out, go crazy.

  Crippling debt.

  Blam.

  Diagnosed with terminal illness.

  Blam.

  Substance abuse problems.

  Blam.

  Dead lover.

  Tie the noose.

  Economic recession.

  Stand on the chair.

  Favorite sports team never wins.

  JUMP.

  You get the idea.

  All of the above, none of the above, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is…wait for it…wait for it…

  I want to fucking die.

  And?

  Oh, yeah…

  This is not a cry for help.

  I’ve got Slipknot playing from my stereo because there’s something obnoxious and poetic about that and I’m an angry romantic at heart. Just because I’m not doing this for attention doesn’t mean I can’t be a little dramatic about it.

  Mr. Beam helps me swallow the first handful of pills. “Thank you, Lord Jim,” I tell him, and then light a cigarette. Camels, unfiltered. I get tobacco leaves in my mouth, but for once it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Impending death has a nice way of putting things in perspective.

  I take another swig from the bottle, for the sake of good measure, and stare at the wall. I ash on the carpet because, let’s be honest, what the fuck do I care at this point? What’s my landlord going to do? Evict me?

  I hope he’s the one who finds me.

  I hope the stink of my putrid expiration looms over this godforsaken hole for the rest of eternity.

  I hope there are maggots in my skin when they zip me up in rubber and cart me off to the morgue.

  Sounds kind of extreme, right? Like, why not just shoot myself and be done with it? Why go to all this trouble to wreak havoc upon my body before finally doing the actual deed?

  I’ll fucking tell you why.

  My body is the last and only thing I can rightfully destroy. I must enact all of this hate upon something before I go. I can’t die with all of this inside me. I have to let it out. I don’t claim to have any idea what’s on the other side, or if there’s even anything at all, but if there is something, I really don’t want to cross over with a bunch of pent-up rage.

  Kind of like, I don’t know, jacking off before you go to a strip club so you don’t do anything embarrassing.

  But no, this isn’t my ideal way to do things.

  I swallow another handful of pills and light the joint I’ve rolled for the occasion.

  No, my body is not my ideal target. I don’t have any real desire to use myself as a living voodoo doll, it’s not what I truly want to do, but I’m doing it because it’s all I can do.

  So, what do I want to do?

  Glad you asked.

  I want to set fire to everything that was ever sacred. I want the whole world to feel my hate. I want all of them to be consumed by it, sick with it.

  Hit the bottle, hit the joint, tilt my head back, exhale. I can feel it all settling in now. It tingles.

  I want to skull-fuck sanctity. I want to tear the tongues from every mouth that utters promises of hope and happiness a
nd then choke them all with their own putrid shit.

  I want to beat the brains out of retarded children and dance to the chorus of their braying screams.

  I want to castrate all the happy husbands and make them watch while I rape their blushing brides with dildos wrapped in barbed wire.

  I want to carve up the faces of all the beautiful people and fill their big homes with kerosene. I want to impale the politicians with the flags of their people and laugh when they puke blood all over their taxpayer-paid-for suits.

  Dragging the razor blade slowly across my wrist, I smile at the blood that seeps up and out, slithering down my arm and plinking onto the table and the linoleum floor.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip.

  I want to bomb a children’s cancer ward while adorned in red and white candy stripes.

  Swallowing some more pills, gulping more liquor, there’s a buzzing in the back of my head and my limbs feel heavy. Gravity is getting confused. I am confused.

  I want to douse nursing home residents in gooey napalm.

  I want to free zoo beasts from their cages and sic them upon their captors.

  I want everyone to just fucking die.

  I want to see the world smothered in a holocaust of madness and devastation and disease. I want to dismantle society brick by brick and grin as it collapses into smoldering ruin. Burn, burn, burn, burn. I want to stand upon ash and cinder and declare myself God of the Nothing.

  I want fire.

  I want death.

  I want an end.

  I am God’s unwanted bastard child, and, more than anything, I want to cut Him down for abandoning me.

  The kitchen knife looks really attractive right now, like a sleek, deadly pinup girl, so I seize it by the waist and drive her pointed face into my groin.

  Savagely sharp teeth biting into my genitals, this beautiful beauty queen delivers me more pain than I thought was possible. I clamp down on my tongue. Blood spurts out of my mouth as I scream. I twist the knife, push her head down harder, gasp and wheeze and reach desperately for more pills. Chew, chew, chew, breathe, it’s just pain, it will soon be gone, it is to be temporary and brief, it’s just pain, chew, chew, crunchcrunchcrunch grab bottle tip swish swallow, blood and alcohol seeping out from between my trembling lips.

  Destruction of self is the only way to freedom. The Buddhists say something like that.

  I’m running with it.

  Cheeks sticky with tears, throat scratchy from screaming, but even those sensations are fleeting. The drugs are taking hold. Everything is getting fuzzy and even the worst of the pain is ebbing.

  Death is coming.

  I can feel it. By taking the power of death, by becoming it, my life is in my control for the first time since my tragic conception. I am now in charge of my fate.

  People kill themselves because God never does it soon enough.

  Uncaring, self-righteous bastard.

  I pop more pills.

  Suddenly I’m standing in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the sink with one hand, other hand holding…a cheese grater? Why a cheese grater? I don’t remember coming in here, I don’t remember getting the cheese grater or why I thought I needed it. I didn’t even know I owned a cheese grater.

  I take it to my face and start rubbing. Grating. I can’t feel anything. I know it’s working because blood is pouring down into the sink and swirling around the drain, leaving brown stains on the steel in its wake, but I don’t actually feel it. This excites me and I grate harder, shaving away bits of flesh that fall like snow from my bleeding face. My legs are wobbly and weak and I know they’re going to give out soon so I really go to town, so hard that I can almost feel it, but then out go my legs and…fade to black, everything disappears for a while until I come back, lying on the linoleum, laughing hysterically. I touch my fingers to my ruined face but there’s no sensation there, which is disappointing.

  Back at the table, everything seems a little clearer, not much but a little, and I wouldn’t even think the episode in the kitchen had happened if it wasn’t for the blood spilling onto the table and the gore-smeared cheese grater lying on the floor a few yards away. Blood from my forehead is seeping into my eyes and I have to keep rubbing them. Speaking of blood, holy shit, there’s a ton of it on my crotch and running down the legs of my jeans. How the fuck did I even manage to walk to the kitchen? And seriously, why did I go there in the first place? Things to ponder in the afterlife, if there is one.

  Here’s to hoping there isn’t.

  I want only oblivion.

  My head lolls and all the feeling in my body is pretty much completely gone. That’s how I’m able to pick up the supermodel knife and start scalping myself. I saw at my cheese-grated forehead right where my hairline stops, and I just saw and saw and saw, not feeling anything. After I’ve sawed about three-quarters of the way back, I’m able to peel the rest of it off, and a big strip of hairy skin comes away in my hand. I let it fall and the sound is a lot like dropping a wet rag on a hard floor.

  The blood’s really coming now, all down my face and the sides of my head, collecting in my ears.

  This is destruction of the self. Fuck you, Buddha, you ain’t got shit.

  I gobble some more pills, stab myself in the face a couple times just because I can. Hack at my arms with the razor blade. I take up the knife once more and one slice two slice three slice four and my nose comes off, flopping down in my soaked lap. Five slice six slice seven slice more and my right ear follows. Then I use the knife to gouge out my left eye, which I then squeeze between my fingers until it pops and spews milky white fluid straight up in the air like a gushing ejaculation. I toss away the knife and cut off my lips with the box cutter.

  Still more pills. Chomp chomp chomp, swallow, almost choke, swallow swallow all gone, we’re good.

  I notice for the first time that there’s puke everywhere, and the bottle of Jim Beam is empty and lying on its side. I don’t remember finishing it, nor do I remember vomiting. The puke, though…it’s literally everywhere, all over the floor, all over the table, all over me. I can’t smell it because, guess what, I don’t have a fucking nose. Put that in your fucking pipe and smoke it, Michael Jackson.

  I take some more pills because I don’t know how many I threw up, but it shouldn’t be a big deal because whatever’s left in me, combined with the blood loss, is definitely taking its toll and I don’t think I’ve got much longer left. I’d love to give some Shakespearean soliloquy about the meaning of life and death but apparently I’ve cut out my tongue, too, because it’s sitting there on the table next to the letter opener. I only notice this after I’ve wiped more blood from my eye.

  I almost fall out of my chair. That’s bad. If I fall, I don’t know that I’ll be able to get up. And I might be fucking gone, fucking checked out, but I still want to finish with a bang so I best get to it. Hands slippery with blood, I take up the gun and shove its twin barrels in my mouth. I wish I could tell you what it tastes like but I don’t have a tongue, remember. Sorry, folks. Oh well. I can imagine. I imagine it tastes like a rabbit, all furry and shit frolicking through industrial parks and soaring soaring soaring like eagles like eagles and there are hobbits and shit, too, and dragons and sleeping princesses and that bitch with the funky hat, let it rain, let it rain.

  Sing.

  Mom’s here, hey mom.

  Dancing cats with monocles and candy canes like batons. Let Jesus fuck you, let Jesus fuck you. Pea soup, head spins. Lincoln screaming DO IT DO IT DO IT throwing golf balls at me, pissing on jellyfish.

  Hammer falls and bathroom stalls and wooden cabinets toilet plunger ghosts purple fedoras HAPPY BIRTHDAY black guitar case salt rock salt rock salt lamp bottles of oil aloe lotion Magnesium pills wristwatch wristwatch Bic book wire through cheek and gum fuzzy SLIPPERS blinds up down nine four one RING chug chug jug-a-lugga ding-DONG tall tower fan stripes and checkers and custom Las Vegas propane cyli
nders military uniforms military FACTION here we go here we go I feel it coming little bits of CLARITY here we

  Eyes cast up at the…no, eye, as in singular, other one’s gone to Poland, Lou Gehrig style…eyes cast up at the…no, fuck, dammit, just one eye, just one, singular, other one is fuck fuck fuck fucking your mother up at the ceiling and I’m thinking, I win, I win, I win, I don’t know what I’ve won but I definitely won and the gun’s in my mouth my finger is on the winner winner winner ding ding ding have a pink cigar and

  Sick Again

  Vicodin, Percocet, Oxycontin, liquid codeine…nail clippers, Q-tips, chewable Flintstone vitamins…Excedrin, toothpaste, eye droppers, cherry-flavored antacids (but no warm milk or laxatives to speak of)…tweezers, a woman’s disposable razor…an empty tube of Vaseline, a rolled-up dollar bill, a box of Trojans, a brown vial of expired amoxicillin.

  These are the items in the asshole’s medicine cabinet. I look at them, and I smile a smug little grin; glancing inside a man’s medicine cabinet is one of the few great ways to truly violate what little privacy he maintains. Men, by nature, are largely shameless creatures with a tragically limited understanding of discretion. That being said, when uninvited eyes fall upon the intimate objects behind that little mirrored door, the intruder becomes very aware of a line that has been crossed.

  I am aware of that line, but I am free from any sense of guilt. The way I see it, the moment this guy decided to fuck my wife was the moment he was relieved of his privacy privileges. You have to seize opportunities for small victories such as this when they present themselves.